I've heard it said that if you aim at nothing, you'll hit it every time. I laughed the first time I heard that line. Then I cried a little, because it described me perfectly in more ways than one.

Here in Wales, Jason and I have spent years trying to convince our community that Christians aren't the uptight, joyless folks Hollywood loves to portray. We've tried to show them the difference between true Christianity and "religion." We want people to see that we're normal. Fun, even. So we've done what any well-meaning, slightly overzealous missionary couple would do: we've planned community events. Lots of them!

A ladies' luncheon in the spring. A carnival game day in the summer. A Holiday Bible Club in the fall. A "Soup and Singing" in the winter. And that's not counting the "let's throw something together" gatherings and special chapel services squeezed in between. We've invited everyone in the community: believers, skeptics, the curious, the couldn't-care-less. Our flyers practically shout, "Come one, come all, no strings attached!"

I have never been in the military, but I am convinced that church business meetings are the civilian equivalent of trench warfare. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a "the Lord laid this on my heart." And somehow, all those burdens contradict each other.

I remember one particular meeting years ago where we were trying to decide something that, in hindsight, was not nearly as important as we made it out to be at the time. One dear soul stood up and said the Lord had told her one thing. Another dear soul spoke up two minutes later and said the Lord had told him the exact opposite. I sat there thinking, "Well, Lord, You're going to have to pick a lane, because right now You appear to be talking out of both sides of Your mouth." (I know full well He wasn't. But it sure felt that way from where I was sitting.)

That's when I stumbled onto a verse I'd read a hundred times before but never really heard until that moment. Paul, writing to the Corinthian church about spiritual gifts and orderly worship, drops this little nugget in the middle of his argument: "For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle?" (1 Corinthians 14:8).

I am, by nature, a "get to the point" kind of person. If I need something, I say so. No preamble. No small talk. Just give me the solution, and let's move on. This is probably why, for years, my prayer life sounded a little like a drive-through order: "Hi, Lord, I'll take healing for this headache, provision for that bill, and can you supersize the patience, please? Thanks, bye."

I never once considered that I might be skipping a step.

Then I started noticing something as I read through my Bible. Over and over, in the same breath, Scripture pairs two words: prayer and supplication. Solomon uses the combo repeatedly in his temple dedication prayer in 1 Kings 8. Daniel uses it in his famous prayer of repentance. Paul uses it in Ephesians and again in Philippians. And nearly every single time, prayer comes first. Supplication follows.

That is not an accident. That is a pattern.

I sat down last week to plan the month ahead, calendar app open, herbal tea in hand, feeling almost productive. Then I actually looked at the upcoming schedule: two back-to-back travel weekends, a harvest service sandwiched between them, two large community events to plan, and of course, a handful of appointments that always seem to multiply the moment I schedule just one.

My first honest thought wasn't "Lord, what an opportunity." It was "Lord, I am going to be wrecked. This month is going to kill me!"

Here's the thing: That thought wasn't wrong. I know my body. I know that travel weekends cost me days of recovery that healthy people don't have to budget for. I know my pain will spike, my energy will crater, and I'll probably need a nap disguised as "quiet time" more than once. All of that is true. I know it from experience.

Some mornings, my mind resembles the world's least efficient office. I sit at my desk, herbal tea nearby, Bible open, and a stack of unruly papers piles up in front of me. Except the papers are not bills, book ideas, or that mysterious note I wrote three weeks ago that now appears to say "Buy turnips for dragon." No, the papers are thoughts.

"You are failing."

"You will always be sick and will never get better."

"You have messed up too much."

"God has forgotten you."

"This situation is impossible."

"No one wants to read your pathetic attempts at writing."

And suddenly, my imaginary office has an urgent backlog.

As I considered Philippians 4:8 this morning, my mind brought up an amusing image (as it tends to do). I pictured a giant, old-fashioned librarian's red rubber stamp.

I once thought myself quite adept at walking. Two feet, alternating steps, arms swinging for balance. It seemed the perfect exercise, a system I had mastered. Then age crept in, my chronic illness worsened, and I quickly learned that walking is far more complicated than my toddler self ever imagined. Wah!

For instance, not long ago, I was strolling along, admiring the trees like a nature documentary narrator. Sadly, I failed to notice the road ahead was no longer flat. My ankle twisted one way, my body the other. Down I went, while my dog looked on with what I can only describe as mild disappointment and perhaps a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Another time, I got so distracted watching our dog, Tess, chase a squirrel that I walked straight into a low-hanging branch, nearly knocking myself senseless.

And sometimes, there's simply no excuse.

A memory hit me out of nowhere the other day, so vivid I could practically smell it. Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago, Jason and I were riding in his Bronco, headed out to cut firewood. Not exactly a glamorous errand, I know. But the weather was perfectly crisp, the conversation easy and light, and we stopped at a convenience store to grab energy drinks and candy bars like we were fueling up for a grand adventure instead of, well, chainsaws and sweat.

We laughed the whole way there. I remember feeling completely carefree, like nothing in the world could touch us. It was the image of a young, happy couple with nothing weighing them down.

That memory played on repeat in my mind for days, sweet and golden and warm.

Until it wasn't.

Suddenly, it started to feel less like a treasured keepsake and more like a prosecutor's exhibit.

I did an experiment last week. I opened Facebook, set a timer, and told myself I'd only scroll for five minutes. Five minutes, folks. That's it. Forty-five minutes later, I looked up with a crick in my neck, a weird sense of dread, and no memory of what I'd even seen. I just knew I felt worse than when I started.

Anybody else? Because I don't think I'm the only one.

We joke about our phones being "addictive," and we laugh about wasting hours mindlessly scrolling as if it's a harmless quirk, the way some folks bite their nails or twirl their hair. But the more I've paid attention to how I feel after I close the apps, the more I've realized it's not so harmless after all. Social media has a sneaky way of stirring up anxiety and even depression, and it does so in several ways.

I've been reading The Prince Warriors series by Priscilla Shirer and Gina Detwiler lately (more on that in a future devotion, because trust me, there's a lot to say). I just started book three, and I came upon a scene that made me laugh so hard I had to put the book down.

Two of the Prince Warriors, Evan and Manuel, were rowing across a pond in a rickety old rowboat. Naturally, because it's an old rowboat in an adventure story, it started taking on water. Evan kept rowing like his life depended on it and hollered at Manuel to grab the bucket and start bailing. Manuel lunged for the bucket floating at the bottom of the boat, only to discover that it had a big crack running right down the side. He let out a huge sigh of frustration, and I almost lost it.

I didn't laugh because it was side-splittingly funny. I laughed because I felt it.

My husband, Jason, loves to bake. Give him some flour (or wheat berries to grind his own), yeast, and a stand mixer, and he's happy as a clam. This week, he decided homemade rolls were on the dinner menu, and everything was going smoothly...until the dough started climbing up the side of the mixing bowl like it was trying to make a great escape.

Now, Jason knows the drill. When dough sticks to the bowl, you grab a rubber spatula and scrape it back into place. Simple. Easy. Effective. But Jason, in a stroke of "genius," decided he didn't want to dirty another dish. (Bless his heart!) He'd already used his handheld dough whisk, so surely that could double as a spatula, right?

Wrong! So very wrong!

What followed was a mechanical collision of epic proportions.