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).

I am, by nature, a "get to the point" kind of person. If I need something, I say so. No preamble. No small talk. Just give me the solution, and let's move on. This is probably why, for years, my prayer life sounded a little like a drive-through order: "Hi, Lord, I'll take healing for this headache, provision for that bill, and can you supersize the patience, please? Thanks, bye."

I never once considered that I might be skipping a step.

Then I started noticing something as I read through my Bible. Over and over, in the same breath, Scripture pairs two words: prayer and supplication. Solomon uses the combo repeatedly in his temple dedication prayer in 1 Kings 8. Daniel uses it in his famous prayer of repentance. Paul uses it in Ephesians and again in Philippians. And nearly every single time, prayer comes first. Supplication follows.

That is not an accident. That is a pattern.

I sat down last week to plan the month ahead, calendar app open, herbal tea in hand, feeling almost productive. Then I actually looked at the upcoming schedule: two back-to-back travel weekends, a harvest service sandwiched between them, two large community events to plan, and of course, a handful of appointments that always seem to multiply the moment I schedule just one.

My first honest thought wasn't "Lord, what an opportunity." It was "Lord, I am going to be wrecked. This month is going to kill me!"

Here's the thing: That thought wasn't wrong. I know my body. I know that travel weekends cost me days of recovery that healthy people don't have to budget for. I know my pain will spike, my energy will crater, and I'll probably need a nap disguised as "quiet time" more than once. All of that is true. I know it from experience.

Some mornings, my mind resembles the world's least efficient office. I sit at my desk, herbal tea nearby, Bible open, and a stack of unruly papers piles up in front of me. Except the papers are not bills, book ideas, or that mysterious note I wrote three weeks ago that now appears to say "Buy turnips for dragon." No, the papers are thoughts.

"You are failing."

"You will always be sick and will never get better."

"You have messed up too much."

"God has forgotten you."

"This situation is impossible."

"No one wants to read your pathetic attempts at writing."

And suddenly, my imaginary office has an urgent backlog.

As I considered Philippians 4:8 this morning, my mind brought up an amusing image (as it tends to do). I pictured a giant, old-fashioned librarian's red rubber stamp.

I once thought myself quite adept at walking. Two feet, alternating steps, arms swinging for balance. It seemed the perfect exercise, a system I had mastered. Then age crept in, my chronic illness worsened, and I quickly learned that walking is far more complicated than my toddler self ever imagined. Wah!

For instance, not long ago, I was strolling along, admiring the trees like a nature documentary narrator. Sadly, I failed to notice the road ahead was no longer flat. My ankle twisted one way, my body the other. Down I went, while my dog looked on with what I can only describe as mild disappointment and perhaps a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Another time, I got so distracted watching our dog, Tess, chase a squirrel that I walked straight into a low-hanging branch, nearly knocking myself senseless.

And sometimes, there's simply no excuse.