Day 142

2 Samuel 9–10 | 1 Corinthians 1:18–31 | Psalm 60

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The Apostle Paul once wrote that “the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing” (1 Corinthians 1:18).

But sometimes… the folly shows up in a cardiology exam.

Let me explain.

Yesterday morning, I had an appointment with my cardiologist. Routine stuff—an EKG, a chest ultrasound, all the pokes and prods that remind me I’m middle-aged.

The nurse led me into the exam room, asked me to remove my shirt, smiled politely, and then said it:

“Oh boy. No one told you to shave your chest, did they?”

I knew right then I was in trouble.

She handed me a flimsy disposable razor and a giant bottle of ultrasound jelly as make-shift shaving cream. Then she just… pointed.

No words. Just a silent, universal gesture that said, “Good luck, champ.”

So I walked.

Down the hallway.

Across the waiting room.

Clutching a razor in one hand and a bottle of blue goop in the other.

And every person I passed gave me the same look: “Oof. Rough morning, buddy.”

I stepped into the bathroom. No mirror. No dignity. Just me, my soon-to-be-patchy-haired chest, and the scrape of disposable regret.

I finished the job as best I could, returned to the exam room, and laid back on the table—half-shaved but fully humbled—while they ran the tests.

A few minutes later, the doctor returned.

“Good news,” he said. “Your heart is strong.”

I smiled. Brief relief.

“The bad news?” he continued. “Your blood pressure is catastrophically high. 143 over 104. That’s the kind of high where you could drop at any moment. Stroke out. Fall over. Wake up at the pearly gates.”

It’s not the bedside manner I was hoping for. But maybe it was the wake-up call I needed.

Because you don’t get a do-over on a heart attack.

And you don’t get a mulligan on wasting your life.

That diagnosis was a bit jarring. Not just physically, but spiritually. It made me think about what really matters—and how easily we lose sight of it. Which brings me to last bight…

Her Favorite Italian Restaurant

Last night, Talacey and I took Sophia out to her favorite Italian place with both sets of her grandparents. Because today she turns 13.

She’s graduating sixth grade, blossoming into a young, beautiful woman full of grace, joy, intelligence, and growing faith. And I can’t help but think back to the moment Talacey and I decided to homeschool her.

People thought we were crazy. We left the comfort of an educational system we no longer trusted, walking away from the routines and approval and predictability that the world says is normal.

But we didn’t leave because we were afraid. We left because we believed it’s imperative that Christ be at the center of our home—and of our daughter’s formation.

And—thanks to the grace of God and the diligence of my wife—we can already see the fruit.

Not perfection.

But light. Radiance. The earliest signs of a faith that’s hers—not just ours.

Many questioned that decision when we made it. Others dismissed it.

To some, it looked like fear. Or arrogance. Or a retreat from reality. But to us—it was obedience. The cross-shaped kind.

And sometimes that cross-shaped way—the low, quiet, countercultural way that takes intentionality and discipline and thankless work—ends up being the wisest thing you could’ve done.

The Kindness That Changes Everything

2 Samuel 9 tells the story of Mephibosheth.

He’s the disabled grandson of Saul—the former king. He has nothing. No inheritance. No status. No ability to earn favor.

And David seeks him out.

Not to punish. But to bless.

“Do not fear,” David says, “for I will show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan… and you shall eat at my table always.” (2 Samuel 9:7)

It’s pure, undeserved grace.

A king showing kindness to a cripple.

An enemy made family.

A forgotten man given a permanent seat at the table.

Sound familiar?

It’s our story, too.

The Kindness That Gets Mocked

In 2 Samuel 10, David tries to show kindness again. This time to Hanun, the Ammonite king. David sends servants to console him after his father’s death.

But Hanun mocks them. Shaves off half their beards. Cuts their clothes. Humiliates them.

And that act of rejection sparks a war.

Because not everyone receives kindness.

Not everyone sees grace for what it is.

The Cross Is Still Offensive

Both Mephibosheth and Hanun were offered kindness. One received it with humility. The other rejected it in pride. And that’s the dividing line Paul describes, too—between those who see the cross as power and those who see it as folly.

“The word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing… but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (1 Cor. 1:18)

The Greeks wanted wisdom.

The Jews wanted signs.

But God gave a crucified Messiah.

And to the world, that still looks foolish.

But to us?

It’s life.

God Still Chooses the Unlikely

“God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise,” Paul writes. “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.” (v. 27)

So maybe there’s hope for those of us with half-shaven chests after all.

Maybe the reason the world doesn’t applaud our choices—our faithfulness, our daily surrender, even homeschooling—is because they’re not meant to.

Because God’s not after applause. He’s after allegiance.

He’s not impressed by strength.

He’s drawn to surrender.

He doesn’t call the qualified.

He chooses the foolish—and calls them His.

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Lord, thank You for pasta, birthday girls, and humility-instilling razors. But mostly—thank You for the cross and Your victory over it. For kindness we didn’t earn. For a table we don’t deserve. Teach us to choose the cross-shaped way—even when it looks foolish to the world. To live not for comfort, but for calling. Not for praise, but for Your presence. Let us be fools for Your glory. Because the world might mock—but Your kingdom never will. And let us not waste a single day—because eternity is always closer than we realize.

Amen.