Mollie Engelhart (above) used to be a top chef and strict vegetarian. She was also an entrepreneur, owning five vegan restaurants in Los Angeles. Now she is a cattle rancher in Texas. It is a long and interesting story. You can look it up. There is much on the internet by and about her.
She is also smart, wise, and a good writer. I first heard of her by reading a piece she wrote that appeared in the June 24-29 issue of The Epoch Times (page A13). The basic message is not anything you have not heard before, but it is well written and we can always use the reminder. It is not primarily a Biblical meditation, but it can serve as an excellent description of Paul’s teaching in Roman 5:3-5a:
“We (can) rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame…”
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“THE COST OF COMFORT”
by Mollie Engelhart
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This morning, I woke up with a sty in my eye. It is tender. It is swollen. It is uncomfortable. It is also not a big deal.
I have gotten a sty a handful of times throughout my life. They hurt for a few days, they are annoying, and they eventually go away. Yet despite knowing all of that, I can feel how much of my attention is being consumed by this tiny discomfort.
The swelling catches my eye every time I pass a mirror. The tenderness reminds me that it is there every time I blink. This morning I found myself researching remedies, applying compresses, making chamomile tea bags, mixing castor oil with frankincense and calendula, and generally spending far more mental energy on a minor irritation than the situation objectively deserves.
That realization made me wonder whether I am always doing this. Maybe it is not usually a sty. Maybe it is an uncomfortable conversation with my husband. Maybe it is financial stress. Maybe it is a burden I do not feel like carrying. Whatever form it takes, discomfort has an incredible ability to dominate our attention.
In fact, I suspect that discomfort often occupies more space in our minds than joy. A hundred good things can happen in a day and one uncomfortable thing can consume our thoughts. One criticism can outweigh 10 compliments. One inconvenience can overshadow a dozen blessings.
Recently, I wrote that sugar may be the drug we refuse to name in America. This morning, I found myself asking a different question. What if comfort is the addiction we refuse to name? What if our obsession with comfort has quietly weakened us?
For most of human history, discomfort was simply part of being alive. People were cold in the winter. They were hot in the summer. They got wet when it rained. They walked through mud. They carried heavy things. They endured boredom, hunger, uncertainty, and physical labor as normal parts of daily existence.
Today, many of us can move from a climate-controlled house to a climate-controlled car to a climate-controlled office without ever feeling the weather. When it rains and I need to check on livestock, I can usually do so from inside a vehicle equipped with heat, air conditioning, windshield wipers, and a comfortable seat. The fact that I can accomplish that task without becoming wet is an extraordinary luxury that would have astonished most of humanity not so long ago.
Yet we rarely experience these conveniences as luxuries anymore. We experience them as necessities. The threshold for discomfort has become so low that ordinary experiences can feel intolerable. I see this on the ranch all the time. People come out to visit and are overwhelmed by the dirt, the mud, the smells, the flies, and the weather. None of these things are unusual. They are simply realities of the natural world. Yet many people have become so disconnected from nature that basic elements of human existence feel extreme.
I am not judging anyone for wanting comfort. My swollen eye is evidence that I am not above any of this. This morning I wanted the sty gone immediately. I wanted the discomfort gone. I wanted the swelling gone. I wanted to look normal on camera. In fact, I canceled a podcast recording because I did not particularly want video footage of myself with one eye swollen half shut. Vanity and comfort are not problems that belong only to other people. They belong to me, too.
But I wonder whether comfort is only half of the story. A few days ago, I was on the phone with someone who said: “I can’t wait to get home. I’m just watching the clock.” The comment stuck with me because I realized that I have rarely felt that way.
Most of my adult life I have worked for myself. More importantly, I have worked for something bigger than myself. My work has never been simply an exchange of an hour worked for an hour paid. It has been tied to raising children, stewarding land, feeding people, caring for animals, building businesses, and pursuing what I believe that God has called me to do.
People often ask me how I do it all. The truth is that I do not do it all. Plenty of things are imperfect. Plenty of things get dropped. There is no magic formula.
What keeps me moving is purpose. A person with purpose can endure an extraordinary amount of discomfort.
A mother wakes through the night because she loves her child. A rancher walks through freezing rain because the animals need care. A business owner works weekends because the vision matters. A husband and wife work through difficult seasons because the marriage is worth fighting for.
Purpose makes discomfort bearable.
Perhaps that is the real danger facing our culture. It is not simply that we have become addicted to comfort. It is that many of us have lost touch with purpose. We move through the world looking for a good gig, a little more money, a better experience, an easier path. We optimize for comfort without ever stopping to ask what we are here to do.
The question is not what feels good. The question is what are we called to build, protect, create, steward, and become. When purpose disappears, even small discomforts can feel overwhelming. When purpose is present, people routinely accomplish things that once seemed impossible.
The future will undoubtedly ask difficult things of us. It always has. There will be economic hardship, personal loss, disappointment, illness, uncertainty, and challenges we cannot predict. The question is not whether discomfort is coming. The question is whether we still possess the ability to endure it.
I am not claiming to have all the answers. I am not even claiming to have the grit that will be required. But I do know this: The things that have made me strongest in life have almost never been comfortable. Ranching is uncomfortable. Motherhood is uncomfortable. Marriage is uncomfortable. Building businesses is uncomfortable. Faith is uncomfortable.
The best parts of my life have emerged not from avoiding discomfort, but from learning how to carry it without allowing it to dictate my direction.
The sty will heal. The question is whether I will remember the lesson after it does. Perhaps the lesson is not how quickly I can eliminate discomfort, but whether I can keep my eyes fixed on purpose while it is still there.
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