Day 161

Song of Solomon 4–6 | 1 Corinthians 16 | Psalm 68

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At noon today, I go under the knife again.

The setting is different this time—scheduled, prepped, expected—but the anxiety is familiar.

I’m hoping for more mobility. Less pain. A stronger grip.

But beneath it all, a deeper question still presses in:

Where does my strength actually come from?

David gives the answer in Psalm 68:

“Blessed be the Lord, who daily bears us up; God is our salvation.” (v. 19)

Daily.

Not just in surgical suites and recovery rooms.

Not just when the world stops.

But on the ordinary days, too—Mondays with dishes. Fridays with fatigue. When nerves misfire and nothing gets easier.

He bears us up. Not once. Not occasionally. Daily.

Not My Strength—His

Paul ends 1 Corinthians with a rally cry:

“Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.” (1 Corinthians 16:13–14)

But this isn’t self-talk.

It’s not bravado or willpower or performance.

The strength Paul points to isn’t something we muster.

It’s something we receive.

It’s the strength of the One who was crushed for us.

Who bore our sin so we wouldn’t carry it alone.

Who walked through pain—not around it—and conquered it forever.

That’s the strength I need today.

Not just for a successful procedure.

But for a heart that doesn’t panic.

A faith that holds firm, even when the hand doesn’t.

The Strength in Being Seen

In Song of Solomon, we glimpse a love that sees—really sees—and delights.

“You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” (4:7)

It’s covenant intimacy. Not cheap romance. Not filtered perfection.

And it points us forward—to the greater Bridegroom who knows every nerve that won’t fire, every scar that still stings, every longing we don’t even know how to name.

And He doesn’t turn away.

He stays.

He bears.

He holds.

Because the gospel isn’t about escape—it’s about endurance.

It’s the story of a God who entered our brokenness, bore our burdens, and still bears them.

Every incision.

Every limitation.

Every long wait for healing that may not come in this life.

He bears it all.

Daily.

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Lord, thank You for being the strength beneath the scars. On surgery day—and every day. Let my body be held by Your mercy and my soul be anchored in Your love. Help me not just to endure, but to endure in faith. Not just to heal, but to hope. When my grip feels weak, strengthen it with Your promises. When I fear what comes next, remind me what already came—an empty tomb. My greatest healing is already secured. My deepest strength is not mine—it’s Yours. Bear me up again today, and do the same for every reader who’s limping toward You. Because You carry. You keep. You save. Amen.