Have you ever noticed how confident people sound right before they are proven wrong?

Sadly, many people (Christians included) have a habit of nodding along when someone says, "Scientific evidence disproves many portions of the Bible." After all, it sounds so official. Somebody with a doctorate, a documentary, and a dramatic voice has assured us that science is right and the Bible is wrong.  And the “simple-minded” folks (like me) who still believe the Bible is completely true are merely behind the times and haven’t yet caught up with the scientific advancements.  

Really?  That’s not how I see it.  In fact, I believe the opposite, based on the following historical evidence.

Let’s start with a group of people called the Hittites. For a long time, the Hittites were a scholarly punchline.

I've become a bit of a field-watcher lately, and I promise it's not as strange as it sounds. As I've mentioned, there's a pasture directly behind our house here in Wales. Over the past several months, I've had a front-row seat to its entire transformation, and let me tell you, it's been quite the show.

It started out gorgeous. Tall grasses waved in the breeze like something out of a storybook, and I'd look out my window and think, Well, isn't that just lovely? It was rhythmic and calming, much like watching ocean waves. Honestly, I could have watched that field sway all day.

Then one morning, I looked out, and the grasses were gone, cut clean down. What had been lush and lovely was now dry, short, and a little sad-looking. I remember thinking, Well, that's depressing!

But the field wasn't finished with its dramatic arc. Next came the manure.

I have a confession to make. For most of my Christian life, I read Psalm 55:22 the same way I read a coupon: quickly, hopefully, and mostly for what it could do for me. "Cast thy burden upon the LORD, and he shall sustain thee." I always pictured it like handing off a heavy suitcase at the airport counter. “Here, God, take this. Now, please, make the bad thing stop.”

But lately, my hands have been too full and too shaky to keep handing things off one at a time. Between chronic illness flare-ups, deadlines breathing down my neck, and the general exhaustion of trying to hold my little corner of the world together, I haven't just been carrying a burden. I've felt like I was the one about to come apart, bolt by bolt, seam by seam, like an old rocking chair that creaks a little louder every time you sit in it. (And, yes, there are literal creaks!)

So this week, I went digging a little deeper into this verse, and friends, what I found didn't just satisfy me. It undid me in the best possible way.

This past Sunday was a hard day. Our little Welsh community said goodbye to another chapel, a ministry over 300 years old that once echoed with hymns and, believe it or not, once shaped a missionary whose name still draws pilgrims from the other side of the world.

Robert Jermain Thomas spent his early years in this very chapel, where his father served as pastor. In his twenties, Thomas carried the gospel to Korea and gave his life for it in 1866. That's the legacy these old stone walls hold. And this past week, the chapel went dark for good.

The gentleman who had to make the call didn't do it lightly. He wrestled with the decision for months. He watched his little congregation (who hadn't had a pastor in over 30 years) shrink year after year. He lost faithful members, buried the church treasurer, and finally ran out of hands to keep the doors open and the bills paid. When he made the announcement, he expected sorrow. What he got instead was his phone ringing off the hook. Sadly, it was not from folks offering to help, but from people who hadn't darkened the chapel doorway in years, furious that "their" family chapel was closing.

For the most part, I’m a morning person.  I don’t enjoy getting up super early these days, especially as the dark night seems to stretch on until well after 8:00. But overall, I function better in the mornings.  My body aches less.  My brain feels more alert. My motivation and discipline seem to be higher. Yes, give me the mornings, and I can get things accomplished.

That being said, by about 2:00 in the afternoon, I’m crashing, and by 6:00, I’m of no use to anyone!  Yes, by 6:00, I have to walk away from the desk, the housework, and any other demands on my mind and body, and start winding down for the night.

So, my real struggle isn't the mornings or even the afternoons. It's the nights.

You know the kind of nights I mean. The house finally goes quiet. Everyone else is asleep.

If you've ever wished for a clear, compelling explanation of spiritual warfare, then let me introduce you to The Prince Warriors. I started this series expecting a fun adventure story; I finished it truly changed.

Written by Priscilla Shirer with Gina Detwiler, this series follows a group of young friends drawn into Ahoratos, an unseen realm where they are trained and armed to fight a very real enemy. The entire premise is built on the armor of God from Ephesians 6:10-18, a connection evident in every chapter. This isn't a loose, "inspired by" tie to Scripture. It's a deliberate, thoughtful unpacking of what that armor truly looks like in practice.

This morning, Jason was baking scones (which has become a normal weekday activity in our house). When the oven timer buzzed on the Alexa app, he peeked at his golden-brown goodies and hollered, "Alexa, add two more minutes."

Now, under normal circumstances, Alexa is a fairly obedient little assistant. She usually chirps back with something like, "Two minutes added to the timer." Simple. Done. Exactly what he needed.

But this morning, Alexa apparently woke up as tired and foggy as I felt, because her response was, "I've added two minutes to the shopping list."

I'm sorry, what? You can't buy two minutes at the shop, Alexa! Believe me, if you could, I'd have a standing order.

Jason tried again. Same confused response. It took three attempts before Alexa finally caught on and actually added the time to the timer instead of the shopping list.

I've heard it said that if you aim at nothing, you'll hit it every time. I laughed the first time I heard that line. Then I cried a little, because it described me perfectly in more ways than one.

Here in Wales, Jason and I have spent years trying to convince our community that Christians aren't the uptight, joyless folks Hollywood loves to portray. We've tried to show them the difference between true Christianity and "religion." We want people to see that we're normal. Fun, even. So we've done what any well-meaning, slightly overzealous missionary couple would do: we've planned community events. Lots of them!

A ladies' luncheon in the spring. A carnival game day in the summer. A Holiday Bible Club in the fall. A "Soup and Singing" in the winter. And that's not counting the "let's throw something together" gatherings and special chapel services squeezed in between. We've invited everyone in the community: believers, skeptics, the curious, the couldn't-care-less. Our flyers practically shout, "Come one, come all, no strings attached!"

I have never been in the military, but I am convinced that church business meetings are the civilian equivalent of trench warfare. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a "the Lord laid this on my heart." And somehow, all those burdens contradict each other.

I remember one particular meeting years ago where we were trying to decide something that, in hindsight, was not nearly as important as we made it out to be at the time. One dear soul stood up and said the Lord had told her one thing. Another dear soul spoke up two minutes later and said the Lord had told him the exact opposite. I sat there thinking, "Well, Lord, You're going to have to pick a lane, because right now You appear to be talking out of both sides of Your mouth." (I know full well He wasn't. But it sure felt that way from where I was sitting.)

That's when I stumbled onto a verse I'd read a hundred times before but never really heard until that moment. Paul, writing to the Corinthian church about spiritual gifts and orderly worship, drops this little nugget in the middle of his argument: "For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle?" (1 Corinthians 14:8).