You are not answering my prayers, I repeated, a scowl in my voice that sounded more murderer than missionary.
My arms were about to give out after fifteen hours of flying with my double-ear-infection infant, whose screams drew every eye toward me, either in pity or loathing. My hands still reeked of my six-year-old’s vomit, which I had caught an hour earlier. My husband might have given me a break if he weren’t in the bathroom scrubbing his pants after our toddler’s diaper leaked brown everywhere. The stink polluted economy class, as if the sounds we contributed weren’t offensive enough.
Itwasn’tourfirstrodeotravelinghalfwayaroundtheworldlikebeetlesflippedonourbacks.Ourinternationaltravelsformanuglyscrapbookofmishaps,withphotosoffeverishkidstryingtosleeponairportcarpet.Ithoughtthistimearoundwouldbedifferent.Howcoulditnotbe?Hundredsofpeoplewerepraying.Iimaginedthegoldenbowlsinheavenswirlingwiththeincenseofourfriends’andfamily’sprayers(Revelation5:8).Surely,Jesusinhaleditwithpleasure.TheslightestwinkorgrinfrommyFather’ssunnyfacecouldkeepourchildrenat98.6degrees,theirbod
