Sometimes, authors write a scene or a line that sticks with them long after they’ve written it. Such was the case in my newest book, Hope Refined. King David is fleeing his throne in the middle of the night. It was not a dignified, strategic retreat, mind you, but a desperate, stumbling flight through the dark. The river ahead of him is swollen and angry, but the fleeing king wades into it anyway, the cold water rising to his waist.

And then? He sings.

Not a quiet, trembling little hum. He lifts his voice in praise to God, right there in the middle of a raging river.

In the dead of night.

With everything he's ever known crumbling behind him. 

When my character Merlin watches in disbelief and marvels at how David could possibly sing in a moment like that, Jesus leans over and quietly confides: He is singing to drive back the darkness.

I love that line, and I can’t get it out of my head.  Singing to drive away the darkness.  Wow!

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a list, a running tally of people who've said unkind things, dismissed my work, questioned my motives, or just plain been rude. And if I'm being really honest, there are moments when I replay those offenses like a favorite movie, except nobody's enjoying the show.

Maybe you have a list too.

In my newest book, Hope Refined, David is at one of the lowest points in his life. He's fleeing Jerusalem, exiled from his throne by his own son. He's exhausted, humiliated, and heartbroken. And right in the middle of that miserable journey, a man named Shimei comes out and starts cursing him. Loudly. Publicly. Enthusiastically. He throws stones at David and his servants, kicking a man while he is very much down.

David's mighty men are on their feet in an instant.

I have a confession to make. I'm a sucker for a good compliment. Tell me my hair looks nice, and I'll follow you to the grocery store. Compliment my writing or teaching, and I might just invite you to move in. Humans have a soft spot for people who make us feel seen, understood, and validated. It's wired into us. And unfortunately, the wrong people know how to exploit that wiring like a seasoned electrician.

Meet Absalom. He was David's son, and if there were an ancient award for "Most Charming Man in the Kingdom," he would have won it three years running. The Bible tells us he was devastatingly handsome, and he knew how to use every single inch of that gift. But looks were only half of his toolkit. The other half? Words.

I have a confession to make. I've been guilty of building pedestals.

Not literal ones, mind you. I'm not much of a carpenter (just ask my Holiday Bible Club kids).

But in my mind? Oh, I've constructed some beautiful monuments to the people I admire most. My favorite preachers. The missionaries whose newsletters I devoured. The women who taught me the Word with such fire and grace that I was sure they'd never had a bad day in their lives.

And then, inevitably, several of them fell off.

That crash is a special kind of heartbreak, isn't it? It's not just that a person disappointed you. It's that the idea you'd built around them came crumbling down, and sometimes, if you're not careful, your faith goes down with the rubble.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, actually.

It started so quietly. No trumpet blast. No neon sign flashing WARNING: SIN AHEAD. Just a king, a rooftop, and a little too much time on his hands.

Second Samuel 11 opens with one of the most haunting lines in all of Scripture: "And it came to pass, after the year was expired, at the time when kings go forth to battle, that David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the children of Ammon, and besieged Rabbah. But David tarried still at Jerusalem." (2 Samuel 11:1)

Did you catch that? But David tarried. Four little words. A thousand devastating consequences.

Spring had come, the time when a king was supposed to lace up his armor and lead his men into battle. But David didn't go. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he figured he'd earned a break. Maybe he told himself it was just this once. Whatever the reason, he stayed home…

I've been spending a lot of time lately with Merlin.

Now, before you picture a pointy hat and a wand, let me clarify that I'm talking about my Merlin, the protagonist of my upcoming novel, Hope Refined. And this particular Merlin is having a really, really bad day. Actually, make that a really bad season of life.

You see, Merlin has just watched King David, a man he respected and who was supposed to be the model of a great king, sin in a spectacular and devastating way. Betrayal. Corruption. The kind of thing that shakes your faith in people right down to the foundation. And Merlin is furious. Righteously, completely, humanly furious.

And honestly? I get it.

There's something in all of us that ignites when we witness injustice. When someone we trusted lets us down. When the person who was supposed to stand for right chooses wrong instead.

Some mornings, if you peeked into the quiet corner of my office, you might think I was doing nothing at all. My Bible would be open beside me, my mug of tea growing cold, and I would just be staring out the window.

From the outside, it looks suspiciously like laziness. But inside, my mind is bustling. I'm turning a verse over and over, like a jeweler turning a diamond in the light. I've read it, studied it, maybe even looked up a few words, but the real work begins when I stop "doing" and start meditating.

The world says meditation is about emptying the mind, clearing out thoughts like you're sweeping a cluttered floor. But the Bible paints a completely different picture. The blessed man "delight[s] in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night." That is not an empty mind. That is a very full one.

I'll be honest with you, I am not a coffee drinker. Never have been, probably never will be. The taste? Hard pass. But the smell of a fresh pot of coffee? Now that is a different story entirely. There is something wonderfully cozy about walking into a room that smells like a freshly brewed cup. It signals warmth, comfort, and morning hope. I've always thought, If it tasted half as good as it smells, I might actually drink the stuff.

Well, that was before Jason discovered his new favorite.

My husband is what you might call a "coffee enthusiast" or what I call a "coffee nerd." The man researches roasts the way I research plot holes in novels. He constantly explores new flavor combinations, new blends, and new brewing methods. I admire his commitment, truly. But his latest obsession from our local coffee shop has a sharp, burnt-orange, citrusy scent that makes my nose do things I cannot fully describe. Let's just say my face does not hide it well.

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: