Day 41 — The Slow Grind That Wins | Proverbs 13:10–18

 

Key Verse: “Wealth from get-rich-quick schemes quickly disappears; wealth from hard work grows over time.” (v.11)

 Big Idea: Real prosperity—financial and personal—comes from patient, disciplined faithfulness, not shortcuts.

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

 The riverwalk was still shaking off the night. Early sun skimmed the water, turning it into rippled steel. A vendor down the path roasted nuts, the smell sweet and almost convincing—like a promise that looks better than it fills you.

That felt familiar.

Gideon and I had been here yesterday too, except yesterday we’d come straight from a Multi-Level-Marketing seminar downtown. Fluorescent lights. Thumping music. Words like momentum, leverage, financial freedom fired at us like confetti cannons. 

We hadn’t told Solomon we were going. We’d walked out buzzing, half-hyped, half-suspicious. I’d barely slept. Gideon hadn’t either—we’d texted back and forth until midnight, circling the same question: What if this actually works?

Solomon was already waiting when we arrived. He sat on the low stone wall like he owned the morning, handmade boots crossed at the ankle. When he leaned forward, I caught the faint cedar scent again. He tapped the stone once, his signature hello.

“You both look like men who stayed up bargaining with an idea,” he said, gently amused.

Gideon snorted. “That obvious?”

Solomon smiled. “Sit.”

Gideon didn’t hover like a guest anymore. He’d been with us for days now. He took a spot near the railing, coffee untouched, staring at the river like it might explain where things went wrong—or right.

“Today,” Solomon said, “I continue something I’ve been pressing on since chapter thirteen began. Pride. Teachability. Discipline. Outcomes.” He paused. “Proverbs 13:10–18.”

He let that sit before going on. “In this passage, I talk about how discipline and hard work often feel painful but pay dividends in the long run. And I contrast two ways of building a life—fast and loud, or slow and real.”

He slid his weathered leather notebook onto his knee and opened it. Inside, a simple sketch: two piles of coins. One tall and skinny. One low and wide.

Gideon leaned in. We exchanged a puzzled look—did he somehow know?

He slowed his voice and quoted the line we’d both been avoiding since last night:

“Wealth from get-rich-quick schemes quickly disappears; wealth from hard work grows over time.”

Solomon tapped the tall pile... “THIS is the promise you heard yesterday.” Somehow, he knew! Then he tapped the wider one... “THIS is the process I keep returning to.”

The river seemed to hush around it. How did he know?

Gideon stared at the page. “They kept saying speed was the proof,” he said. “That slow meant you didn’t believe enough.”

Solomon nodded. “Shortcuts always accuse patience of cowardice.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “But isn’t there wisdom in moving fast? In catching the window before it closes?”

“There can be,” Solomon said. “When the window exists. What I’m challenging is speed without substance. In my writing here, I’m not just talking about money. I’m talking about formation. Character. Skill. Habits.”

He added small dots to the wide pile. “Little by little,” he said. “Gathered. Not grabbed. Skill built through repetition. Spending kept humble. Saving made boring. And yes—over time—compound interest doing its quiet work.”

Gideon laughed once, sharp and tired. “No one showed us that slide.”

“They wouldn’t,” Solomon said kindly. “It doesn’t sell excitement. It grows fruit.”

Gideon’s shoulders slumped. “They told us to bet on ourselves,” he said. “So I did. Maxed a card. Called it seed money.” He rubbed his face. “Kept thinking this would fix things.”

Solomon didn’t rush him. “Hope deferred makes the heart sick,” he said, nodding toward the rest of the passage, “but a dream fulfilled is a tree of life. There’s a difference between hope fed by effort and hope fed by hype.”

I swallowed. “So the slow grind is… moral?”

Solomon smiled. “It’s aligned. Pride wants applause now. Wisdom is willing to be unseen. Discipline feels like loss at first, but it’s actually protection.”

He hesitated, then shared something personal—rare, and quiet. “There was a season when my name opened doors too fast. Wealth arrived quicker than wisdom. I learned that speed can hide cracks. Time reveals them.” He closed the notebook. “Time also heals them, if you let it.”

Gideon stood slowly. “I think I need to make one honest call today,” he said. “No pitch. No spin.” He glanced at us. “I’ve got a skill I stopped working on because it wasn’t flashy.”

When he walked away, the space he left felt intentional—like something heavy had finally been set down.

Solomon turned to me. “Here’s what I want you to keep,” he said. “Pride rushes. Wisdom listens. Discipline looks boring until it wins. And gathering little by little? That’s how lives last.”

I stayed by the river after he left, watching the current do its patient work. Slow didn’t feel like failure anymore. It felt like truth.

What? Proverbs 13:10–18 teaches that shortcuts fueled by pride fade fast, while disciplined, patient effort leads to lasting good.

So What? In a world selling speed and spectacle, the slow grind forms character and builds real wealth—financially and otherwise.

Now What? Choose one skill to practice daily and set aside a small, automatic amount to save this week—start gathering little by little today.

Day 40 — Wisdom Guards the Gate | Proverbs 13:1-9

Key Verse: “Those who control their tongue will have a long life; opening your mouth can ruin everything.” (v.3)

 Big Idea: Small words carry massive power—wisdom guards the tongue. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café windows were fogged from the inside, the kind of blur that makes everything look gentler than it is. Steam rose from mugs. The grinder screamed, then stopped. Somewhere behind the counter, milk hissed like it was letting off pressure.

I slid into our usual table carrying the weight of words I wished I could rewind. Not shouted. Not cruel. Just… careless. The kind that slip out fast and leave wreckage behind them.

Solomon was already there. “Day forty,” he said quietly. “That’s usually when people start realizing wisdom isn’t just about what you do. It’s about what you release.”

He slid his weathered leather notebook forward but didn’t open it yet.

“Today,” he continued, “I talk about listening, desire, integrity, and light. Proverbs thirteen, verses one through nine. It’s about how life either grows sturdy or slowly collapses. And the hinge point”—he tapped the notebook—“is the mouth.”

Gideon arrived late, shoulders tight, jaw set. He nodded, sat down, kept his jacket on like armor. For weeks he’d been all resistance. Today, there was a crack in it. Not surrender. Just fatigue.

Solomon noticed. He always did.

“In this passage,” Solomon said, “I contrast two paths. One leads to protection and flourishing. The other to exposure and fading influence. Wisdom builds fences. Foolishness removes them and calls it freedom.”

He opened the notebook. A simple drawing: a field, a fence, and a small gate labeled tongue.

Then he quoted it, steady and exact: “Those who control their tongue will have a long life; opening your mouth can ruin everything.”

Gideon scoffed under his breath. “Feels exaggerated.”

Solomon smiled—not offended. Experienced. “So did fire, once,” he said.

That caught my attention.

“There was a man who came long after me. His name was James and he was the brother of Jesus…” Solomon went on, voice lowering as if the café had leaned closer. “He watched communities burn over words and tried to explain it in pictures people couldn’t ignore.” (See James 3:2-12)

He sketched a spark near the fence. “He said we all stumble in many ways. That the mouth is small, but it boasts big. That a tiny spark can set a whole forest on fire.”

I felt my stomach tighten. Yesterday’s sentence replayed. One spark. Plenty of dry ground.

“The danger,” Solomon said, “isn’t volume. It’s scale. Words travel farther than intention. Faster than regret.”

Gideon shifted in his chair. “So what—just shut up forever?”

“No,” Solomon said. “Build a gate.”

He drew a hinge. “James talked about a bit in a horse’s mouth—small, but it steers the whole body. A rudder on a ship—tiny, but it determines the direction in heavy wind. I was saying the same thing generations earlier. Control the tongue, and you protect the life attached to it.”

The café noise dimmed. Cups clinked in slow motion. Someone laughed too loudly, then stopped.

“Here’s the part people miss,” Solomon continued. “Words don’t just affect others. They shape you! Speak recklessly long enough and your inner world catches fire. Speak wisely and you create shade.”

I asked the question sitting in my chest. “But honesty matters. Aren’t we supposed to say what’s true?”

Solomon nodded. “Truth matters. Timing matters. Tone matters. James warned that the same mouth can bless and curse—and that something’s broken when that feels normal.”

He leaned closer. “Honesty without wisdom isn’t courage. It’s impatience wearing a costume.”

Gideon exhaled through his nose. “I keep thinking if I don’t say it, I’ll explode.”

“And if you do say it,” Solomon replied gently, “who else gets burned?”

That landed. Harder than rebuke. Softer than shame.

Solomon flipped the page. Two lamps this time. One bright and steady. One flickering.

“In verses eight and nine,” he said, “I talk about light and righteousness—how integrity shines. Wickedness, though, dims over time. It looks bold at first. Loud. But fire consumes its own fuel.”

He paused, then added quietly, “I’ve lived both.”

That silence said more than a story.

Across the room, a barista wiped her eyes while a customer spoke too sharply. Solomon watched, then looked back at us. “See? Small fire. Still dangerous.”

Gideon stared at the notebook. “So wisdom protects?” he said slowly. “Not by winning arguments. By preventing damage?

Solomon smiled. “Exactly.”

Gideon stood to leave. At the door, he turned back. “I’m tired of rebuilding,” he admitted. Then he was gone. The empty chair felt like progress.

Solomon closed his notebook. “Here’s what I want you to carry,” he said. “Your words are not decorations. They’re forces. Guard them.”

Outside, the fog had lifted. I pulled my phone out, typed an apology, and waited—just long enough to make sure it was building, not burning.

What? Wisdom guards the tongue because words carry disproportionate power—small, but capable of protecting life or setting it ablaze.

So What? In a reactive world, unfiltered speech destroys trust and influence, while disciplined words create safety, light, and lasting impact.

Now What? Before speaking today, ask: Is this a spark—or a shelter? If it burns, wait. If it builds, speak.

Day 39 — The Long Way Home | Proverbs 12:21–28

Key Verse: “The way of the godly leads to life; that path does not lead to death.” (v.28)

Big Idea: Godliness isn’t about being impressive—it’s about choosing a way of life that actually leads somewhere worth going. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café felt slower today, like the city had collectively exhaled. Late afternoon light slid through the tall windows in honeyed sheets, catching dust in the air. The espresso machine hissed like it was tired of itself.

I came in carrying a dull ache—the kind that doesn’t scream, just presses. Not pain exactly. More like… stagnation. Like I’d been doing all the right motions but wasn’t sure I was moving anywhere.

Solomon was already there. Same linen shirt, sleeves rolled. His handmade boots were crossed at the ankle, and his weathered leather notebook lay open beside his mug.

Gideon sat across from him. That surprised me.

Gideon had decided to stick around—sharp-eyed, skeptical, always leaning back in his chair like he didn’t want to get too close to whatever Solomon was offering. He gave me a nod that said, I’m still not buying this, but also… I didn’t leave.

Solomon smiled when he saw me. “Good,” he said. “Stay. This one needs more than one set of ears.”

Gideon snorted. “You make it sound ominous.”

“Only honest,” Solomon replied gently, tapping the table once. “Today we’re talking about paths.”

He slid the notebook toward us. Inside was a simple sketch: two roads diverging from the same starting point. One curved, worn smooth by footsteps. The other looked straight but fractured, breaking apart the farther it went.

“I wrote this section,” Solomon said, eyes steady. “Proverbs twelve. It’s a collection—little snapshots of how choices pile up into lives. Not destiny. Direction.”

Gideon leaned forward. “I read it. Seems moralistic. Do good things, good stuff happens. Do bad things, bad stuff happens. Reality doesn’t work that clean.”

Solomon didn’t flinch. He leaned in instead, voice calm. “You’re right. Life isn’t a vending machine. But it does have gravity. Life may not reward every good choice right away,” he said, “but over time it pulls hard on whatever you keep practicing.””

He traced the smoother road with his finger. “When I say, ‘The way of the godly leads to life; that path does not lead to death,’ I’m not talking about perfection.”

I felt something loosen in my chest at that.

“The word, ‘godly,’ I used,” Solomon continued, “is about alignment. Someone facing the right direction. Godly doesn’t mean shiny or superior. It means oriented—toward truth, toward humility, toward God.”

Gideon frowned. “So… religious?”

Solomon smiled, gently amused. “Not necessarily. I knew deeply religious people who were miles from life. And I knew broken ones who stumbled toward it.”

The café noise dimmed, like the world leaned back to listen.

“When I talk about life,” Solomon said, “I mean fullness. Vitality. A soul that breathes. A life that works with reality instead of against it.”

He paused. “And yes—there’s more beyond this life. Eternity matters. But don’t miss this: the path starts now.”

A barista nearby dropped a spoon. It clattered, then stillness again.

Gideon crossed his arms. “I know people who did everything ‘right’ and still got wrecked.”

“So did I,” Solomon said quietly.

He looked down at the notebook, then back up. “I chased brilliance. Pleasure. Power. I had it all—resources, admiration, options. And I still found myself hollow. That’s when I learned: some paths feel alive at first but quietly drain you, moving you toward an inner ‘death’ rather than a vibrant life.”

I thought of my own routines. The scrolling. The numbing. The careful avoidance of anything that asked too much.

Solomon went on. “In this chapter, I contrast diligence and laziness, truth and deception, patience and impulse. Not because God keeps score—but because we become what we practice.”

Gideon’s voice softened, just a notch. “So what if you’re already on the wrong road?”

Solomon met his eyes. Uncanny insight flickered there. “Then you turn. Paths don’t shame you. They just tell the truth. And it doesn’t matter how many steps you’ve taken down the wrong path, it’s always only one step back.”

He tapped the table again. “The godly path doesn’t promise ease. It promises life. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes slowly. But it doesn’t end in collapse. This path leads to a life that holds together,” he said. “Clear conscience. Durable joy. Relationships that don’t rot from the inside. A soul that’s awake now—and an eternal future that doesn’t run out.”

Gideon looked down at his hands. He didn’t argue this time.

A couple who’d been arguing earlier paid and left. Their absence felt loud.

Solomon leaned back. “Here’s what I want you to remember,” he said, voice warm but firm. “Godliness is not about image. It’s about direction. Eternal life doesn’t begin after death—it’s available now. And every small choice is a step.”

I sat with that as the light faded toward evening. I thought about where my habits were taking me. Not my intentions—my direction.

Gideon stood, slower than usual. “I’m not convinced,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But I’m still thinking.”

Solomon smiled. “Good. Thinking is often the first turn.”

As Gideon walked out, the bell chimed softly. I noticed the empty chair he left behind—and wondered if he’d be back tomorrow.

I hoped so.

What? This passage shows that wisdom shapes direction, and direction determines life—now and beyond.

So What? Because most lives aren’t ruined by rebellion but by drifting, choosing a life-giving path matters more than we realize.

Now What? Today, name one habit or choice that’s quietly steering you—and take one small step to realign it toward life.

Day 38 — Words That Heal | Proverbs 12:11–20

Key Verse: “Some people make cutting remarks, but the words of the wise bring healing.” (v.18)

 Big Idea: Wise people work hard, speak truth, and bring peace—while fools chase illusions, spread lies, and cause harm. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The rain was soft, misting the sidewalks and turning the city into a blur of gray and wet reflections. Steam rose from the sidewalk vents, curling like lazy smoke, and the smell of roasted garlic and olive oil hit me the moment I stepped into the small, dimly lit restaurant.

Solomon was already at a corner table near the window. He waved me over, a warm smile that softened the chill in my chest. He slid his leather notebook across the table toward me, its corners softened with age and careful handling.

“Glad you made it through the drizzle,” he said. “Today’s reading is a bit… lively.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Lively?”

Before he could answer, another figure entered—tall, sharply-dressed, with an aura of impatience that made my teeth grit. Solomon gestured subtly. “Ethan... meet Gideon, I invited him to join us. He’s been... wrestling with these proverbs. Sometimes he sees them as idealistic, even impractical.”

Gideon sank into the seat across from Solomon, arms crossed. I reached out and shook his hand. His hand closed firmly around mine—not a bone-crusher, but not limp either.

“I don’t get it,” Gideon said bluntly. “Life is messy. People lie, cheat, talk behind each other’s backs. Wisdom doesn’t change that.”

Solomon’s smile never faltered. He tapped the notebook lightly and leaned forward. “And yet, there are those who do change it. By their labor, their words, their care for the small things. Proverbs 12:11–20 speaks to that. Listen to v.18—‘Some people make cutting remarks, but the words of the wise bring healing.’ Wisdom is not passive. It works, it speaks, it restores.”

I traced the grain of the table. “So… you’re saying just saying nice things fixes everything?”

Solomon’s gaze held mine, patient but firm. “Not ‘nice.’ Truthful. Constructive. Healing, even if it cuts. Fools speak to wound. The wise speak to restore.”

Gideon snorted. “Words don’t heal. Hard work doesn’t fix the world. People exploit each other.”

I could feel my own tension rising, but Solomon’s eyes caught mine again, the world around us seeming to slow just a little. “Watch her,” he said, nodding toward the woman at the next table, her laptop open, muttering as she typed furiously. “She works hard, yes, but fury is her constant companion. A kind word, a patient instruction, a calm explanation—subtle, yes, but far more powerful than fury.”

Gideon shifted uncomfortably, leaning back but staying put. “So you’re saying words matter more than results?”

“Words and results are partners,” Solomon replied, tapping the table twice. “Work without wisdom can destroy; words without action are hollow. The wise labor to build, speak to heal, and act to sustain. Fools chase illusions, spread lies, and leave destruction behind.”

Gideon fell silent, but his eyes followed Solomon’s every movement. I realized he wasn’t leaving—he was listening, skeptical but present.

Solomon opened his notebook and slid it toward us. Sketches of two paths—one jagged and dark, one steady and light—filled the page. “Some people chase instant success, illusions, gossip, shortcuts. Their path is loud and messy. Others work with intention, speak to restore, and choose patience. Quietly, steadily, their lives bring life to others.”

I looked at Gideon. He still had that edge of doubt, that tightly wound energy, but he was leaning in now, however slightly. I knew this wouldn’t happen overnight, but the fact he didn’t storm off seemed already like progress. 

Solomon’s voice softened as he leaned back. “Some people make cutting remarks,” he said, almost in a whisper now, “but the words of the wise bring healing. Carry that with you today.”

Solomon leaned in, voice quiet but firm, “A cutting remark isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper behind someone’s back, a joke at their expense, a text meant to humiliate. But the wise word—it might correct, it might challenge, it might point out the hard truth—but it leaves the person standing, not broken.”

Solomon leaned back, letting the low hum of the restaurant fill the silence. “Tomorrow,” he said, tapping his notebook lightly, “we’ll explore verses 21–28—how integrity, careful speech, and steady living shape not just our own lives, but the communities around us. It’s about the ripple effect of what we say and do, and the difference between walking a path that harms and one that brings life.” 

His silver-blue eyes shifted to Gideon, who had been quiet for a while. “I’d like you to join us again, Gideon. You may find some of these ideas challenging, even frustrating—but if you stick with it, you might see how wisdom actually works in the messy reality you live in.”

The rain had stopped when I stepped back outside. The city looked the same, wet and gray—but somehow quieter, steadier. Healing was possible. Words mattered. Patience mattered. And Gideon—well, Gideon might just learn that too, one conversation at a time.

What?  Some words wound, but wise words bring restoration. Hard work paired with truth and care produces life; lies and laziness produce harm.

So What?  In emails, texts, office chatter, or casual remarks, we influence others more than we realize. Speaking to wound leaves scars; speaking to build leaves life.

Now What?  Today, find one moment to speak a word that restores, clarifies, or encourages someone—intentionally, honestly, and without expecting anything in return. Watch how it shifts the energy around you.

Day 37 — Learning the Hard Way (or Not) | Proverbs 12:1–10

Key Verse: “To learn, you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.” (v.1)

 Big Idea: Wisdom grows in people who welcome correction—especially when it comes from God. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

We met back at the café this morning. Rain streaked the windows, turning the street into a blurred smear of headlights and umbrellas. I slid into our usual table feeling raw, like I’d spent the whole week being evaluated.

Solomon was already there. He tapped the table once—a small welcome—and smiled as if he already knew why I was on edge.

“Proverbs twelve today,” he said, sliding his weathered leather notebook between us. “It’s about discipline. Not the loud kind. The personal kind.”

A barista passed with a rescue dog on a leash—muddy paws, hopeful eyes. The dog shook itself, spraying rain everywhere. No one complained. Solomon noticed. So did I.

“In this passage,” he continued, opening the notebook to a page filled with branching lines and small sketches, “I move quickly. Ten verses. Short truths. But they all orbit the same center: who you become when you’re corrected—and who’s doing the correcting.”

He leaned in. The café noise softened, like someone had closed a door on the world.

“I start with this,” he said, quoting verse one: ‘To learn, you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.’ He looked at me carefully. “That word—discipline—tends to shut people down.”

I exhaled. “Because it usually feels like punishment,” I said. “Or disappointment. Or someone, even God, being irritated with me.”

Solomon smiled, not amused—understanding. “That’s the mistake. Discipline from the Lord isn’t irritation. It’s attention.”

I frowned. “Attention?”

“Yes,” he said, tapping the notebook. “Think about it. You don’t discipline strangers. You correct what you care about. Divine discipline isn’t God stepping back with crossed arms—it’s God stepping closer, refusing to let you drift into something smaller than you were made for.”

At the counter, a man complained loudly about a wrong order. The barista apologized and fixed it quickly. The man still stormed out. Solomon watched him go.

“Verse one divides people,” Solomon said. “Not into good and bad—but into teachable and untouchable. One listens when God nudges, redirects, presses. The other resists, calls it unfair, and keeps walking.”

“It is stupid to hate correction… I chose that word on purpose. Not to insult—but to wake you up.”

He went on to explain… “Hating correction is called ‘stupid’ in that line not because it insults your intelligence, but because rejecting correction actively harms you. It’s the kind of ‘stupid’ that means self‑sabotaging, reckless. It’s like ignoring a flashing hazard sign and speeding up anyway.”

I shifted in my chair. “What if the correction hurts?” I asked. “What if it costs you something?”

Solomon nodded slowly. “It often does.” He paused, eyes clouded by old memory. “I ignored the Lord’s discipline once. More than once. I had wisdom, power, success—and I convinced myself those were proof I didn’t need correction. That’s when my integrity began to rot quietly.”

He flipped the notebook toward me. A drawing of a plumb line next to a leaning wall.

“God’s discipline is like this,” he said. “It doesn’t exist to tear the house down. It exists to show you what’s starting to bend before it collapses.”

The rescue dog wandered over and rested its head on Solomon’s boot. He absentmindedly scratched behind its ears.

“That’s why this chapter keeps widening,” Solomon said. “Correction shapes character. Character shapes work. Work reveals integrity. And integrity shows up in compassion—even toward animals.” He smiled faintly. “You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat others when they don’t expect something in return.”

I swallowed. “So when life pushes back… when something exposes me… that might not be God being against me.”

“Exactly,” Solomon said softly. “The Lord’s discipline isn’t rejection. It’s refusal to abandon you to your worst instincts.”

The barista mouthed thank you as she reclaimed the dog and disappeared into the rain. I noticed the space they left behind, like warmth fading from a room.

Solomon closed the notebook. “Let me give it to you straight,” he said. “Wise people don’t just accept correction from others. They recognize when God is shaping them—through circumstances, through conviction, through truth they’d rather avoid.”

He counted on his fingers. “Love discipline. Walk honestly. Work faithfully. Practice compassion. These aren’t separate lessons. They’re the evidence of a life genuinely teachable before God.”

We stood and moved outside, where the rain had softened to mist.

As we parted, Solomon said one last thing. “There’s a day coming when God’s correction will wear a human face and a gentle voice—calling people back without crushing them. When you feel discipline, don’t run. Lean in.”

I walked into the gray afternoon thinking about the resistance I feel when I’m corrected—by people, by circumstances, by something deeper tugging at my conscience.

Maybe the question isn’t, Why is this happening to me? Maybe it’s What is God trying to form in me?

What? Proverbs 12 teaches that wisdom grows in those who welcome correction—especially God’s loving discipline—and let it shape integrity, diligence, and compassion.

So  What? If God’s discipline is care, not condemnation, then resistance keeps us stuck while humility keeps us growing.

Now What? Think of one area where life has been pushing back lately—ask, What might God be trying to straighten rather than punish?

Day 36 — The Quiet Math of a Life | Proverbs 11:22–31

Key Verse: “The generous will prosper; those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed.” (v.25)

Big Idea: A life becomes replenished not by guarding what you have, but by letting goodness flow through you. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The park was louder than I expected. Kids shrieked near the splash pad. A jogger’s breath came in sharp bursts as he passed. Leaves scraped the concrete in short, dry spirals. I sat on a bench with a coffee that had already gone lukewarm, feeling thin and irritable, like I’d been stretched too far without anything poured back in.

Solomon was already there, feeding something small and fearless from the palm of his hand. A squirrel, I think. When he looked up, he smiled like he’d been mid-thought and happy to have company.

“You look spent,” he said gently.

“I feel… depleted,” I admitted. “Like everything costs more than it used to.”

He tapped the bench twice, inviting me to sit closer. When I did, I caught the faint scent of cedar. “That makes today’s words timely,” he said. “Let’s talk about the last section of Proverbs 11.”

He didn’t rush to the verse. Instead, he traced the shape of the whole passage with his hands, like outlining a map in the air. “Here I contrast two kinds of lives,” he said. “One that curves inward—tight-fisted, self-protective, obsessed with appearances. And another that opens outward—honest, generous, rooted. The first looks shiny at first. The second looks slow. But only one actually lasts.”

A man with a cardboard sign shuffled by the path. “ANYTHING HELPS.” His shoulders slumped like they’d learned that phrase didn’t always work. A few people avoided eye contact. Solomon watched him go, eyes thoughtful.

“In this section,” Solomon continued, “I talk about outcomes. Roots. Then fruit... Harvest. Not as punishment or reward games—but as cause and effect. Life has a way of multiplying what you plant.”

He reached for his weathered leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were rough sketches—trees with different root systems, arrows looping back on themselves, a simple scale tipped by tiny stick figures. He pointed to one drawing: a person pouring water into another cup, which overflowed back into their own.

Then he said the key line, slow enough that the park noise seemed to dim around us: “The generous will prosper; those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed.”

I hesitated. “That still sounds a little… calculated,” I said. “Like kindness with a receipt.”

Solomon didn’t bristle. He leaned in instead. “That’s the tension, isn’t it? But notice what I don’t say. I don’t say why you give. I describe what happens when a life becomes a channel instead of a container.”

A woman nearby was struggling with a stroller, one wheel caught in gravel. A teenager glanced at her, hesitated, then jogged over and helped lift it free. The woman laughed, relieved. The kid shrugged like it was nothing, but I saw his shoulders straighten as he walked away.

Solomon nodded toward them. “He didn’t calculate a return. But something still happened inside him.”

I thought about my own habits—how guarded I’d become with time, attention, money, even kindness. I thought about how often I waited to feel full before offering anything.

“You also say,” I added, flipping pages, “that some people hoard and still lose. And others scatter and somehow have more.”

“Yes,” Solomon said. A shadow crossed his face, brief but real. “I learned that the hard way. I accumulated more than I needed—projects, pleasures, alliances—thinking abundance would quiet my restlessness. Instead, it amplified it. Meanwhile, I watched quieter people give steadily, and their lives gained weight. Purpose. Substance.”

He tapped the notebook once. “Righteousness here isn’t about being impressive. It’s about being aligned. Living in a way that nourishes others instead of draining them.”

All of us want lives that feel 'refreshed', renewed, filled with 'vitality' and 'enjoyment'. Problem is..." he said... matter of factly,  "This refreshment doesn't come from seeking to be refreshed, it comes from seeking to refresh others. To be a blessing to someone outside yourself. Generosity doesn’t diminish you — it enlarges you. Refreshing others leads to your own renewal."

"It's like a math formula as immutable as two plus two equals four... refreshing others equals refreshing yourself!"

The man with the cardboard sign returned, this time stopping near our bench. Before I could overthink it, Solomon stood, spoke to him softly, and pressed something folded into his hand. The man’s eyes watered. He thanked Solomon twice, then walked on.

When Solomon sat back down, the bench felt emptier and fuller at the same time.

“In this passage,” he said, “I also warn that a life turned inward doesn’t just hurt the person living it. It withers the ground around them. But a righteous life—an honest, generous one—keeps feeding people long after you’re gone. Even your absence can bless.”

I swallowed. “So if I feel dry…”

“…check what’s flowing through you, not just into you,” he finished.

We sat quietly. The park noises returned to full volume. Somewhere, a dog barked. A leaf landed on Solomon’s boot.

Before we parted, he summarized, counting softly on his fingers. “First: life multiplies what you sow. Second: generosity refreshes both giver and receiver. Third: righteousness isn’t loud—but it’s enduring.”

As I stood to leave, I realized my coffee was still lukewarm. But I felt… steadier. Less hollow. Like maybe refreshment didn’t always come from being filled—but from being poured out wisely.

What? A life shaped by generosity and righteousness naturally produces good fruit, while self-centered living eventually collapses under its own weight.

So What? In a culture trained to hoard energy and protect self, wisdom reminds us that real renewal often comes through giving, not grasping.

Now What? Today, intentionally refresh one person—through time, attention, encouragement, or generosity—without expecting anything in return.

Day 35 — Safety in Many Advisers | Proverbs 11:12–21

Key Verse: “Without wise leadership, a nation falls; there is safety in having many advisers.” (v.14)

Big Idea: Wisdom multiplies when power listens—and collapses when it doesn’t. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The marble steps of the government building felt cold, even in late afternoon. Flags snapped in the wind like restless nerves. Inside, the lobby hummed with echoing footsteps, metal detectors chirping, the smell of floor polish and old paper. I’d come here out of a vague irritation—another headline, another decision that felt made in a room without windows.

Solomon was already there, sitting on a bench beneath a mural of idealized figures shaking hands. Silver-streaked hair tied back. 

He tapped the bench once as I sat. “Today’s passage is Proverbs 11:12–21,” he said gently. “It’s about mouths and hearts, trust and force, leaders and crowds. I stitched these lines together because communities rise or fall on how people use influence.”

We watched a small group of interns hurry past, lanyards bouncing. One slowed, phone pressed to her ear, eyes wet. She whispered, “I told them the data,” then disappeared into an elevator. When the doors closed, the lobby felt emptier.

Solomon leaned in. “In this section, I contrast two kinds of people: those who belittle and those who build; those who keep counsel and those who leak it; the proud who rely on strength and the humble who rely on wisdom. I was writing about neighborhoods, councils, families—any place where decisions ripple out to others.”

He opened his weathered leather notebook and slid it forward. On the page: a simple sketch of a bridge. On one side, a single thick cable. On the other, many thinner strands braided together. The single cable was frayed.

“When I wrote, ‘Without wise leadership, a nation falls,’” he said, tapping the frayed line, “the word I used for leadership wasn’t about titles. It meant guidance—counsel—the kind that steers, not shouts. And ‘many advisers’ isn’t chaos. It’s shared sight. No one sees the whole river alone.”

I crossed my arms. “But too many voices slow everything down. Someone has to decide.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Decide, yes. Decide alone, no.” His voice carried authority shaped by regret. “I ruled when my words were law. I also watched my certainty calcify. I ignored warnings because they bruised my ego. The day I stopped listening was the day cracks started forming—long before anyone noticed.”

The world seemed to slow. The HVAC hum faded. Even the flags outside went still in my mind.

A security guard approached, nodding politely. “Sir, we’re closing this wing.”

Solomon smiled at him, warm and disarming. “We’ll move along.” The guard hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, then thought better of it and walked away. When he was gone, Solomon murmured, “Notice how often people stay silent—even when they have something wise or important to say—because someone with higher status, authority, or rank is present.”

We relocated to a window overlooking the plaza. Below, a small protest gathered—handwritten signs, uneven chants. Across the street, a suited man spoke animatedly into a camera, face polished, words sharp.

“Verses 12 and 13,” Solomon continued, “warn against contempt and careless speech. Any leader who disregards dissent silences the very counsel that could save them. And gossip—leaked conversations—poisons trust. That’s how communities rot quietly.”

He looked at me—uncanny, like he could read the headline scrolling in my head. “You’ve been frustrated with decisions at work, haven’t you? Meetings where the outcome was decided before anyone spoke.”

I nodded. Too quickly.

He quoted the key line again, steady as stone: “Without wise leadership, a nation falls; there is safety in having many advisers.” Then softer: “Safety doesn’t mean comfort. It means durability.”

“But what if advisers are self-interested?” I pushed. “What if listening just amplifies bad motives?”

He turned the notebook and added a small circle at the bridge’s center. “That’s why this passage keeps going. It talks about righteousness bearing fruit, about the violent trusting force and losing, about the wicked being caught by their own schemes. Character filters counsel. Leaders don’t just collect voices—they cultivate virtue.”

A woman from the protest broke away, arguing with a friend. Solomon watched, sadness flickering. “When people stop believing they’ll be heard, they shout. When leaders stop listening, they build walls.”

I thought of the intern’s watery eyes. Of meetings I’d tuned out. Of times I’d chosen speed over wisdom.

“As I learned,” Solomon said quietly, “listening saved me when I let it. And when I didn’t—well, the consequences were loud. Power that won’t listen eventually listens to collapse.”

We stood. The lobby lights dimmed. The building exhaled.

He summarized with a final tap of the notebook. “Three things to keep: First, steering matters more than shouting. Second, many advisers create strength when character sets the tone. Third, silencing voices today creates fractures tomorrow.”

Outside, the flags snapped again. I walked away thinking less about nations and more about my own small circles—where I lead, where I speak, where I listen.

What? Proverbs 11:12–21 teaches that communities thrive when leaders guide with humility, guard trust, and seek counsel; they fall when pride silences wisdom.

So What? In a loud, polarized world, durability comes from shared insight and character—not force or certainty.

Now What? This week, before making one decision, invite two voices you usually overlook—and listen without defending yourself.