Last week, Jason and I finally did it. We hauled out the old, falling-apart dressers and replaced them with a shiny new (well, new to us) three-door wardrobe. Jason built in some shelves, I found the perfect baskets, and over the course of a few days, we went through every piece of clothing we had stuffed in those poor drawers.

Some things were easy to let go of: old, worn-out pieces that had lived a good life. Others I just never reached for anymore. But I'll be honest, there were more items than I'd like to admit that simply didn't fit anymore. I wish I could say that some had gotten too big, but sadly, that was NOT the case. Either way, they weren't doing me any good.

As I stood there, holding up yet another item that no longer fit and muttering something unladylike under my breath, a thought hit me: Sometimes the armor of God feels exactly like this.

I stared at the screen, blinking. One review. One star. On one of my newest children's picture books. My first one-star review ever. Somewhere, confetti was supposed to fall, and angels were supposed to sing, "Well done, thou good and faithful author." Instead, it felt more like, "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. You've been weighed in the balances and found wanting." Ouch!

Confusion hit first. I read the review again and again, trying to match the harshness of the rating with the sweetness of the story I'd written. This book, like all the others I've written, had been prayed over, labored over, and, honestly, loved over. It had been written for children who needed hope and truth in a world gone mad. How could someone look at that and see only something worthy of one lonely, miserable star?

Then another question surfaced, and it hurt in a different way:

I learned something recently in my Animals of the Bible study that completely rearranged my brain.

It turns out, moths aren't actually attracted to light at all. I know. I know! Everything we thought we knew about moths is a lie. Well, not a lie exactly, but definitely not the whole story.

Here's what's really going on. Because moths fly in complete darkness, they face a very real problem: how do you know which way is up when you can't see anything? God, being the brilliant Designer He is, solved this problem by giving moths a built-in reflex to always keep their backs toward the brightest light. For thousands of years, that worked perfectly. The sky, lit by the sun or the moon, was always the brightest thing around. Back to the sky, fly straight. Simple. Elegant. Genius.

Then we humans had to invent electricity and artificial light.

I have a confession to make: I am a pushover for dogs...even when one isn't technically mine.

Last week, our friends' dog, Copper, stayed with us while his people were on vacation. Tess, my sweet, generous, ridiculously good-natured pup, handled this like a champ. Her food? "Sure, help yourself." Her blankets? "Knock yourself out." My attention? "There's plenty of me to go around." Tess is practically a saint in a fur coat.

But then there's her special bed.

This is the doggie bed situated in front of the glass doors and close to the heater in my office. Friends, let me tell you, all saintliness goes right out the window when that prime piece of real estate is up for grabs.

Here's how it went: One dog settled into the warm spot with a blissful sigh. The other dog began to hover.

I've never been much of a crowd person.

Give me my cozy office, a cup of tea, and a book to read or write, and I am in my happy place. The moment someone suggests a big event, a bustling gathering, or, heaven forbid, a party where I don't know most of the people, something inside me quietly dies.

So you can imagine how relieved I was when Jason recently preached a sermon about a woman named Anna.

She appears in Scripture for only three verses, just a little flash of light in the nativity story, but what those three verses reveal about her is nothing short of breathtaking. Here's how the Bible describes her:

"And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Aser: she was of a great age, and had lived with an husband seven years from her virginity; and she was a widow of about fourscore and four years, which departed not from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day.

Have you ever committed to serving the Lord, only to feel as though all the trouble in the world suddenly found your address? You commit to reading your Bible, and your phone is inundated with distractions. You step out to serve, and somebody criticizes. You finally feel like you're making progress, and suddenly, discouragement, drama, or "bullies" pop up out of nowhere.

Nehemiah could relate. As the walls of Jerusalem started going up, the enemies started speaking up. Sanballat, Tobiah, and Geshem used mockery, threats, rumors, and trickery to stop the work. They mocked the Jews as weak. They suggested the wall was so flimsy that even a fox could knock it down. They plotted sneak attacks. They tried to lure Nehemiah away for a "meeting" that was really a trap.

On top of that, the people themselves grew weary. The rubble seemed endless. Their strength was failing. The enemies looked bigger by the day.

When you hear the word "construction crew," what do you picture? Big burly builders in hard hats? Perhaps a guy with a clipboard who seems to know what he's doing, and everyone else just getting in the way?

That's not what we see in Nehemiah. When the rebuilding of Jerusalem's wall began, the "crew" was... everyone. Goldsmiths. Perfume makers. Priests. Merchants. Dads. Daughters. People probably more familiar with frying pans than hammers. Chapter 3 reads like a holy roll call of ordinary folks doing an extraordinary thing: obeying God and working side by side.

And right in the middle of all that enthusiasm, we bump into one sad little line:

"And next unto them the Tekoites repaired; but their nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord." - Nehemiah 3:5

Everyone else is shoulder-to-shoulder, sweating in the sun, stacking stones for the glory of God. But the nobles of Tekoa are standing off to the side.

To be honest, my brain feels like it's been through a blender. Over the past couple of months, in addition to my regular workload, I've been putting the finishing touches on my Christian historical fiction/fantasy novel, planning for our four-day Holiday Bible Club ministry event, and organizing a new curriculum for our ladies' Bible study group. Plans and ideas have bumped into each other so many times that I'm not sure where one starts and the other stops. So, the thought of coming up with three fresh blog ideas this week nearly sent me into a complete panic. So, if you don't mind, this week I'll be sharing with you the same devotions I'll be sharing with the kids who attend our Holiday Bible Club. (Sorry, though, you don't get the object lessons, crafts, games, snacks, etc.)

When I first decided on the theme "Under Construction" for our Holiday Bible Club, I thought, That's perfect because that's exactly how my life feels most days, perpetually half-finished, a bit messy, and surrounded by rubble.

In Mark chapter five, we find one of the most dramatic scenes in all of Scripture. Jesus and His disciples have just stepped off a boat onto the shore of the Gadarenes, and before the disciples can even shake the sea spray off their sandals, a wild man comes screaming out of the tombs. We're talking wild! No clothes. No chains strong enough to hold him. Living among the dead, and cutting himself day and night. The people of the region had given up on this man. He was a lost cause. A hopeless case. But Jesus? Jesus didn't even flinch.

In the blink of an eye, the Lord cast out a legion of demons. The man who had terrorized the countryside was suddenly sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. It was the miracle of the ages. The townspeople should have been throwing a party!

But here's where the story gets strange...well, stranger.

In 1173, construction began on what was supposed to be a magnificent bell tower in Pisa, Italy. Nobody planned on building a landmark. But about five years in, the foundation, a mere three meters deep, set in soft, unstable soil, began to shift. The tower started to lean, and the builders panicked.

Here's the part that really gets me: instead of stopping, tearing it down, and starting over with a proper foundation, they kept building. As they added more floors, engineers in later stages constructed one side of each story shorter than the other, trying to compensate for the lean and make everything look right from a distance. The problem was that this "fix" only made things worse. The added weight increased the lean. The tower ended up not just tilting but curving until it was bent like a banana, leaning and warped. Over the following centuries, engineers tried everything to correct the disaster, including counterweights, steel cables, soil extraction, drainage wells, and concrete foundation pillars. The final stabilization project alone cost over thirty million euros and took ten years to complete.

All because nobody was willing to stop and fix the real problem at the beginning.

Sound familiar?