Day 43 — The Path That Felt Right | Proverbs 14:1–12

Key Verse: “There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death.” (v.12, NLT)

 Big Idea: Sincerity doesn’t make a path safe—only the destination does. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café looked different today. Clear. No rain streaking down the windows, no fog blurring the streetlights. Sunlight slid across the concrete floor like it had somewhere important to be. I noticed it because inside, I didn’t feel nearly as clear.

I’d been replaying decisions all morning—conversations, compromises, things I’d justified because they felt reasonable at the time. I slid into my usual chair with that low-grade tension buzzing in my chest.

Solomon was already there. Linen shirt. Handmade boots. Silver-streaked hair tied back. Palms resting on the table like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Proverbs fourteen today,” he said, warm but steady. “Verses one through twelve.”

Gideon sat a few seats down, finishing his coffee. He caught my eye and nodded—calmer than when I first met him weeks ago. Different. Like someone who’d stopped arguing with the mirror.

Solomon continued. “In this section, I talk about two kinds of builders, two kinds of households, two kinds of hearts. Wisdom and foolishness don’t just live in thoughts—they show up in homes, work, friendships. Outcomes tell the truth eventually.”

He tapped the table once. Not loud. Final.

“Every way can seem right,” he went on, “when you’re standing at the beginning of it.”

That landed heavier than I expected.

He slid his weathered leather notebook toward me, opening it just enough to reveal a rough sketch—two roads starting from the same point. One curved gently downhill, shaded, easy. The other narrower, uneven, marked with small notches like milestones.

“Notice,” he said, “neither path looks dangerous at first. No warning signs. No sirens.”

I frowned. “So how are you supposed to know which is which?”

Solomon smiled—not amused, more like someone who’d asked that question himself and learned the hard way.

“You don’t start with the entrance,” he said. “You start with the end.”

He leaned in. The café noise dimmed—the hiss of the espresso machine, the low chatter—like the world had politely stepped back.

“In this passage,” he said, “I’m warning about something subtle. A person can be honest, hardworking, well-intentioned, completely sincere… and still be walking toward ruin. Because they trusted their instincts more than wisdom.”

That pushed back on me. “That feels harsh,” I said. “Are you saying feelings are useless?”

“No,” he replied gently. “I’m saying feelings make terrible compasses.”

He paused, eyes distant for a moment. “I built paths once that felt right. Alliances that made sense politically. Relationships that seemed harmless. I told myself I was strong enough, smart enough to manage the consequences.”

His thumb traced the edge of the notebook. “I was wrong. The damage didn’t arrive loudly. It came quietly. One step at a time.”

Gideon stood, slipping on his jacket. He walked over, hesitated. “I think I finally get it,” he said. “I kept saying, ‘This isn’t that bad.’ But I never asked where it was taking me.”

Solomon nodded, eyes kind. “You’re paying attention now. That matters.”

Gideon smiled—soft, unguarded. “Thanks.” Then he was gone, the chair across from us empty. I felt the absence like a punctuation mark. An ending that hinted at a new sentence.

I stared at the door after him. “So… how do you actually do this?” I asked. “Start with the end, I mean. Life isn’t a math problem.”

Solomon chuckled quietly. “True. But wisdom asks better questions.”

He quoted the verse then, clearly, deliberately: “There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death.” “By death,” he said, “I’m not just talking about eternal death or hell, though that is the most sobering aspect of these words. But death doesn’t always mean a grave. Sometimes it’s the slow death of trust. Of peace. Of integrity. Of becoming someone you never planned to be.”

That stung because it was accurate.

“In this passage,” he continued, “I contrast laughter that hides pain, joy that doesn’t last, confidence built on sand. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to wake you up.”

I swallowed. “So what does wisdom actually do differently?”

“It listens,” he said. “It invites counsel. It measures choices by where they lead—not by how they feel today.”

He glanced toward the window, sunlight bright and honest. “And eventually, wisdom learns to ask the Creator for perspective. Because some directions feel right until we realize we’ve made ourselves the compass, rather than Him.”

That was new. Not preachy. Just… grounding.

Solomon leaned back. “Remember this,” he said, summarizing. “Not every open door is an invitation you should accept. Not every peaceful feeling is permission. And not every sincere step is safe.”

I nodded slowly, thinking of my own roads—ones I’d chosen because they were easier to explain, easier to defend.

As I stood to leave, the café felt brighter than when I’d arrived. Not because everything was solved—but because I knew what question I needed to ask next.

What? Even sincere, confident choices can lead to destruction if they’re aimed at the wrong destination.

So What? In a world that tells you to “trust your gut,” wisdom asks you to consider where your decisions are actually taking you.

Now What? Before your next big decision, pause and ask: If I keep going this way for five years, who will I become?

Day 42 — The Company You Keep | Proverbs 13:19–25

Key Verse: “Walk with the wise and become wise; associate with fools and get in trouble.” (v.20, NLT)

Big Idea: The path you choose—and the people you walk it with—determine your future. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

My shoes squeaked on the café tile as I slid into the booth. Gideon was already there, elbows on the table, hoodie pulled tight, jaw set like he was bracing for impact. He’d been with us the last few days—skeptical, sharp, defensive—but he kept showing up. That felt like something.

Solomon arrived with the usual quiet gravity—he smelled faintly of cedar. He tapped the table once, a habit, then smiled at Gideon as if he’d known him a long time.

“Today,” Solomon said, sliding his weathered leather notebook between us, “I’m continuing something I started before—how desire, discipline, and direction braid together.” He opened to a page of rough sketches: two paths, one crowded, one narrow. “In this passage, I talk about longing fulfilled and appetites that never learn. I contrast hunger with satisfaction, correction with neglect, good company with bad.”

He gave us the gist first—how Proverbs 13:19–25 lays out a life that learns versus one that resists learning; how good counsel feeds the soul while stubbornness starves it; how choices compound. The rain outside slowed, like the world was listening.

Then he leaned in. “Here’s the focus.” He quoted it clean, from memory. “Walk with the wise and become wise; associate with fools and get in trouble.”

Gideon scoffed softly. “That feels… elitist. Like, cut people off if they don’t measure up.”

Solomon didn’t flinch. He smiled gently, the kind that carries scars. “I didn’t say abandon people,” he said. “I said walk. Paths shape feet. Feet shape destinations.” He tapped the notebook. “When I wrote this, I was thinking about how drifting works. No one has to plan to fall. You just stop paying attention, stop resisting—and suddenly you’re lower than you meant to be.”

A barista dropped off our drinks. The steam curled up and vanished. For a second, the café noise dimmed.

“I learned this the hard way,” Solomon said, eyes distant. “I surrounded myself with voices that stroked my appetite. They laughed at restraint. I called it freedom. It was drift. I didn’t wake up wanting to ruin my life—I just kept walking with people who normalized small compromises. Character doesn’t collapse. It erodes.”

Gideon shifted. “So what—dump my friends?”

“Name the influence,” Solomon replied. “Psalm One, written by Solomon’s father, says the blessed life doesn’t take counsel from scoffers. In his letter to Corinth, Paul the Apostle warned, ‘Bad company corrupts good character.’ That’s not judgment—it’s physics.” He drew arrows between the paths. “Wisdom is contagious. So is foolishness. So is sin. So is corruption.”

I felt the sting. Faces came to mind—group chats that spiraled, jokes that trained my heart toward cynicism. “What if the wise people are boring?” I asked.

Solomon chuckled. “Boring to your impulses, maybe. Nourishing to your future.” He pointed to another verse from the passage. “In this section, I mention how the godly eat to their heart’s content while the wicked are always hungry. Companions shape appetites. They teach you what to crave.”

Gideon exhaled, some fight leaving his shoulders. “Okay. But what if I’m the problem? What if I’m the fool?”

Solomon’s eyes softened. “To even ask that question means you’re already exercising wisdom.” He glanced past us to a couple arguing near the door, voices tight. “Correction feels like hunger at first. But it feeds you.” He turned back. “The Lord—your Creator—designed growth to happen in community. Hebrews says we need daily encouragement so our hearts don’t harden. Steel sharpens steel. Not sand.”

The arguing couple left. The absence felt loud.

Gideon stared into his cup. “There’s this crew I run with,” he said. “They don’t mean harm. But every time I leave, I’m more angry. More numb.” He looked up. “I thought that was just life.”

“It’s a signal,” Solomon said. “Your soul keeps receipts.”

The rain stopped. Light slid across the table. Solomon summarized, calm and clear: “Choose paths intentionally. Choose companions wisely. Hunger for what satisfies. Welcome correction—it’s a gift. Walk long enough with wisdom, and it becomes your gait.”

Gideon nodded, slow. “I think I know one person I need to walk with more,” he said. “And one group I need to step back from.”

As we stood to leave, Solomon closed his notebook. “Walk,” he said again, smiling. “Don’t sprint. Just walk.”

I stepped outside lighter, aware of my feet on the pavement—and who I’d be walking beside.

What? Your companions quietly shape your desires, habits, and outcomes; wisdom grows through proximity.

So What? You don’t drift into a good life—you walk into it, one relationship at a time.

Now What? This week, intentionally schedule time with one wise, life-giving person—and limit time with one influence that consistently pulls you off course.

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?