Have you ever wondered why God asks us to do things that don't make sense?

Gideon sure did. Here's a guy who was hiding in a winepress, threshing wheat in secret, terrified of the Midianites who had been oppressing Israel for seven years. When the angel of the Lord appeared and called him a "mighty warrior," Gideon probably looked around to see who the angel was really talking to. He came from the weakest clan in Israel and felt completely inadequate for the task ahead.

But God had a plan. After Gideon finally agreed to lead Israel against their enemies, he gathered 32,000 men. A decent army, right? Wrong. God said that was too many. He whittled the army down to just 300 soldiers. And then came the really strange part. Instead of arming these men with swords and shields, God told Gideon to give each man a trumpet, an empty pitcher, and a torch to hide inside the pitcher.

Here's a question I hear often: "How do I know if I'm hearing God's voice or just listening to my own desires?"

It's a legitimate question, and the fact that you're asking it shows you care about getting it right. There is a real difference between what God is calling you to do and what you want to do, and often, those two things are in direct conflict.

Let me be blunt: God's calling rarely feels comfortable.

We live in a culture that celebrates following your dreams and pursuing your passions. "Listen to your heart," they tell us. "Do what makes you happy." "Follow your bliss." There is nothing wrong with joy or fulfillment. But here's what nobody tells you: God's calling on your life might ask you to do something that feels completely wrong by the world's standards.

This week, I read a heartbreaking article about a 700-year-old church in Wales holding its final service. After centuries of faithful ministry, dwindling attendance and mounting expenses forced the doors to close for good. But here's what struck me as peculiar: the final service was packed! People filled the pews, stood in the aisles, and one by one rose to share how much the church meant to them and their community. My first thought was, "If it meant so much to you, where have you been for the past few years?"

Sadly, this scenario plays out far too often here in Wales. There's even a running joke that churches serve only three purposes: hatch, match, and dispatch (infant baptisms, weddings, and funerals). Yet when another chapel closes its doors permanently—and trust me, it happens alarmingly often—communities act devastated. It's like mourning a friendship you never bothered to maintain.

Last Friday, I talked a bit about the leviathan and its formidable armor. Today, I want to take another look at this creature from the Bible, but I guarantee you, the perspective will be completely different. It may, in fact, cause you to laugh out loud or perhaps shout, "Hallelujah!" Intrigued? Good, let's do this!

Now, if you've read Job chapters 40 and 41, you know that God describes this creature in terrifying detail. We're talking about a monster with scales like shields, breath that kindles coals, and a mouth that shoots out flames. Job 41:33 says, "Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear." This thing is the stuff of nightmares—a fire-breathing, armor-plated sea monster that makes Godzilla look like a goldfish.

But here's where it gets interesting. When you flip over to Psalm 104:26, suddenly the Leviathan gets a completely different introduction:

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.