I'll be honest with you, I've read through a passage of Scripture, nodded my head like a wise owl, and thought Got it. Memorized. Filed away, then moved on to the next chapter. Check. Done. Spiritual duty accomplished.

But here's the thing that rattled my cage when I finally understood it: the Bible isn't a textbook. You don't read it once, ace the exam, and shelve it next to your old college notes. It's not that kind of book. It's not really even a book in the way we normally think of books. It's alive.

Don't take my word for it. Take God's.

"For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." — Hebrews 4:12

I have a confession to make. I used to think I was pretty good at managing certain little... tendencies. You know the kind. That low-grade resentment I kept on a shelf. The habit I knew wasn't exactly glorifying God but wasn't that bad. The thought pattern I let simmer because, hey, at least I wasn't acting on it. I had it under control.

Or so I thought.

The Bible has a word for it: cockatrice.

Now, before you look at me like I've lost my mind, stay with me. The King James Bible uses this creature to paint one of the most chilling and personally convicting pictures of sin I have ever encountered.

Isaiah 59:5 says, "They hatch cockatrice' eggs, and weave the spider's web: he that eateth of their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh out into a viper."

I've heard the story of Daniel in the lion's den approximately four thousand times, give or take. Flannel-graph versions, Sunday school coloring pages, VBS skits—I've seen it all. I could probably narrate it in my sleep. And yet, just this week, I was reading through Daniel 6 when six words leapt off the page and stopped me cold.

"...and gave thanks before his God." (Daniel 6:10)

Now, wait. Hold on just a minute. How did I miss that?

Let's back up and remember what was happening at that precise moment. The other presidents and princes, who were not fond of Daniel, had just convinced King Darius to sign an iron-clad, unbreakable law: pray to anyone other than the king for the next thirty days, and you get tossed to the lions. No exceptions. No appeals. No loopholes.

Daniel knew about the law. The very next verse tells us so:

I still remember the first time I said it out loud: “Lord, my body is trying to kill me.”

It had been one of those days with joints on fire, muscles shaking, and fatigue so heavy I felt like I was wading through molasses. Meanwhile, my immune system was acting like an overzealous security guard, tackling anything that moved, including innocent bystanders like my thyroid and joints.

In my mind, my body had become the enemy.
And then there was that verse: “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.” (Psalm 139:14)

I’ll be honest. At that moment, I really struggled with that verse.

“Fearfully and wonderfully made?” I grumbled. “Lord, this feels more like fearfully and wonderfully malfunctioning.”

For those of us with autoimmune disease or chronic illness, there’s a special kind of heartbreak in feeling like your own body has betrayed you.

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a bit of a Star Wars nerd.

Not a full costume at the midnight premiere level, but enough to know that today, May the 4th, the galaxy far, far away shows up in every social media feed, coffee shop chalkboard, and text message chain on the planet. "May the fourth be with you." Ha, ha! It gets me every time!

But behind all the puns, the Yoda memes, and the lightsaber sound effects, there's a concept in Star Wars that ought to make every Christian sit up a little straighter in their seat. In George Lucas's world, the greatest danger a Jedi faces isn't the enemy in front of him. It's the Dark Side within him. And the gateway to that darkness? Anger. Fear. Aggression.

Hmm. That sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it?

Because if I flip over to my Bible, specifically to Galatians 5, I find a list that reads a lot like a Dark Side recruitment brochure:

There's a particular kind of tired that has absolutely nothing to do with sleep.

I know it well. It's the kind that sets in when you've been fighting the same battle for so long you've forgotten what it felt like not to be fighting it. Maybe it's a health issue that just won't cooperate. Maybe it's a relationship that's draining every last drop of your energy. Maybe it's a financial situation, a ministry that feels like it's going nowhere, or just the relentless, grinding weight of everyday life when your body hurts, your heart is heavy, and the ceiling seems to be the only thing your prayers are reaching.

Been there? Yeah. Me too.

And on those days, the last thing I want is someone breezing in with a bright smile, chirping, "Just keep trusting Jesus!" as if that's something I hadn't thought of.

You know the feeling. Your phone rings, and even before you answer, your shoulders tense up. Somebody needs something…again. And you love them. You really do. But somewhere between the third crisis this week and the fact that you haven't slept well in days, you catch yourself wondering if maybe you're just done with it all. And then you feel guilty for thinking it.

If that's you today, friend, pull up a chair. We need to talk.

Here's the thing nobody tells you when you sign up for loving people well: compassion, if you're not careful, can crush you. Not because something is wrong with you, but because you are human, with a finite supply of strength, emotional bandwidth, and, let's be honest, patience. You were never designed to carry the weight of the world. That job was already taken.

Throughout our years of hiking, Jason and I have encountered some...well, let's just say... Interesting river and ravine crossings. I remember standing at the edge of a narrow rope bridge one day, staring at the yawning drop beneath it and wondering who in their right mind thought that was a good idea. I could see the bridge. I knew it was there. I could even agree that it was technically "a way" across that great divide, but my knuckles were white on the railing, and my feet were not cooperating. I believed in the bridge, but I didn't yet trust it, at least not enough to march my nervous self right out to the middle of it.

The Step That Matters

That's the difference we often gloss over when we tell people, "Just believe in Jesus, and you'll be saved."

This morning, my mind wandered, which honestly isn't unusual. But this time, it wandered somewhere worth following.

I was thinking about three stories I've loved since childhood: The Ugly Duckling, The Velveteen Rabbit, and The Trumpet of the Swan. Here are three characters who had absolutely no business being the hero of anyone's story, or so the world around them thought. A gangly gray bird that didn't look like anyone else. A scruffy stuffed rabbit who was losing his button eyes and had the stuffing loved right out of him. A trumpeter swan named Louis, who couldn't make a sound and was silent in a world that communicated entirely through song.

It didn't take long to notice the thread running through all three stories. Each one of these characters was, by all outward appearances, broken. Unfit. The square peg in the round hole.

I thought I knew my Bible birds: sparrows, eagles, ravens, and even the poor rooster that unwittingly took part in Peter's darkest hour. But recently, I met a new feathered friend, and I can't believe I've been overlooking it all these years. Allow me to introduce the bittern.

I know, it sounds more like a stomach issue than a bird. But this "crazy" bird has completely captured my imagination. The bittern appears in several places in Scripture, tucked away in verses about ruined cities becoming lonely, marshy places: "I will also make it a possession for the bittern, and pools of water..." (Isaiah 14:23). It's a secretive marsh bird that blends so well with the reeds that you can stare right at it and never see it.

Here's the part that really struck me. When danger approaches, the bittern doesn't flap around, screech, or take off in a panic.