Day 165

1 Kings 9–10 | 2 Corinthians 3 | Psalm 70

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We’re hosting a party today.

Thanks to Talacey and her brother Brandon who are doing all the work while I “supervise” with one hand, tables are set. Chairs arranged. The backyard’s been scrubbed, swept, and decorated with banners.

Because Nana is turning 95.

She is Talacey’s grandmother—the kind of woman who prays before she speaks, serves before she sits, and hugs like she’s trying to squeeze Christ into you.

The first time she ever saw me—more than twenty years ago—I was leading worship at church.

She didn’t know my name. But she prayed, right then and there, that God would give Talacey a husband like the man singing on that stage.

Little did she know…

He would give her granddaughter that exact man.

Poor Talacey.

Lucky me.

A Glory That Fades

Solomon knew a thing or two about glory.

In 1 Kings 10, the Queen of Sheba travels to see it for herself—his unmatched wisdom, his gold-covered halls, his thriving kingdom. And it doesn’t disappoint.

“There was no more breath in her,” we’re told (v. 5).

It left her speechless.

But Solomon’s splendor, as dazzling as it was, was still earthly.

Still temporary.

Paul makes the same point in 2 Corinthians 3. He reflects on Moses—how the glory on his face after meeting with God was so radiant the Israelites couldn’t bear to look at him.

But even that glory faded.

“For what was being brought to an end came with glory, much more will what is permanent have glory.” (v. 11)

He’s not dismissing Moses. Or the law. Or even Solomon.

He’s saying those were previews.

This is the permanence.

The old glory came and went.

But now—because of Christ—we don’t just glimpse the glory.

We are being changed by it.

“And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed… from one degree of glory to another.” (v. 18)

That’s not a metaphor.

It’s a miracle.

The Glory That Stays

And today, as Nana turns 95, I see that miracle in her.

Not the kind of glory that impresses royalty.

Not the kind that fades with time or tarnishes with age.

But the kind that forms over decades of prayer, faithfulness, and quiet obedience.

Though she walks a little more slowly now and her memory isn’t as impeccable as it once was, she has been transformed—bit by bit, prayer by prayer—into the image of the One she loves.

Not flashy.

Not fading.

Just faithful.

And that glory still radiates.

She’d never call it glory.

She’d shake her head, wave it off, and point to Jesus.

But that’s exactly the point.

Real glory deflects.

It doesn’t shout.

It just shines.

And if I make it to 95, I hope the same can be said of me.

Not that I built a platform.

Not that I accomplished much.

But that I bore the image of Christ—imperfectly, quietly, persistently.

That I lived poor and needy—not just once, but always.

That I clung to my Deliverer.

And that His presence wasn’t just with me…

It was the best thing about me.

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Lord, thank You for the people who radiate a glory that doesn’t fade. Thank You for Nana—for the prayers she’s whispered, the faith she’s lived, and the love she’s given away so freely. Make me more like that. Make me more like You. Transform me from one degree of glory to another—not for applause or approval, but so my life quietly reflects Yours. And if You let me live long, let it be to shine long. All the way Home.

Amen.