Body of Evidence

Who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body. (Philippians 3:21)

Nothing would please me more than a complete overhaul of this jalopy of a body I deal with every day. Or better yet, a trade in, a cash for clunkers sort of thing. And boy what a clunker I’ve got.

I’ve got bunions. My feet hurt all the time. My hair is falling out as evidenced by the sad acre of barren scalp on the back of my head. There’s a patch of dry skin on my cheek that won’t go away. (I’m probably dying of skin cancer or something but am too cheap to pay somebody to tell me I have a dry patch of skin on my cheek.) No matter how much I exercise, I can’t get rid of the as of yet slight but depressing fat ring around my waist which I refuse, out of principle, to refer to as “love handles.” My gums have receded and I have to keep relentless watch to hold at bay the aggressive bristles that threaten to overwhelm my nostrils and ears. My back hurts. I can’t make it through the night without peeing. My eyes are going bad on me too. I need reading glasses just to hum. About the only thing that works like it’s supposed to is my hearing, though, if there’s anything to generational curses, I may soon not be able to hear myself think.

tumblr_inline_njqe1qw0qb1rjic88Like I say, I regularly work out (in a middle-aged desperation sort of way). I used to do a funky power-walk thing (sans earbuds) that earned the smiles, giggles, and hoots from any number of passersby, including those irritatingly young runners who breezed by me not even breathing hard. I often fantasized that I would find them face down on the sidewalk having succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest where I nod to their nubile corpses as I pass by. When I saw some fat grinning Bubba driving a pickup truck and smoking a cigarette, I smirked, confident that I’ll be drooling and shuffling long after he’s only so much potting soil. After getting run over by an SUV (driven by a retired pastor) I abandoned the mean streets for the relative safety of the health club where I pedaled and pumped myself into another day of not being dead. Now I’m back on the streets where the air is fresh and there are comfortable ditches to collapse into should I have a heart attack. (I’ve thought of wearing dogtags for identification, but my locally famous neon green running—uh, walking—attire is no doubt sufficient.)

But no matter how much I deny the obvious or hurl my hostility at the beautiful people, I can’t escape the increasingly bald-faced fact that I am falling apart. No matter how hard I try to stave off the inevitable, my life support systems are showing signs of wear and tear. The mirror mocks my increasingly feeble efforts against physical erosion. Like King David, I am forced to acknowledge my corpus mortem, or as he so poetically puts it: this leaning wall, this tottering fence. And though my beat up carcass still gets me around, it ain’t even close to what I’d call glorious anymore.

As I reluctantly resign myself to biological demise, I’m actually starting to look forward to the promised new model coming out. When Jesus returns, I’m going to climb into a shiny piece of lean and mean machine. No dents. No squeaks. No rattles. No bald tires. I want some monstrous powerhouse under the hood that breaks the speed of light with an ankle flex. I want to slice through the heavenly ether at insane speeds, never again having to come to a dead stop. I want resurrection power to course through my veins like nitro. I want a radiant shell that’s guaranteed never to rust, break, or lose its shine. I want a new bod, man.

So I’ll keep fighting the last enemy until he either knocks me cold or the game’s called on account of the Second Coming. Either way, I’m going to head straight to the new model showroom, give the man my ticket, and take possession of my new wheels. Then watch out, kiddies. I ain’t stopping for nothin.



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