If I were Jacob, I'd be grumpy. His brother wants him dead (not that he didn't bring that on himself). He's left home with little more than a walking stick, and the sun has gone down in the middle of nowhere. There's no inn and no pillow. So he does what any desperate traveler would do and grabs a rock. Comfy, huh? Genesis 28:11 says he put the stones "for his pillows." Plural. Rocks everywhere, and not a memory-foam mattress in sight.

Then comes the dream. A ladder stands on the earth with its top reaching to heaven. Angels go up and down like rush hour at a holy train station. At the top stands the LORD Himself, who makes Jacob a promise:

"And, behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest... for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of." (Genesis 28:15)

I'll admit something. For years, I pictured the Christian race as a Sunday-afternoon jog. I saw myself in cute sneakers with a gentle breeze in my hair, waving at the neighbors and admiring the scenery. "It's a marathon, not a sprint," I'd say, as if a marathon were just a sprint with better snacks.

Then I looked up the Greek word for "race" in Hebrews 12:1, and my smoothie hit the pavement.

The word is agōn, and yes, it's where we get "agony." It was the word for the contests held in the great stadiums, where athletes strained, gasped, and gave everything they had. The word carries the idea of struggle and conflict. Nobody in that arena was admiring the scenery.

We love the race verse. We put it on mugs and bookmarks. But we rarely talk about what it's like to run it on mile nineteen, with a blister, a headache, and a to-do list that's grown legs.

Over the years, I've heard some strange things from the pulpit. Not merely differences in preference, mind you, but teachings built on assumptions, verses taken out of context, or ideas not found in the Bible at all. Yes, I've sat through many sermons squirming in my seat (and not just because of my back pain) and biting my tongue because the eloquent and educated speaker sounded good, but what he was saying simply wasn't biblical.

Now, before anyone sharpens a pitchfork, let me be clear: preachers, teachers, speakers, and Christian writers are human. We make mistakes. I know I have. I have taught or written things in the past that I believed were correct, but further study showed me I missed the mark. That is humbling. It's also slightly inconvenient when you've put the mistake in print for all the world to see. Yikes!

That is exactly why I regularly tell my readers and Bible-study students, "Check up on me."

I had the calendar memorized, not because I wanted to, but because every time I glanced at it, my heart picked up speed and my stomach tied itself into a sailor's knot.

First, a team meeting. Then a harvest service, meaning extra time on church pews, those lovely wooden torture devices designed by someone who clearly never had a back issue. Then Sunday: out the door at 8:00 a.m., two and a half hours of travel, a full day of services, and the drive home, rolling in after 8:00 p.m. Then another harvest service, more pews, and another weekend away with another long drive, an overnight stay, and yes, more pews.

Meanwhile, life refused to take a vacation. The dog still needed walking. The dishes still multiplied like rabbits. Paperwork needed filing, devotions needed writing, and events needed planning. I had been dreading it for weeks. I told myself not to, and I really tried. But my nerves, apparently, didn't get the memo.

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.