Have you ever felt like you're constantly cleaning up the same mess over and over again? Like, no matter how hard you work, another disaster is waiting just around the corner?

Recently, the forestry workers did a major clean-up on the trails where Jason and I like to walk Tess. After several storms battered our area, downed trees and branches had turned our favorite hiking paths into an obstacle course. The crew spent days out there with heavy machinery, clearing debris and making everything safe again. I remember thinking how wonderful it was to see the trails restored and ready for use.​

But then, just a few days after they finished, another wave of storms rolled through Wales. More trees came down. More branches littered the paths. In fact, the trails looked worse than they did before the first cleanup.

Did you know you can learn a lot of theology from a bird with big eyes and a funny hoot? I didn't either—at least, not until my Bible study on the animals of the Bible landed on the owl. Suddenly, this "spooky" night bird became one of my favorite little professors.

In Isaiah 43, God says something that stopped me in my tracks: "The beast of the field shall honour me, the dragons and the owls..." (Isaiah 43:20a). The owls honour Him... in the dark. They don't sing like the sweet little songbirds at sunrise. They don't trill in the bright blue sky. They hoot in the lonely, desolate places when everyone else has gone quiet and gone home.

Most birds are at their best in the sunshine, but the owl is built for the night.

Have you ever dealt with a difficult person? You try to like them, help them, understand them, or accept them, but despite your best efforts, they just rub you the wrong way. Maybe it's a family member who always seems to have a sharp word ready. Or perhaps it's that acquaintance at church who bristles at every attempt at friendship. I'll confess, I've had my share of these challenging relationships, and more often than not, I've found myself frustrated, hurt, and ready to throw in the towel.

But this morning, something shifted. As I sat with my Bible open to Job chapter 41, reading about the fearsome Leviathan, God gave me an epiphany that changed everything. The passage describes this creature's impenetrable armor: "His scales are his pride, shut up together as with a close seal.

Have you ever marveled at the incredible abilities God has given His creation? I recently found myself fascinated while studying whales for a Bible study on animals in Scripture. What amazed me most wasn't their size or their song, though those attributes were astounding; it was their ability to dive deep into the ocean without being crushed by the immense pressure.

Sperm whales can plunge nearly 10,000 feet below the surface, enduring pressure that would obliterate most man-made vessels. At those depths, the water presses down with a force of over 4,000 pounds per square inch. It's dark down there. It's dangerous. Yet the whale glides through those depths with ease, completely unharmed.

Now, compare that to a submarine. Modern submarines are engineering marvels, designed with the strongest materials and most advanced technology.

There's a man in the Bible whose story has always comforted me, especially on days when my faith feels shaky and my doubts feel louder than my convictions. He is never named but is identified as the father of the demon-possessed boy, and his story is found in Mark 9.

This man brings his son to Jesus' disciples, desperate for help. The boy is suffering terribly, seized by a spirit that throws him to the ground, makes him foam at the mouth, and grinds his teeth. The disciples try to cast out the demon, but they can't. Finally, Jesus arrives, and the father falls at His feet with one of the most honest prayers in all of Scripture: "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief."

Let that sink in for a moment. This man is saying, "Jesus, I do believe in You. I have faith in Your power. And I have doubts. I'm not entirely sure. Help me with the parts where I'm struggling."

Do you ever feel like your body has become a battlefield instead of the temple it's supposed to be? I certainly do. As someone who wrestles daily with chronic illness, I've learned that some mornings the greatest act of faith is simply swinging my legs out of bed and placing my feet on the floor.

Yesterday was one of those days. The pain in my back, neck, and shoulders had me practically immobilized, and as I struggled to type out a few sentences, I found myself staring at the ceiling and asking the age-old question: "God, what are You doing?" It's a question I've asked more times than I care to admit, usually through tears and with a hefty dose of frustration thrown in for good measure.

For years, I approached my chronic pain like it was an enemy to be defeated, something standing between me and the "real" ministry God had called me to do. I prayed for healing. I begged for relief.

Have you ever felt like you're praying into a void? You cry out to God, begging for wisdom, direction, comfort—for anything—and all you get in return is silence. The heavens feel like brass. Your prayers seem to bounce off the ceiling and fall flat at your feet. You wonder if God has forgotten you, if He's too busy dealing with someone else's crisis, or worse yet, if He simply doesn't care.

If you're nodding your head right now, friend, I understand. I've been there. In fact, I've been there more times than I'd like to admit. There are seasons when God's voice seems so clear that I can almost audibly hear Him speaking to my heart. And then there are those dry, difficult seasons when it feels like He's packed His bags and moved to another galaxy entirely.

But here's what I'm learning: God's silence doesn't equal God's absence.

Cleaning the chapels here in Wales is no easy feat. Honestly, it's downright frustrating at times! These old buildings seem to be home to a multitude of spiders that spin their webs day after day, resulting in a scene that resembles something from a scary movie, with elaborate cobwebs stretched across every surface. Every. Single. Surface.

The trickiest part about cleaning is that you can only see the webs when the light hits them just right. And since we have so little sunlight in Wales (let me tell you, the sun is a rare and precious commodity here), you can think you've gotten them all, only to have a ray of sunshine stream through the window and illuminate an elaborate web in the very area you just cleaned. I was literally standing there with my duster, feeling quite proud of myself, when suddenly the sun decided to make an appearance and reveal my failure. There, right where I'd just cleaned, was a massive cobweb I'd completely missed.

Yup, I've been guilty of it. I sit down with my Bible and reading plan, determined to knock out my chapters for the day. I glance at the clock, calculate how much time I have, and speed-read through the passages like I'm cramming for a test. Check, check, check. Done. Box ticked. Gold star earned. But when I close my Bible, I can't remember a single thing I just read.

Sound familiar?

There's a surge of Bible reading happening right now. Millions of people are starting 2026 with the intention of reading Scripture more faithfully. Bible sales rose 11% in 2025, with more than 18 million Bibles sold. Weekly Bible reading is at its highest level in 15 years. This is wonderful news! But I'm concerned that maybe we've turned Bible reading into another item on our to-do list instead of what it truly is: an invitation to encounter the Living God.

Yesterday, during my Bible study on animals in Scripture, I was certain the donkey would teach me a lesson about stubbornness. After all, isn't that what donkeys are famous for? But God had something entirely different and far more beautiful in store for me.

As I studied the account of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, it hit me like a thunderbolt. That little donkey wasn't chosen because of what he could carry but because of who he would carry. He wasn't meant to haul heavy burdens. He was meant to carry the Light of the World. And here's where it gets personal: we're just like that donkey.

How many times have I trudged through my days feeling like a pack mule, weighed down by worry, responsibility, and those endless "what-ifs" that plague my thoughts? I've rounded my shoulders under the weight of "should-haves" and stumbled over obligations that were never mine to bear. I've been so busy carrying the load that I forgot I was meant to carry the Light.