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.

Jason has been on a bread-making kick lately. Not content with simply buying a loaf at the shop like a normal person, he has become fascinated with grinding his own grain and making bread completely from scratch. So there we were one evening, the two of us snuggled in bed, watching a bread-making tutorial on YouTube.

That's when the real entertainment began.

The instructor was enthusiastic and clearly knew her way around a mixing bowl. But every few minutes, she would look straight into the camera and announce with great confidence, "Now, you really don't need to add any more flour here." And then, without missing a beat, she'd reach right into the flour bag and dump in another handful.

A few minutes later: "I'm going to add just a tiny bit more, but honestly, you really don't need to do this." In went another scoop.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My husband and I had set out for a walk, a perfectly reasonable and wholesome activity. Somewhere along the way, we decided to take the shortcut across the pasture. How bad could it be? Famous last words. After all, we should have known better. We live in Wales, where the rain doesn't just fall; it moves in, unpacks its bags, and stays for weeks.

We hadn't taken more than a few steps into that field before the trouble started. The ground, which had looked solid a few steps away from the gate, was anything but. With every step across that field, our boots sank into the soft, saturated earth with a noise that can only be described as squishy. The mud grabbed at our feet like it had a personal vendetta.

When we seek spiritual encouragement in God's creation, we often turn to majestic animals like the gentle dove, the sure-footed deer, or the soaring eagle. We rarely consider the bat. Honestly, they give me the creeps. But sometimes, God hides His most profound comforts in the most unexpected, unglamorous places.

If you have ever felt exhausted from trying to force things to work, discouraged because you cannot see the results of your hard work, or out of place in a world that doesn't quite understand you, the bat has some beautiful lessons to teach us.

The Art of "Letting Go"

When a bird takes off, it stands on the ground, pushes off with its strong legs, and flaps furiously against gravity. A bat cannot do this. Its legs are too weak to launch it from the ground. If a bat tries to take off from the dirt, it will only exhaust itself and go nowhere.

To fly, a bat must climb to a high place, hang completely upside down, and simply let go. It uses the momentum of the drop to catch the air.