Day 163

1 Kings 5–6 | 2 Corinthians 1:12–24 | Psalm 69

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Yesterday, therapy hurt.

Not the kind of hurt that fades with Advil.

The kind that makes your stomach turn and your vision blur.

The kind that leaves you wondering whether this is recovery… or regression.

The kind that feels less like making progress and more like being punished.

Then I read 1 Kings 6.

Seven years to build the temple.

Seven years of detail and discipline—stone shaped off-site so that no sound of hammer or chisel would disrupt the silence of the sanctuary.

No shortcuts. No applause. No rush.

Just steady, sacred work.

And in the middle of it, God speaks:

“If you will walk in My statutes and obey My rules and keep all My commandments… then I will dwell among the children of Israel and will not forsake My people.” (1 Kings 6:12–13)

He doesn’t promise ease.

He promises to dwell.

Because this wasn’t just about constructing a building.

It was about forming a people.

The Kind of Progress No One Sees

In 2 Corinthians, Paul is being misunderstood—accused of being inconsistent, of not following through. But instead of defending his plans, he defends his integrity:

“We behaved… with simplicity and godly sincerity, not by earthly wisdom but by the grace of God.” (v. 12)

He’s not boasting in clarity. He’s clinging to grace.

Because sometimes real progress doesn’t look polished.

It looks like showing up.

It looks like unseen obedience.

It looks like doing the hard, hidden work when no one is watching.

That’s what therapy felt like yesterday.

No celebration. No clear finish line. Just a painful, invisible push forward.

And that’s often where God does His deepest work.

In the stretch that doesn’t feel sacred.

In the effort no one else notices.

In the days you don’t post about because they don’t feel worth sharing.

But He sees it.

And He’s still building.

This Pain Isn’t Pointless

Psalm 69 opens with exhaustion:

“I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched.

My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.” (v. 3)

That’s not weakness.

That’s faith when it’s stretched to its edge.

David isn’t offering polished prayers. He’s offering honest ones.

He’s not hiding the pain. He’s bringing it to God.

And maybe that’s what hope looks like right now:

Not a perfect recovery.

Not a fast outcome.

But an ache that still believes God is working.

So today, I’m choosing to see this pain differently.

Not as punishment.

But as evidence.

That the scar tissue is softening.

That the incisions are healing.

That the tendons will glide again.

That the work isn’t over—because the Builder isn’t finished.

My sister-in-law Erica texted Talacey two nights ago and asked her to tell me:

“This pain means it’s working.”

She’s right.

Because God doesn’t rush what He values.

He shapes it slowly.

Carefully.

Purposefully.

And everything He starts? He will be faithful to complete it.

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Lord, thank You for being the Builder who never leaves the job unfinished. When healing feels like tearing, when obedience feels like obscurity, remind me You are shaping something holy—not just in my body, but in my soul. Thank You for measuring progress by perseverance, not perfection. For valuing the quiet yes and the hidden stretch. Help me to trust You with the slow work. And for every reader walking through their own healing—physical, emotional, spiritual—remind them: if it hurts, it doesn’t mean You’ve left. It might just mean You’re still working. Amen.