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.

Many years ago, Jason and I decided to tackle the Natureland Trust Trail at Caesars Head. I pictured a pleasant woodland stroll with maybe a stream, some birdsong, and a nice photo opportunity or two. What I got instead was 5.8 miles of "very strenuous" terrain that had me telling my husband, in complete seriousness, "Just leave me here. Save yourself."

I had done some research beforehand. I knew the trail existed. I knew its length. I knew people had hiked it successfully. I even packed water and wore my best hiking shoes. And yet, somewhere around mile three, blisters started to form, and my knees began to scream. I remember thinking, Why does this feel so much harder than I expected? I did everything right. I wore the appropriate clothing. I had all the proper gear. Yet, I still wondered if I was going to die on that trail.

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.