I used to be the queen of New Year's resolutions. You name it, I resolved it: exercise more, eat less chocolate (though why anyone would want to do that is beyond me), read through the Bible in a year, and keep a cleaner house. The list went on and on. But come February, those resolutions were nothing more than guilt-inducing reminders of my failures scribbled in my journal.

Recently, when someone asked if I still made New Year's resolutions, I had to chuckle. "No," I replied, "I've given up on giving up things." The irony wasn't lost on either of us.

But here's what I've discovered in my journey away from resolution-making: God isn't interested in our annual goal-setting nearly as much as He's interested in our daily surrender.

I'm convinced my neck will be sore tomorrow. No, I haven't been doing any strange exercises or sleeping in an awkward position. I've simply been doing what most of us do this time of year—looking backwards and forward so much that I'm starting to feel like an owl!

The transition between years always seems to trigger this response in us, doesn't it? We find ourselves simultaneously reflecting on the past year's events while peering anxiously into the unknown future. It's like trying to watch two tennis matches at once. It's exhausting but somehow impossible to resist.

As I look back over 2024, I can't help but smile at God's faithfulness. Sure, there were trials. My health issues didn't suddenly disappear, and our ministry in Wales continues to be challenging. But nestled between those difficulties were countless blessings: new friendships formed at the chapel, breakthrough moments in Bible study, and even Tess learning not to bark at every dog that passes our bungalow (well, almost).

Have you ever watched a tightrope walker? It's fascinating how they maintain their balance, shifting their weight ever so slightly from one side to the other. One wrong move could spell disaster. I often feel like that tightrope walker in my spiritual life, especially when it comes to finding the balance between doing and waiting.

Just yesterday, I sat at my desk, staring at a blank document on my computer screen. I had a Bible study to prepare, several blog posts due, and ministry correspondence waiting for responses. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on my shoulders. Should I forge ahead with my plans, or was God trying to tell me to wait? Was my drive to complete these tasks stemming from my perfectionist nature, or was it truly God's leading?

I never thought I'd say this, but last night, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer gave me nightmares. No, I'm not kidding! Jason and I were exploring different Christmas playlists on YouTube, seeking some festive background music while we worked. We stumbled upon what promised to be "Epic Christmas Arrangements," and wow, what a mixed bag that turned out to be!

Some of them were breathtaking, like the gorgeous orchestral version of "O Holy Night" that gave me goosebumps. But then things took a turn. Picture, if you will, "Jingle Bells" transformed into something that sounds like it belongs in a horror movie. The tune clicked and whirred like a broken music box from some abandoned Victorian nursery. The jolly "ho-ho-ho" became a sinister echo, and those cheerful jingling bells morphed into an ominous warning of impending doom.

A couple of weeks ago, Jason and I bundled up against the Welsh winter and headed to our favorite Christmas tree farm. For the past few years, we've made the journey to this quaint spot where the elderly owner greets us with his warm smile and fascinating stories.

This year was no different. As we wandered through the rows of fragrant evergreens, he shuffled alongside us, sharing his observations about his customers' varied preferences. "You know," he said, adjusting his woolen cap, "it's quite remarkable how everyone has their own idea of the perfect tree."

He gestured toward a towering specimen that must have been at least eight feet tall. "Some families," he said, "want the tallest tree they can possibly fit in their house. But then," he chuckled, "others prefer the smaller ones they can place on a tabletop."

I smiled, thinking of our Tess and her enthusiastic tail.

Have you ever noticed how quickly we can go from feeling blessed to feeling stressed? Take, for instance, our recent adventure with the fierce storm that wreaked havoc on our area. It not only knocked out our power but also damaged a water pump somewhere along our line. And just like that—no water!

The water company, bless their hearts, sent out a message early Saturday morning explaining the situation and promising to have everything sorted by afternoon. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. Then they assured us it would be fixed by evening. Again, no dice. This merry-go-round of promises continued through Sunday and into Monday, leaving us feeling rather like contestants on a survival reality show.

You don't truly appreciate the miracle of indoor plumbing until you're hauling buckets of borrowed water just to flush the toilet!

As a missionary in the beautiful, yet often rainy and windy, country of Wales, I've become quite the expert at walking into rooms and flipping light switches that I know full well won't work. I've also mastered the art of trying to wash my hands with water that isn't flowing, followed by the classic "Oh, right!" moment of realization. It's amazing how many times in a single day a person can forget there's no power or water!

Last week's storm brought a special kind of challenge. Instead of one prolonged power outage (which I could have handled with dignity and grace... maybe), we experienced what I like to call the "disco light special" – power flickering on and off throughout the day. Each time the power returned, I'd dash around the house like a contestant on a game show, resetting clocks, checking the heating, and most importantly, coaxing our temperamental internet router back to life.

The sound of hedge trimmers filled the air as workers buzzed about our property, giving our shrubs their annual haircut. While the trimming certainly improved the appearance of our garden, not everyone was thrilled with the landscape makeover. Our feathered friends, who had made these hedges their temporary homes, were notably disturbed by this disruption to their peaceful existence.

Day after day, I gazed out my bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the familiar birds that usually frequented our feeder. The garden seemed eerily quiet without their cheerful chirping and playful acrobatics. My heart sank a little each time I noticed the untouched birdseed on the driveway outside my office.

When I expressed my concern to Jason, he offered a suggestion that was both practical and profound. "Why don't we make an extra effort to show them we still care? Let's put out more food than usual, maybe even some special treats."

I thought we had won. After weeks of setting traps and securing every nook and cranny of our Welsh cottage, the unwelcome mouse that had taken up residence seemed to have moved on. The victory was ours! Or so I thought until the other morning when I opened the pantry door.

There he sat, bold as brass, perched atop the shelf with my favorite chocolates. The little thief had gnawed through the wrappers and was helping himself to my precious stash! We locked eyes for a moment—me in horror, him in what I'm pretty sure was smug satisfaction—before we both fled in opposite directions. He scurried into his hidden passage while I slammed the door and retreated to the safety of my office, mourning the loss of my chocolate comfort.

The comment stung like a paper cut—small but surprisingly painful. "Now, we just have to get Dana out there doing something," my coworker had quipped, presumably in jest. Though meant to be humorous, the words settled heavily in my spirit, and I found myself mentally cataloging my daily responsibilities.

From my home office, I design promotional materials, organize events, prepare music and Bible studies, create floral arrangements, and handle correspondence for our ministry. Yet because most of this work happens behind the scenes rather than in the public eye, it's easy for others to overlook these contributions.

As I nursed my wounded pride, the Lord gently reminded me that I often treat Him the same way.