Day 160

Song of Solomon 1–3 | 1 Corinthians 15:35–58

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It happened over coffee.

Noah, the college director at our church, asked to meet. He wanted to share the vision for the ministry—young adults craving connection, longing for truth, needing voices who had been around the block and lived to tell about it.

Then he said it.

“We really need more middle-aged people like you guys to come and serve.”

Middle-aged.

I nodded politely while my soul momentarily left my body. I mean, I know I’m 43. But no one had said it out loud before. It felt less like an invitation and more like a diagnosis.

Though, to be fair… all I have to do is open my medicine cabinet. Five prescriptions. High blood pressure. High cholesterol. Elevated heart rate. Add in the hand that still won’t fully form a fist, and yeah—middle-aged is probably generous.

Tomorrow I go in for my next hand surgery. Yes, it’ll help. But it won’t restore. The best they can offer is “better than it is.” Not “like it was.”

That’s why Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 15 stop me:

“Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.” (v. 49)

This broken body—this creaky, medicated, stitched-up frame—isn’t final.

It’s a seed.

Planted in weakness. Raised in power.

Sown perishable. Raised imperishable.

Right now, we bear the image of Adam—dust-bound, pain-prone, susceptible to injury and decay. But soon, we’ll bear the image of Christ—the resurrected, glorified, radiant One.

We will not be resuscitated.

We will be transformed.

The Gospel Is Bodily

Paul refuses to let the resurrection stay abstract. He doesn’t just say we’ll live again—he says we’ll rise again. With bodies. Real ones.

Not these temporary shells. But something better. Something indestructible. Something like Him.

“This perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality.” (v. 53)

The gospel doesn’t just redeem your soul.

It restores your future.

Your frame.

Your flesh.

That’s not wishful thinking. That’s doctrine.

And it’s why we don’t lose heart when joints ache, when nerves misfire, when the body keeps the score and starts charging interest.

There is a glorious body waiting.

When Surgery Isn’t Enough

Tomorrow, I’ll go under anesthesia again. I’ll put my trust in the skill of a surgeon and the mercy of God.

I’ll hope for more function. More strength. Less pain.

But I know it won’t be enough.

Because no earthly surgery can undo the fracture of Eden.

No rehabilitation plan can reverse the fall.

What I need isn’t therapy—it’s transformation.

Not reconstruction—but resurrection.

And that’s exactly what I’ve been promised.

Not just a new start.

But a new body.

Not just a better hand.

A glorified one.

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Lord, thank You for the sure hope of resurrection. When I feel the weight of weakness or the sting of aging, fix my eyes on what is coming. Teach me to care for this body while I wait for the next. To steward these fragile hands while longing for immortal ones. And when I ache, remind me—I bear the image of the man of dust for now. But soon, I’ll bear the image of the Man of Heaven. And for every reader carrying their own frailty today—remind them too: this isn’t the end of the story. You are. And You will make us new. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.