I haven’t been feeling very prayerful lately. The running conversation with God that makes up my informal prayer life is full of grumbling.

There are hundreds of things large and small for me to be thankful for, and I do know enough to put myself in an attitude of thanksgiving and remember them. When I settle myself down to pray, I have no trouble finding a list of them to run through, and I don’t minimize the importance of that.

But just now there are a couple of sizeable issues in my life that are distressing, and several of those average pebble-in-my-shoe, “What am I going to do?” topics that are distracting me. Instead of singing, “How can I make a return to the Lord for all the good he has done for me?” I find myself grousing, “Could you give me a break here?”

Pessimism is my natural state of mind, although I struggle against it. I’ve read that pessimists make more accurate assessments of what’s going on around them, but optimists have a lot more fun along the way. So I try to see that the glass is half-full. But God already knows I’m a pessimist, so I can admit my fears and worries to him. I know he’s not going to decide I’m too negative to hang out with. Nevertheless, as surely as I know God wants me to be honest with him, part of me thinks he’s going to get tired of my constant complaining.

Much of my self-inflicted aggravation comes from not living in the moment, from worrying about what’s going to happen next. That covers everything from whether I’m going to find a parking spot to whether my retirement fund will ever be adequate. Telling myself that most people in the world don’t have cars or savings accounts is somehow not comforting. I’m sometimes knocked back on my heels by the magnitude of the differences between my life and the lives of the poor, but I never find that comforting—just sad, like the rich young man in the gospel.

I could, I suppose, cultivate detachment from the things of this world. I’m too attached to having things go according to my plan, and so I fret that they may not. I want things to fit my design, and I grumble when they don’t. I want my body to work as well as it did twenty years ago, and I grouse about my arthritic knees. Very few of the things that trouble me are important in an objective sense. Most are things over which I have little or no control.

It’s probably better for me to grumble at God than at the people around me (although I wonder how many of them think of me as a grumbler). It would probably be good discipline to work on grumbling less, though, and at least think about being optimistic. And it wouldn’t kill me to send God fewer petitions and more praise, and trust that he’ll give me all I need. But I suspect the prescription sounds easier than it may be to follow. We’ll see. 

Everyone seems to be gearing up for the summer Olympic games in China. Beijing seems intent on showcasing the country as a contender in a bigger arena—as a fully ranked player in the field of developed nations.

Questions abound, however. Will athletes be able to compete at their best, given the expected heat and China’s notorious air pollution? Will some even choose not to subject their bodies to the threat of toxic fumes?

Will the games be marred—or enlightened—by demonstrators protesting China’s human rights abuses, its suppression of Tibetan culture and nationalism, its treatment of religious dissidents? Talk of boycotting the games altogether didn’t seem to last long (I don’t recall it doing much good when the games were held in the former Soviet Union) and our president and first lady are going to the opening ceremonies.

The ideals of the Olympics, of a time when nations put down their weapons of war and take up competition in sports instead, don’t seem very practical. I’d like to see us “study war no more,” but a time-out has no more connection to reality than the notion that countries don’t compete to bring home the greatest number of medals.

For some years a while back I tried to boycott Chinese goods because of their human rights abuses, particularly with regard to forced abortion and slave labor, and I encouraged others to do the same.  I finally gave up for two reasons: a Chinese-born priest of my diocese visited me with the goal of convincing me that ordinary Chinese were benefiting more from international trade than the government was; and it became harder and harder to find consumer goods, particularly reasonably priced clothes, that were not made in China. So my boycott fizzled.

I’m still aware of the origins of the things I buy, and given a choice will buy something made in the USA or Europe, or, better, on the occasions when it’s possible, from a fair-trade business or cooperative. Given the recent problems with toxic substances found in Chinese-made products and the lack of safety standards, practical concerns may be more effective than ideological ones in deterring people from purchasing products of China. But those arguments limp when the alternatives are made in Malaysia or India or Vietnam—from what I hear and read, quality control and working conditions are not great in any developing nations.

I won’t be glued to the television when the Olympics are on: I may watch the gymnasts, or the foot races, but my knowledge of team sports other than baseball is so limited that watching is no fun, and many of the other events strike me as about as exciting as watching paint dry. I hope the games go off without a hitch, that no one is injured, that demonstrators who show up are treated with respect. I hope they’re good for the people of China and that welcoming guests from around the world helps them to feel respected and part of the family of peace-loving nations.