I need to confess something right up front: I love people... in small, carefully rationed doses. Put me in a quiet room with my dog, a book, and a cup of tea, and I am the sweetest, most pleasant version of myself you will ever meet. But stick me in a crowded family reunion for six hours straight, and something happens. My smile tightens. My patience evaporates. By the time I finally climb into the car to go home, I am basically Mr. Hyde in a denim skirt.

For years, I thought something was wrong with me. Good Christians are supposed to love being around people all the time, right? Shouldn't fellowship fill me up instead of wearing me down? I quietly filed myself under the label of "flawed" or “broken” and moved on, feeling guilty every time I turned down an invitation just so I could recharge alone.

Then I learned about grasshoppers, or more specifically, locusts. Stay with me here! This gets good.

I can quote James 1:5 in my sleep: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God..." I've said it over prayer requests, tucked it into cards, and repeated it so many times I could probably say it backward. But for years, I stopped right there. I let the verse trail off into that little ellipsis before it ever got to the best part.

It turns out that "ask of God" is only half the sentence.

James 1:5 actually reads, "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."

Those two phrases, "liberally" and "upbraideth not," are so powerful, yet I had skipped right past both of them like a kid skipping vegetables to get straight to dessert.

Little did I realize they were the dessert!

For the past few months, my personal devotion time has taken an unconventional turn. Instead of working through a specific book of the Bible or following a structured study guide, I've been exploring selected fairy tales, fables, and classic stories, searching for spiritual truths buried within them. As a lifelong lover of stories who has spent more hours than she'd care to admit curled up with a good book and a cup of tea, I thought this might be a fascinating exercise.

I have not been disappointed.

I know it sounds like I've traded my Bible for a bedtime story collection. But stick with me, because this study has led me to powerful truths and spiritual lessons I never expected.

Today, my lesson revolved around a character most of us met in childhood: Peter Pan. You remember him, right? The boy in green tights who refused to grow up.

Picture the scene: a dusty road just outside Capernaum, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people who had dropped everything because word got out that Jesus was in town. A synagogue ruler named Jairus had thrown himself at Jesus' feet, begging Him to come heal his dying daughter, and now the whole neighborhood was tagging along to see what would happen. Front-row seats to a miracle? Nobody was missing that.

So, there they were, pressing in from every side, so tightly packed that Jesus could barely move. And in the middle of all that shoving and jostling was a woman nobody wanted to stand next to. She'd been bleeding for twelve straight years. Twelve! She'd spent every coin she had on doctors who only made things worse, and under Jewish law, her condition made her ceremonially unclean, which meant she wasn't even supposed to be in that crowd, touching people, brushing up against their clothes.

I've never been much of a gardener, but I've become a bit of an accidental tree-watcher since moving to Wales. Between our hikes through the countryside and my endless fascination with anything that grows without complaining, I've picked up a few strange little facts that have stopped me in my tracks. For example, when drought hits, a healthy tree doesn't just stand there and wilt dramatically as I would. It has an ingrained survival strategy.

The tree stops producing new leaves. It pulls back from growth mode and turns its energy inward. And then, rather than throwing a fit about the lack of rain, it sends its roots down deeper into the soil, searching for whatever moisture is still hiding beneath the surface. The tree essentially says, "Fine. If it's not coming from above right now, I'll go find it below." No drama. No dying. Just digging.

I never expected to nearly bring down the song service with a botched lyric, but there I was, hymnal in hand, feet planted, voice lifted... and disaster struck on verse two. We were belting out that grand old hymn, "Jesus Paid It All," and I opened my mouth to sing about the power that can "change the leper's spots"... except what came out was "leopard's spots."

I froze. Did I really just sing that? Yes, I did. And once the mental image of a literal leopard, spots and all, standing there getting a divine paint job hit me, I lost it. I spent the rest of that verse biting my tongue, shoulders shaking, desperately trying to look like a woman having a spiritual moment instead of a woman about to snort-laugh in the middle of church.

Here's the thing about me: the laughter fades, but the pondering never does.

Have you ever needed a good reminder of something you should already know? Jesus gave John the Baptist one while in prison, and recently, He gave me one too.

Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those things which ye do hear and see (Matthew 11:4).

Did you catch that little word tucked right in the middle there? Again. John wasn't hearing about the miracles for the first time. This wasn't the first occasion he heard what Jesus was capable of. He already knew. He just needed to be shown again.

I love that Jesus didn't get offended by John's doubt from that prison cell. He didn't send back a scolding message. He simply told John's disciples, "Go remind him."

Sometimes that's exactly what we need too. Not new information, just a fresh look at what we've already seen God do.

Y'all, I have officially entered my Egyptian plague era. Between the summer heat and the freshly fertilized field behind us, our house has become Fly Central. I'm not talking about the occasional buzzer that sneaks in when someone leaves the door open too long. I'm talking about dozens, maybe more. Scores of flies, staging what I can only assume is an aerial invasion with zero regard for personal space or human dignity.

Last night, as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I stared up at my white ceiling, and it looked exactly like the night sky in reverse, with black dots scattered across a pale backdrop instead of white stars twinkling in the dark. Except stars are peaceful. These little dots buzzed, dive-bombed my face, and had the nerve to land on my poor dog Tess while she was just trying to nap. There is no escaping them. None. I've swatted, sprayed, and vacuumed, and still they persist, multiplying like there's no tomorrow.

If you've ever lived in a proper British house, you know we have a thing for doors. Every single room (no matter its size or purpose) gets its own door, mostly so we can trap what little heat we've generated and keep it from wandering off into the great British damp. Jason and I, however, are lazy about this. We leave nearly every door in our house standing wide open, all the time, because who wants to be constantly opening and closing doors?

But recently we had company, and suddenly we became Door People. We shut this one for privacy. We shut that one to muffle the noise. It was very civilized of us. Our dog, Tess, disagreed. Strongly! Tess is firmly in the "all doors open, all the time" camp, and since most of our doors don't latch properly, she took it upon herself to become the neighborhood door-nudger-opener.