As much as I love the sun, some days when it flings aside the gray clouds and we get a warm damp afternoon instead of a drizzly wet one, I’m disappointed instead of grateful.
It may be true that a watched pot never boils, but a scrutinized lump of dough never rises, either.
I am living the dream, but it belongs to someone else.
This is the lie that discontentment whispers: sure, this is good, but it’s not good for you. Sure, technically you’ve been blessed, but not really because you never asked for these so-called blessings. Maybe my life looks like it should be full of joy, but it’s okay that I’m dissatisfied, because the gifts I’ve been given were really meant for someone else.