Let me just get this off my chest—I am a petty, selfish person.

This self-effacing revelation will certainly not surprise those closest to me. In fact, they might just add a few other choice adjectives to give greater clarity for those who might want to elevate me to sainthood. But it’s true. I would rather be first than last. I get mad at parents when their kids cry on planes (yep, I’m that guy). I get annoyed at Girl Scouts for showing up at my house on Saturday morning—though I angrily and begrudgingly buy 12 boxes of thin mints. I fume when I have to wait in line. I scream at my phone if it doesn’t connect in nanoseconds to the satellite two miles up in the sky. I get annoyed with my kids for not reading my mind. I direct darts at my wife for not caressing my frail ego. The list goes on and on.

I’m the worst.

I am most reminded of my brokenness when I travel. I suppose it’s because I’m out of my personal rhythm and away from creature comforts. I depend on the solace of my Keurig, triple ply toilet paper, and my reading chair. I need them. They complete me. Ok, that’s a bit much. But it’s close. I turn into a person I don’t like simply because I’m not getting my way.

A trip to a third world country will do that to a person. Amy and I just returned from Haiti last week. It was a beautiful trip for our team and for our kids. I loved seeing God work through our church and transform hearts by the grace of God. But mostly I missed my mattress. And the clean water that magically comes out of my faucet. And air conditioning. Oh man, do I love air conditioning!

Every day in Haiti I heard a whisper from God, “Jon, that thing, that feeling in your heart, that longing for small things, that’s the sin of inconvenience.” Interestingly I have never read about that sin in the scriptures. I checked. It wasn’t on the list of the most popular offenses (envy, pride, drunkenness, etc.) but it certainly fits the bill in my life. My sin, among others, is that I hate to be inconvenienced.

It’s hard to see it if you don’t live with me or work with me. I camouflage it well with appropriate amounts of spiritual language and public prayers that are designed to impress. I talk often about making my life count and doing something that really matters in this world. What is so disconcerting is this: I mean every word. I don’t mind doing hard things for God—big things that make eternal differences is what we’re made for.

But I don’t want to do the small things. Put me in a situation where I will be inconvenienced and I’m out.

It feels backwards, doesn’t it? I’m not going to pretend to understand how my heart is made. Redemption doesn’t always make sense. But one thing I do know is this: I need grace. Heaping portions running over my plate. Dripping onto my lap. Streaming onto the floor and into every crevice of my sin-stained life. Grace. It covers over the big stuff. It empowers the public and private prayers. It fills in the cracks of the incorrigibly inconsistent, like myself. Grace does what we can’t do. It’s the only solution to my problem of inconvenience. It changes my mind. It helps me see a crying baby as an image bearer. It gives me eyes to see the courage of little girls knocking on a stranger’s door to sell cookies. It opens my heart to see the small wonders all around me.

So the next time you see me on a plane or answering the door on a Saturday morning or opening my phone, pray with me: “God give me grace. Help me see the small, sacred seconds that make up every inconvenient moment.”