I want you to do something for me. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine it's the darkest stretch of days the world has ever known. The sky went black in the middle of the afternoon. The earth shook. The temple veil ripped right down the middle. And the Man they had called the Son of God took His last breath on a Roman cross.

The days that followed were devastating. The disciples huddled together in a locked room, trembling behind closed doors. Peter was a wreck. John had nothing to say. The women were weeping. And two shell-shocked followers shuffling down the road to Emmaus were kicking the dust with heavy feet and mumbling to each other about how they had hoped He was the One. Past tense. Had hoped.

They had followed Him. Believed in Him. Left everything for Him. And now He was dead, sealed behind a borrowed stone, and their hope was buried right along with Him.

It started with palm branches and praise.

"Hosanna! Blessed is the King of Israel!" The crowd was electric. People threw their coats on the road, waved branches, and shouted themselves hoarse. If you'd been standing in that crowd on Palm Sunday, you might have thought, This is it. The revolution is here. And honestly? That's exactly what they thought, too.

The same people who had been groaning under Roman rule for generations finally saw their moment. Jesus was riding in. A miracle worker. A man who had raised the dead, fed thousands with a few fish sandwiches, and made blind men see. If anyone could overthrow Caesar's grip, surely it was Him!

And then... He didn't.

No armies. No swords drawn. No Roman soldiers sent running. Just Jesus weeping over the city, turning over tables in the temple, and talking about things like eternal life and the kingdom of Heaven. Not quite the battle plan they had in mind.

There I was, Bible open, pen in hand. With Tess snoring in her bed beside me, I was minding my own business and reading about the importance of tuning out the world to tune in to God. Very spiritual. Very focused. Very... interrupted.

Before the ink was dry on that thought, Tess launched off the floor like a furry little missile. She pressed her nose against the window and barked at some unsuspecting soul walking down the road as if the fate of the free world depended on it. Then, as if that weren't enough, she bolted from the office. Unfortunately, she pushed the office door wide open in her dramatic exit, which meant I could now enjoy the full orchestra of household chaos. Both the washing machine and the dishwasher roared directly across the hall. And Jason was happily clanging around in the kitchen.

I want to tell you something about greyhounds that sounds completely impossible until you see it for yourself.

When a greyhound runs at full speed, it uses what scientists call a double suspension gallop. What that means in plain English is this: twice during every stride, all four of the greyhound's feet leave the ground at the same time. Not once. Twice. In fact, when a greyhound is running full out, it spends roughly 75% of its time completely airborne. That elegant, flying creature is, at any given moment, more likely to be in the air than on the ground.

Think about that for a second.

For a greyhound, losing contact with the ground is not a crisis. It is not a catastrophe. It is not even a stumble. It is simply how the greyhound moves forward.

If you've ever owned a greyhound or spent time around one, you know they are gloriously fragile.

Not in spirit. In skin.

A greyhound's skin is extraordinarily thin. There is very little fat or fur between the outside world and the muscle beneath. What would be a minor scrape for a Labrador can become a significant wound on a greyhound. A small bump. A brush against a rough surface. An accidental nip during play. Things that most dogs would shake off can leave a greyhound needing stitches. In fact, up to 25–30% of greyhounds have a condition that makes them prone to excessive bruising and bleeding, even from minor incidents. Greyhound owners quickly learn that what looks like nothing can actually be something, so they handle their hounds with gentleness, awareness, and care.

Now, doesn't that sound like some people you know?

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.