I visited my neighbor the other day. Her shop had been closed for a week. She lay stretched out on a hard bench in the sun, looking lifeless and very sick. She had malaria. I reached out my hand in compassion to touch her burning hot body, and then I prayed. She is my neighbor, but she is also my friend.

My mind reflects on all those in our household, who day after day come down with this dreadful disease of malaria. Yet rarely does my Liberian family complain, instead they just take some medicine and go to bed. I think back of the people in our church and neighborhood who have recently died—some from typhoid or rabies, others from malaria or depression. Funerals have been taking place frequently here. Those left behind mourn, but must go on with life, surviving the best they can.

But me—why is it that I tend to complain at the least little ailment? Why must I consider sickness a problem? Jesus suffered, did He consider His suffering a problem? Jesus suffered an excruciating death on the cross, but He never complained. “Lord Jesus, please keep my eyes on You!”