Are You Sleeping Through the Night?
My smartwatch and I have a complicated relationship.
Every morning, I roll over, bleary-eyed, and check my sleep score. And every morning, that little device has the nerve to tell me exactly how badly I failed at something I've been doing my whole life: sleeping. Honestly, you'd think I'd have gotten the hang of it by now.
Here's how the scoring works. I can earn 50 points for getting a full 8 hours. I can earn 30 more if I go to bed at my set bedtime of 9 p.m. And I can earn up to 20 points based on how many times I wake up during the night, not just a little shift or a sigh, but a full-on, heart-rate-changing, get-out-of-bed kind of awakening.
That last category? That's where things get embarrassing.
On more than one occasion, I have scored a big, fat zero on my interruption score. Zero! You know what that means?
God’s Rubber Ducky
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:
Owls, Night Seasons, and the God Who Sees in the Dark
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.
When Doubt Knocks on Faith’s Door
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."
When Pain Becomes Your Prayer
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.