I never expected to nearly bring down the song service with a botched lyric, but there I was, hymnal in hand, feet planted, voice lifted... and disaster struck on verse two. We were belting out that grand old hymn, "Jesus Paid It All," and I opened my mouth to sing about the power that can "change the leper's spots"... except what came out was "leopard's spots."

I froze. Did I really just sing that? Yes, I did. And once the mental image of a literal leopard, spots and all, standing there getting a divine paint job hit me, I lost it. I spent the rest of that verse biting my tongue, shoulders shaking, desperately trying to look like a woman having a spiritual moment instead of a woman about to snort-laugh in the middle of church.

Here's the thing about me: the laughter fades, but the pondering never does.

Have you ever needed a good reminder of something you should already know? Jesus gave John the Baptist one while in prison, and recently, He gave me one too.

Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those things which ye do hear and see (Matthew 11:4).

Did you catch that little word tucked right in the middle there? Again. John wasn't hearing about the miracles for the first time. This wasn't the first occasion he heard what Jesus was capable of. He already knew. He just needed to be shown again.

I love that Jesus didn't get offended by John's doubt from that prison cell. He didn't send back a scolding message. He simply told John's disciples, "Go remind him."

Sometimes that's exactly what we need too. Not new information, just a fresh look at what we've already seen God do.

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.