Over the next few weeks, I want to introduce you to one of my new favorite creatures, the greyhound. Now, before you picture a bus hurtling down the motorway, let me paint you a different picture. The greyhound is a dog breed unlike any other. They are elegant, ancient, and surprisingly full of spiritual wisdom. (Yes, I said spiritual wisdom. Just trust me on this one.)

This slender, noble dog has been around since the days of the pharaohs. In fact, greyhounds are believed to be among the oldest breeds on earth, with references dating back to ancient Egypt. This week, we are going to look at three remarkable characteristics of this dog that I believe the Lord wants to use to teach us something. Today, we begin with the one that may be the most convicting of all.

The greyhound has extraordinary eyesight, arguably the best of any dog breed.

My smartwatch and I have a complicated relationship.

Every morning, I roll over, bleary-eyed, and check my sleep score. And every morning, that little device has the nerve to tell me exactly how badly I failed at something I've been doing my whole life: sleeping. Honestly, you'd think I'd have gotten the hang of it by now.

Here's how the scoring works. I can earn 50 points for getting a full 8 hours. I can earn 30 more if I go to bed at my set bedtime of 9 p.m. And I can earn up to 20 points based on how many times I wake up during the night, not just a little shift or a sigh, but a full-on, heart-rate-changing, get-out-of-bed kind of awakening.

That last category? That's where things get embarrassing.

On more than one occasion, I have scored a big, fat zero on my interruption score. Zero! You know what that means?

Welcome back, friends. Today's devotion is a little different—less of a devotion and more of a confession. A holy, Spirit-prompted, middle-of-Bible-study conviction. Bear with me, because I think this one matters.

Last Wednesday night, I was teaching our ladies' Bible study on the life of Gideon. We had reached the tragic, sobering, heartbreaking end. And let me tell you, it is not a pretty ending. Despite an absolutely stunning, God-orchestrated string of victories, Gideon made a golden ephod. Though he denied the title of "king," he set himself up as one. He became the one the people leaned on, rather than pointing them straight to God.

And the devastating result? The moment Gideon died, the Israelites tumbled headlong back into idolatry. Just like that. Because no one had ever taught them to stand on their own two spiritual feet and worship God for themselves, they went right back to what was comfortable.

I have a confession to make: my dog is more socially determined than I am.

Let me set the scene. Jason's parents were visiting, and we were all gathered in the living room, food trays in front of us, enjoying dinner together. Meanwhile, Tess had been served her meal in the adjoining room, close enough to hear the laughter and smell the good food, but not quite with us. Well, apparently, Tess had a thing or two to say about that.

That crazy dog picked up her food bowl (without spilling a single bite, mind you), carried it across the floor, and set it down right in the middle of the living room. Then she looked up at us as if to say, "There. That's better," and went right back to eating. No drama. No apology. Just a dog who knew exactly where she wanted to be and did what it took to get there.

Picture this: a room full of lovely ladies, a painting lesson in full swing, and a punch table front and center. My dear ministry partner had worked hard to create not one, but two delightful punch options for our Community Ladies' Luncheon last Saturday. She blended, stirred, and taste-tested with the dedication of a seasoned chef. And the result? One punch turned the most gorgeous shade of coral you've ever seen. It was bright, cheerful, and practically hollering, "Come drink me!" Every woman in the room floated toward it like a bee to a flower.

The other punch? Oh, bless its heart. Somewhere in the blending process, the colors had a disagreement, and what emerged was a murky, grayish concoction that looked—and I say this with all the tenderness I can muster—exactly like dirty mop water. Nobody wanted anything to do with it.

I stared into the bathroom mirror and asked myself a very important question: How many people out there can tell I'm faking it?

Not exactly the inspirational pre-event pep talk I was hoping for.

I had done everything right. Really, I had. I'd lined up another speaker to carry most of the load. I'd purchased the decorations and gifts weeks in advance. I'd even managed to say "no," which, if you know me, is practically an Olympic sport, to several things threatening to crowd my calendar. When the back tweak hit, I rested. When the newsletter deadline loomed, I pushed it back without guilt. When the company arrived, I graciously excused myself when needed.

I had managed my time, my energy, and my expectations. I was practically a wellness guru.

And yet, there I stood, more tired than when the week began, staring at a reflection that told the whole unvarnished truth.

Close your eyes for a moment and picture this: a grand harbor along the ancient Mediterranean coastline. The air smells of salt and cedar. Ropes are straining. Sails snap open like white flags of adventure. And there goes Solomon's navy, the ships of Tharshish, setting out on a voyage that will last three whole years.

Three years! I can barely commit to a three-week meal plan, and Solomon's men were heading out to sea for three years. And here's the best part: they weren't sailing all that way to bring back ordinary things. Oh, no. They returned with gold and silver, of course, but they also brought back ivory, and...wait for it...apes and peacocks.

Can you just imagine the scene when those ships finally returned to port?

I stared at the blank screen for forty-five minutes.

Not because I had nothing to say. I'm a writer. I always have something to say. Just ask my husband. No, the problem was that I was trying too hard. I was forcing it. I was sitting there with my knuckles white, my jaw tight, and my brain in a full-on wrestling match with itself, willing the words to appear. And the harder I pushed, the emptier that screen looked. The cursor just blinked at me. Slowly. Mockingly.

Does anyone else feel personally attacked by a blinking cursor? Just me? Okay. Good to know.

Here's what I've learned after writing more than thirty books: you cannot force good writing. You can sit at the desk, but the moment you start straining and striving and white-knuckling the keyboard, the words dry up.

We have blackberry brambles growing along the lane near our house in Wales.

Every summer, I walk past them on my way out to walk the dog, and every summer, I stop and stare. On the very same plant, you'll find two completely different stories. One branch is lush and heavy, bowing under the weight of dark, plump berries — leaves glossy, color deep, life just dripping off it. And right next to it? A brittle, grey, bare little stick. No leaves. No berries. Nothing to show for itself at all. Same plant. Same soil. Same rain. Completely different result.

Now, here's the thing. If you saw only the bare branch, you might not immediately know what you were looking at. Was it a blackberry? A rose? Something else entirely? Without fruit, it's awfully hard to identify the plant.

Jesus had something to say about that. "By their fruits ye shall know them." (Matthew 7:20)

I have a confession to make.

For years, I treated my relationship with Christ like most people treat a vacation rental. I'd show up when I needed something, enjoy the warmth for a bit, maybe leave a nice note on the counter, and then go back to my regular life. I called it faith. I called it prayer. I called it being a Christian.

What I didn't call it was visiting.

And there is a world of difference between visiting a place and living there.

Think about it. When you visit somewhere, you pack a bag. You're a guest. You're on your best behavior, you use the nice towels, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you're going home eventually. But when you live somewhere? That's different. You know where the creaky floorboard is. You leave your shoes by the door. You don't have to knock. It's home.