Let me tell you about the great grocery fiasco of this past week. Jason and I live in a small farming community here in Wales, and our nearest "big" shop contains two small aisles of food, one aisle of household items, and an aisle filled with snacks and booze. So, we do what any sensible, technology-loving missionary couple does. We order our groceries online and have them delivered right to our door. It saves petrol and time, and it rescues me from the temptation of buying a chocolate bar "just because it's there."

Our grocery store's website has this magical little feature called "Instant Shop." It loads your cart automatically with everything you typically order. Milk? In the cart. Tea bags (a necessity of life here in Wales, mind you)? In the cart. From there, we go through and tweak, removing what we don't need and adding what we do.

I never thought I'd write a devotion inspired by chicken manure, but here we are. Life in Wales keeps me humble, y'all.

As I told you in an earlier devotion, the farmer behind our house decided it was time to fertilize his field. One tractor-load of fresh chicken poo arrived on Monday morning and was dumped right behind our house. By afternoon, the smell had seeped into every crack, crevice, and curtain we own. We closed the windows, lit every candle we had, and prayed for a miracle breeze or even a nice rain shower.  But it was not to be.

Tuesday morning brought a glimmer of hope. The stench had faded just enough that Jason and I started dreaming about throwing open the windows and finally airing out the stuffiness from the past few weeks of relentless heat. But before we could celebrate, the farmer's tractor rumbled back. Another load, this one smelling stronger than the first. Good grief!

There are days when I look at my life and wonder if any of it matters.

I'm not talking about a dramatic crisis of faith. I'm talking about the quiet, creeping question that slips in on an ordinary Wednesday when nobody's reading my blog, nobody's buying my books, and our Bible study only has four ladies in attendance. 

Is this really making any difference? Am I doing anything that truly matters?

In my newest book, Hope Refined, my character Merlin wrestles with this very thing. He's lived for decades, faithfully following and serving, yet he looks back and sees what feels like a long corridor of nothing. 

No great victories. 

No world-shaking moments. 

Just years of small, quiet, unseen faithfulness. And he wonders if he's wasted it all.

And then Jesus reminds him of the seven thousand.

Sometimes, authors write a scene or a line that sticks with them long after they’ve written it. Such was the case in my newest book, Hope Refined. King David is fleeing his throne in the middle of the night. It was not a dignified, strategic retreat, mind you, but a desperate, stumbling flight through the dark. The river ahead of him is swollen and angry, but the fleeing king wades into it anyway, the cold water rising to his waist.

And then? He sings.

Not a quiet, trembling little hum. He lifts his voice in praise to God, right there in the middle of a raging river.

In the dead of night.

With everything he's ever known crumbling behind him. 

When my character Merlin watches in disbelief and marvels at how David could possibly sing in a moment like that, Jesus leans over and quietly confides: He is singing to drive back the darkness.

I love that line, and I can’t get it out of my head.  Singing to drive away the darkness.  Wow!

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a list, a running tally of people who've said unkind things, dismissed my work, questioned my motives, or just plain been rude. And if I'm being really honest, there are moments when I replay those offenses like a favorite movie, except nobody's enjoying the show.

Maybe you have a list too.

In my newest book, Hope Refined, David is at one of the lowest points in his life. He's fleeing Jerusalem, exiled from his throne by his own son. He's exhausted, humiliated, and heartbroken. And right in the middle of that miserable journey, a man named Shimei comes out and starts cursing him. Loudly. Publicly. Enthusiastically. He throws stones at David and his servants, kicking a man while he is very much down.

David's mighty men are on their feet in an instant.

I have a confession to make. I'm a sucker for a good compliment. Tell me my hair looks nice, and I'll follow you to the grocery store. Compliment my writing or teaching, and I might just invite you to move in. Humans have a soft spot for people who make us feel seen, understood, and validated. It's wired into us. And unfortunately, the wrong people know how to exploit that wiring like a seasoned electrician.

Meet Absalom. He was David's son, and if there were an ancient award for "Most Charming Man in the Kingdom," he would have won it three years running. The Bible tells us he was devastatingly handsome, and he knew how to use every single inch of that gift. But looks were only half of his toolkit. The other half? Words.

I have a confession to make. I've been guilty of building pedestals.

Not literal ones, mind you. I'm not much of a carpenter (just ask my Holiday Bible Club kids).

But in my mind? Oh, I've constructed some beautiful monuments to the people I admire most. My favorite preachers. The missionaries whose newsletters I devoured. The women who taught me the Word with such fire and grace that I was sure they'd never had a bad day in their lives.

And then, inevitably, several of them fell off.

That crash is a special kind of heartbreak, isn't it? It's not just that a person disappointed you. It's that the idea you'd built around them came crumbling down, and sometimes, if you're not careful, your faith goes down with the rubble.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, actually.

It started so quietly. No trumpet blast. No neon sign flashing WARNING: SIN AHEAD. Just a king, a rooftop, and a little too much time on his hands.

Second Samuel 11 opens with one of the most haunting lines in all of Scripture: "And it came to pass, after the year was expired, at the time when kings go forth to battle, that David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the children of Ammon, and besieged Rabbah. But David tarried still at Jerusalem." (2 Samuel 11:1)

Did you catch that? But David tarried. Four little words. A thousand devastating consequences.

Spring had come, the time when a king was supposed to lace up his armor and lead his men into battle. But David didn't go. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he figured he'd earned a break. Maybe he told himself it was just this once. Whatever the reason, he stayed home…

I've been spending a lot of time lately with Merlin.

Now, before you picture a pointy hat and a wand, let me clarify that I'm talking about my Merlin, the protagonist of my upcoming novel, Hope Refined. And this particular Merlin is having a really, really bad day. Actually, make that a really bad season of life.

You see, Merlin has just watched King David, a man he respected and who was supposed to be the model of a great king, sin in a spectacular and devastating way. Betrayal. Corruption. The kind of thing that shakes your faith in people right down to the foundation. And Merlin is furious. Righteously, completely, humanly furious.

And honestly? I get it.

There's something in all of us that ignites when we witness injustice. When someone we trusted lets us down. When the person who was supposed to stand for right chooses wrong instead.