Nobody likes a complainer, right?

My first duty station in the Air Force was by far the worst.

Loring Air Force Base in Limestone, Maine, wasn’t the coldest of the northern tier bases. It wasn’t the snowiest (184 inches our first year there). It wasn’t the remotest (the nearest mall was in Bangor, a town of about 30,000, 170 miles away).

Loring wasn’t the leader in any single category; but Loring was the sweepstakes winner.

When the weather finally did get warm enough to go outside, the black flies made it nearly impossible. (Black flies are to mosquitoes what murder hornets are to bees.)

Loring had been on the base closure list for years, so the infrastructure had been neglected. Our first home was a 750 square foot apartment in a fourplex with no garage or carport. Sometimes the snow completely buried our Corvette.

Loring was so unpopular that maybe a third of people who received orders got out of the service rather than accept the assignment. The ones who were left found their three-year assignments extended to four, five, or six years.

But for me, the worst thing about Loring was the complaining. Nobody but the hardiest outdoor types wanted to be there; everybody else complained.

Jana and I escaped Loring after three years, and every assignment after that was better. But even when we were assigned to great places, some people still complained.

Nobody likes a complainer, right?

But here’s an interesting thing. God says, “Bring your complaints to me.”

Something supernatural can happen when you cry out to God.

When you focus on God, your “why” questions can become “who” questions. Who is this God who cares about me?

I’m not saying that self-centered whining is OK. Neither is pouting when you don’t get your way.

But the one who set the stars in place cares about what you’re going through.

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