I've been spending a lot of time lately with Merlin.

Now, before you picture a pointy hat and a wand, let me clarify that I'm talking about my Merlin, the protagonist of my upcoming novel, Hope Refined. And this particular Merlin is having a really, really bad day. Actually, make that a really bad season of life.

You see, Merlin has just watched King David, a man he respected and who was supposed to be the model of a great king, sin in a spectacular and devastating way. Betrayal. Corruption. The kind of thing that shakes your faith in people right down to the foundation. And Merlin is furious. Righteously, completely, humanly furious.

And honestly? I get it.

There's something in all of us that ignites when we witness injustice. When someone we trusted lets us down. When the person who was supposed to stand for right chooses wrong instead.

Some mornings, if you peeked into the quiet corner of my office, you might think I was doing nothing at all. My Bible would be open beside me, my mug of tea growing cold, and I would just be staring out the window.

From the outside, it looks suspiciously like laziness. But inside, my mind is bustling. I'm turning a verse over and over, like a jeweler turning a diamond in the light. I've read it, studied it, maybe even looked up a few words, but the real work begins when I stop "doing" and start meditating.

The world says meditation is about emptying the mind, clearing out thoughts like you're sweeping a cluttered floor. But the Bible paints a completely different picture. The blessed man "delight[s] in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night." That is not an empty mind. That is a very full one.

I'll be honest with you, I am not a coffee drinker. Never have been, probably never will be. The taste? Hard pass. But the smell of a fresh pot of coffee? Now that is a different story entirely. There is something wonderfully cozy about walking into a room that smells like a freshly brewed cup. It signals warmth, comfort, and morning hope. I've always thought, If it tasted half as good as it smells, I might actually drink the stuff.

Well, that was before Jason discovered his new favorite.

My husband is what you might call a "coffee enthusiast" or what I call a "coffee nerd." The man researches roasts the way I research plot holes in novels. He constantly explores new flavor combinations, new blends, and new brewing methods. I admire his commitment, truly. But his latest obsession from our local coffee shop has a sharp, burnt-orange, citrusy scent that makes my nose do things I cannot fully describe. Let's just say my face does not hide it well.

Last week, Jason and I finally did it. We hauled out the old, falling-apart dressers and replaced them with a shiny new (well, new to us) three-door wardrobe. Jason built in some shelves, I found the perfect baskets, and over the course of a few days, we went through every piece of clothing we had stuffed in those poor drawers.

Some things were easy to let go of: old, worn-out pieces that had lived a good life. Others I just never reached for anymore. But I'll be honest, there were more items than I'd like to admit that simply didn't fit anymore. I wish I could say that some had gotten too big, but sadly, that was NOT the case. Either way, they weren't doing me any good.

As I stood there, holding up yet another item that no longer fit and muttering something unladylike under my breath, a thought hit me: Sometimes the armor of God feels exactly like this.

I stared at the screen, blinking. One review. One star. On one of my newest children's picture books. My first one-star review ever. Somewhere, confetti was supposed to fall, and angels were supposed to sing, "Well done, thou good and faithful author." Instead, it felt more like, "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. You've been weighed in the balances and found wanting." Ouch!

Confusion hit first. I read the review again and again, trying to match the harshness of the rating with the sweetness of the story I'd written. This book, like all the others I've written, had been prayed over, labored over, and, honestly, loved over. It had been written for children who needed hope and truth in a world gone mad. How could someone look at that and see only something worthy of one lonely, miserable star?

Then another question surfaced, and it hurt in a different way:

I learned something recently in my Animals of the Bible study that completely rearranged my brain.

It turns out, moths aren't actually attracted to light at all. I know. I know! Everything we thought we knew about moths is a lie. Well, not a lie exactly, but definitely not the whole story.

Here's what's really going on. Because moths fly in complete darkness, they face a very real problem: how do you know which way is up when you can't see anything? God, being the brilliant Designer He is, solved this problem by giving moths a built-in reflex to always keep their backs toward the brightest light. For thousands of years, that worked perfectly. The sky, lit by the sun or the moon, was always the brightest thing around. Back to the sky, fly straight. Simple. Elegant. Genius.

Then we humans had to invent electricity and artificial light.

I have a confession to make: I am a pushover for dogs...even when one isn't technically mine.

Last week, our friends' dog, Copper, stayed with us while his people were on vacation. Tess, my sweet, generous, ridiculously good-natured pup, handled this like a champ. Her food? "Sure, help yourself." Her blankets? "Knock yourself out." My attention? "There's plenty of me to go around." Tess is practically a saint in a fur coat.

But then there's her special bed.

This is the doggie bed situated in front of the glass doors and close to the heater in my office. Friends, let me tell you, all saintliness goes right out the window when that prime piece of real estate is up for grabs.

Here's how it went: One dog settled into the warm spot with a blissful sigh. The other dog began to hover.

I've never been much of a crowd person.

Give me my cozy office, a cup of tea, and a book to read or write, and I am in my happy place. The moment someone suggests a big event, a bustling gathering, or, heaven forbid, a party where I don't know most of the people, something inside me quietly dies.

So you can imagine how relieved I was when Jason recently preached a sermon about a woman named Anna.

She appears in Scripture for only three verses, just a little flash of light in the nativity story, but what those three verses reveal about her is nothing short of breathtaking. Here's how the Bible describes her:

"And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Aser: she was of a great age, and had lived with an husband seven years from her virginity; and she was a widow of about fourscore and four years, which departed not from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day.

Have you ever committed to serving the Lord, only to feel as though all the trouble in the world suddenly found your address? You commit to reading your Bible, and your phone is inundated with distractions. You step out to serve, and somebody criticizes. You finally feel like you're making progress, and suddenly, discouragement, drama, or "bullies" pop up out of nowhere.

Nehemiah could relate. As the walls of Jerusalem started going up, the enemies started speaking up. Sanballat, Tobiah, and Geshem used mockery, threats, rumors, and trickery to stop the work. They mocked the Jews as weak. They suggested the wall was so flimsy that even a fox could knock it down. They plotted sneak attacks. They tried to lure Nehemiah away for a "meeting" that was really a trap.

On top of that, the people themselves grew weary. The rubble seemed endless. Their strength was failing. The enemies looked bigger by the day.

When you hear the word "construction crew," what do you picture? Big burly builders in hard hats? Perhaps a guy with a clipboard who seems to know what he's doing, and everyone else just getting in the way?

That's not what we see in Nehemiah. When the rebuilding of Jerusalem's wall began, the "crew" was... everyone. Goldsmiths. Perfume makers. Priests. Merchants. Dads. Daughters. People probably more familiar with frying pans than hammers. Chapter 3 reads like a holy roll call of ordinary folks doing an extraordinary thing: obeying God and working side by side.

And right in the middle of all that enthusiasm, we bump into one sad little line:

"And next unto them the Tekoites repaired; but their nobles put not their necks to the work of their Lord." - Nehemiah 3:5

Everyone else is shoulder-to-shoulder, sweating in the sun, stacking stones for the glory of God. But the nobles of Tekoa are standing off to the side.