Have you ever committed to serving the Lord, only to feel as though all the trouble in the world suddenly found your address? You commit to reading your Bible, and your phone is inundated with distractions. You step out to serve, and somebody criticizes. You finally feel like you're making progress, and suddenly, discouragement, drama, or "bullies" pop up out of nowhere.

Nehemiah could relate. As the walls of Jerusalem started going up, the enemies started speaking up. Sanballat, Tobiah, and Geshem used mockery, threats, rumors, and trickery to stop the work. They mocked the Jews as weak. They suggested the wall was so flimsy that even a fox could knock it down. They plotted sneak attacks. They tried to lure Nehemiah away for a "meeting" that was really a trap.

On top of that, the people themselves grew weary. The rubble seemed endless. Their strength was failing. The enemies looked bigger by the day.

When you hear the word "construction crew," what do you picture? Big burly builders in hard hats? Perhaps a guy with a clipboard who seems to know what he's doing, and everyone else just getting in the way?

That's not what we see in Nehemiah. When the rebuilding of Jerusalem's wall began, the "crew" was... everyone. Goldsmiths. Perfume makers. Priests. Merchants. Dads. Daughters. People probably more familiar with frying pans than hammers. Chapter 3 reads like a holy roll call of ordinary folks doing an extraordinary thing: obeying God and working side by side.

And right in the middle of all that enthusiasm, we bump into one sad little line:

"And next unto them the Tekoites repaired; but their nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord." - Nehemiah 3:5

Everyone else is shoulder-to-shoulder, sweating in the sun, stacking stones for the glory of God. But the nobles of Tekoa are standing off to the side.

To be honest, my brain feels like it's been through a blender. Over the past couple of months, in addition to my regular workload, I've been putting the finishing touches on my Christian historical fiction/fantasy novel, planning for our four-day Holiday Bible Club ministry event, and organizing a new curriculum for our ladies' Bible study group. Plans and ideas have bumped into each other so many times that I'm not sure where one starts and the other stops. So, the thought of coming up with three fresh blog ideas this week nearly sent me into a complete panic. So, if you don't mind, this week I'll be sharing with you the same devotions I'll be sharing with the kids who attend our Holiday Bible Club. (Sorry, though, you don't get the object lessons, crafts, games, snacks, etc.)

When I first decided on the theme "Under Construction" for our Holiday Bible Club, I thought, That's perfect because that's exactly how my life feels most days, perpetually half-finished, a bit messy, and surrounded by rubble.

In Mark chapter five, we find one of the most dramatic scenes in all of Scripture. Jesus and His disciples have just stepped off a boat onto the shore of the Gadarenes, and before the disciples can even shake the sea spray off their sandals, a wild man comes screaming out of the tombs. We're talking wild! No clothes. No chains strong enough to hold him. Living among the dead, and cutting himself day and night. The people of the region had given up on this man. He was a lost cause. A hopeless case. But Jesus? Jesus didn't even flinch.

In the blink of an eye, the Lord cast out a legion of demons. The man who had terrorized the countryside was suddenly sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. It was the miracle of the ages. The townspeople should have been throwing a party!

But here's where the story gets strange...well, stranger.

In 1173, construction began on what was supposed to be a magnificent bell tower in Pisa, Italy. Nobody planned on building a landmark. But about five years in, the foundation, a mere three meters deep, set in soft, unstable soil, began to shift. The tower started to lean, and the builders panicked.

Here's the part that really gets me: instead of stopping, tearing it down, and starting over with a proper foundation, they kept building. As they added more floors, engineers in later stages constructed one side of each story shorter than the other, trying to compensate for the lean and make everything look right from a distance. The problem was that this "fix" only made things worse. The added weight increased the lean. The tower ended up not just tilting but curving until it was bent like a banana, leaning and warped. Over the following centuries, engineers tried everything to correct the disaster, including counterweights, steel cables, soil extraction, drainage wells, and concrete foundation pillars. The final stabilization project alone cost over thirty million euros and took ten years to complete.

All because nobody was willing to stop and fix the real problem at the beginning.

Sound familiar?

I have a confession to make. I've never been one to watch the news or read the newspaper.

There was simply too much doom and gloom, and I figured anything important would be discussed elsewhere in my circle of friends and family. Even today, you won't find a newspaper, online news thread, or news channel in our home.

Here's the thing about the news: it isn't designed to bring you peace. The media operates on fear.

If it bleeds, it leads.

If it panics, it pays.

And so every broadcast, every headline, every breaking alert is engineered to make you feel like the sky is about to fall because scared people keep watching, and watching people keep the revenue rolling in. The twenty-four-hour news cycle doesn't care about your blood pressure. It doesn't care about your faith. And it certainly doesn't care that you're a child of the Most High God.

But God does.

I used to be the world's most dedicated perfectionist. I'm talking full-blown, no-holds-barred, sweat-through-your-shirt perfectionism. And I had Bible verses to back it up … or so I thought.

"And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." — Colossians 3:23

I latched onto that word heartily and ran with it. Right off a cliff. In my mind, "heartily" meant perfectly. It meant excellence at every turn, spotless execution, and absolutely zero margin for error. Good enough? Not good enough. Better than good? Still not good enough. I was the woman who proofread her grocery list. Twice.

I toiled. I panicked. I cried. I expected the same impossible standard from everyone around me, too, and trust me, they were not fans of that. I was building my whole life around a perfectionism that I had somehow convinced myself was holiness.

I'll be honest with you, I've read through a passage of Scripture, nodded my head like a wise owl, and thought Got it. Memorized. Filed away, then moved on to the next chapter. Check. Done. Spiritual duty accomplished.

But here's the thing that rattled my cage when I finally understood it: the Bible isn't a textbook. You don't read it once, ace the exam, and shelve it next to your old college notes. It's not that kind of book. It's not really even a book in the way we normally think of books. It's alive.

Don't take my word for it. Take God's.

"For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." — Hebrews 4:12

I have a confession to make. I used to think I was pretty good at managing certain little... tendencies. You know the kind. That low-grade resentment I kept on a shelf. The habit I knew wasn't exactly glorifying God but wasn't that bad. The thought pattern I let simmer because, hey, at least I wasn't acting on it. I had it under control.

Or so I thought.

The Bible has a word for it: cockatrice.

Now, before you look at me like I've lost my mind, stay with me. The King James Bible uses this creature to paint one of the most chilling and personally convicting pictures of sin I have ever encountered.

Isaiah 59:5 says, "They hatch cockatrice' eggs, and weave the spider's web: he that eateth of their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh out into a viper."

I've heard the story of Daniel in the lion's den approximately four thousand times, give or take. Flannel-graph versions, Sunday school coloring pages, VBS skits—I've seen it all. I could probably narrate it in my sleep. And yet, just this week, I was reading through Daniel 6 when six words leapt off the page and stopped me cold.

"...and gave thanks before his God." (Daniel 6:10)

Now, wait. Hold on just a minute. How did I miss that?

Let's back up and remember what was happening at that precise moment. The other presidents and princes, who were not fond of Daniel, had just convinced King Darius to sign an iron-clad, unbreakable law: pray to anyone other than the king for the next thirty days, and you get tossed to the lions. No exceptions. No appeals. No loopholes.

Daniel knew about the law. The very next verse tells us so: