Day 172

Ecclesiastes 8–9 | 2 Corinthians 11

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There are moments in life when you exhale differently.

Not because you’re tired—but because you’re finally not afraid.

Not because the story is over—but because this chapter didn’t unravel the way you thought it would.

That was today for me.

I walked into my surgeon’s office this morning braced for the worst.

The swelling had gotten so bad I thought the stitches would burst apart. The redness looked angry. The tissue inflamed. The pain spiked higher with each hour.

And with every sign, my mind did what it does best—it began to spiral: Would he need to reopen the incision? Drain it? Debride the dead tissue? Put me back in the hospital?

I sat in the surgeon’s office, just a few floors below the one I was flown to back in November. And I couldn’t shake the thought that I might end up back in that hospital bed today.

I even turned to Talacey at one point and said, “I should have packed my suitcase.”

Then Came Grace

My surgeon walked in, examined my hand, and smiled.

“The antibiotics are working,” he said.

“The infection is gone. The cellulitis is already retreating.”

And the relief washed over me.

No more intervention. No reopening. No new scars today.

Just rest. Recovery. And by Monday—a fresh start in therapy.

So when Talacey and I got home from our nine-hour round trip, we lifted a glass of wine together.

Not because I’m finally allowed to drink again—because I’m not. (So please don’t share this post with Dr. Buntic!)

But because I’m allowed to celebrate.

Alongside Sophia and her glass of Fresca, our little family toasted to progress.

To answered prayer.

And to the God who stitches stories back together—scar by scar.

A “Merry” Heart

That’s what came to mind reading Ecclesiastes 9:

“Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do.” (v. 7)

It’s not a license for indulgence.

It’s an invitation to joy.

Because life is short—unpredictable, even unfair.

“The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,” Solomon writes. “Time and chance happen to them all.” (v. 11)

But that doesn’t mean you live in fear.

It means you live with purpose. With presence. With praise.

Because every breath you still have is a chance to enjoy what God has given—and to glorify the Giver in how you enjoy it.

There’s a time to grieve.

There’s a time to groan.

But there’s also a time to laugh. To dance. To say thank You and mean it.

Paul’s Kind of Strength

And that’s exactly what Paul does in 2 Corinthians 11—just in a different key.

He’s been through the wringer.

Beatings. Shipwrecks. Hunger. Danger. Cold. Constant pressure from the churches.

And yet he doesn’t boast in strength.

He boasts in weakness.

In survival.

In God’s sufficiency.

Because if he’s still standing, it’s not proof of Paul’s power.

It’s proof of God’s mercy.

That’s the kind of boasting I want too.

The kind that raises a glass not to what I endured—but to the One who sustained me through it.

Still Healing. Still His.

So tonight, I’m not just thankful.

I’m cheerful.

Because God is still writing.

The healing isn’t finished—but neither is the grace.

And I want to savor it.

Celebrate it.

Not just in relief—but in rejoicing.

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Lord, thank You for progress—even slow, imperfect, interrupted progress. Thank You for healing I didn’t expect, and grace I didn’t deserve—grace that met me, carried me, and is still stitching me back together. Help me live with joy—not in what I have, but in who You are. Teach me to celebrate with a heart anchored in You, and to raise my glass in gratitude for every scar You’ve redeemed. Amen.