Day 54 — Medicine You Carry Inside | Proverbs 17:19–28

Key Verse: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.” (v.22)

Big Idea: Your inner attitude isn’t a side issue—it actively shapes your strength, health, and capacity to live well. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The rooftop garden was all sun and stillness, the kind that sneaks up on you after too much noise. Warm concrete underfoot. Planters spilling rosemary and lavender. The city below hummed, but softened, like it had been turned down a few notches. No rain today. No café. Just light.

I climbed the stairs with a knot in my chest that hadn’t loosened in days. I wasn’t falling apart—but I felt brittle. Tired in a way sleep hadn’t touched. My thoughts kept circling the same disappointments, like teeth worrying a bone.

Solomon sat on the concrete ledge at the edge of the garden, silver-streaked hair tied back, linen shirt catching the breeze. 

“Up here,” he said, tapping the stone beside him. “The noise loses its teeth.”

I sat. Let my shoulders drop a fraction.

“A lot packed into today,” he said after a moment. “Proverbs 17:19–28.” He slid his weathered leather notebook between us. The pages were dense—arrows, boxes, symbols, quick sketches. “It can sound scattered if you skim it. Conflict. Words. Foolishness. Joy. Silence.”

He drew a loose circle with his finger. “But I was writing about one thing: the inner life. The place where strength is either generated or quietly drained.”

He gave me the overview first—how loving conflict feeds pride, how reckless words spend energy you don’t have, how restraint can look like wisdom even when you don’t feel wise, how foolishness weighs not just on the fool but on everyone near them. “I wasn’t observing from a distance,” he said evenly. “I wrote this after living it.”

A woman edged near the planters, stretching her knee, wincing as she pulled out an earbud. Solomon noticed her immediately. He always does. “You can’t outrun injury forever,” he said quietly, not to her, not exactly to me—just true. She nodded, caught her breath, and headed toward the stairs. When she left, the empty space she’d occupied felt like part of the lesson.

Solomon turned the notebook toward me. Two bottles were sketched on the page. One labeled Cheerful Heart. The other, Spirit. A crack ran through the second.

“This,” he said, tapping the cracked bottle, “is where everything leaks.”

Then he quoted it slowly, letting the afternoon stretch around the words:

“Verse 22—A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.”

I frowned. “That sounds… simplistic. Like I’m supposed to just be happier and everything fixes itself.”

He laughed—soft, unoffended. “If that’s what I meant, I’d deserve your skepticism.” He leaned back, then forward again, eyes steady. “Joy isn’t decoration. It’s load-bearing.”

I crossed my arms. “Explain.”

He tapped the notebook once, twice. “Emotionally, joy keeps pain from becoming poison. Pain is unavoidable—you don’t get a vote there. But joy decides whether pain stays information or turns into identity.” 

He made a small box in the air with his hands. “When joy lives inside you, grief doesn’t get the keys to the whole house. You can feel sorrow without drowning in it. Hurt without becoming hard. That’s healing—space to feel without being consumed.”

I felt that land. Hard.

“A broken spirit,” he continued, “replays the wound until it deepens. Joy interrupts the loop.”

He flipped the page and sketched a small flame.

“Spiritually, joy is alignment. Not denial—alignment. When your inner life turns toward God, even imperfectly, your spirit stands upright again. Joy says, This story is bigger than this moment. That trust restores strength.”

His voice dropped. “I lost joy when I chased control instead of the Lord. My spirit bent under the weight. When joy returned, so did clarity. Direction. Hope.”

The city breeze shifted. Somewhere below, a single church bell rang—unannounced, unrepeatable—and then silence again.

“And physically,” Solomon said, resting both palms on the notebook, “joy tells the body it’s safe enough to heal.” He nodded toward his chest. “Fear and despair keep the body braced. Muscles tighten. Sleep shortens. Immunity weakens. But joy loosens the grip. It slows the breathing. It moves you from survival into repair.” A faint smile. “That’s why I called it medicine. Not magic. Medicine.”

I exhaled without realizing I’d been holding it.

“So guarding your inner life matters,” I said.

“It matters more than most people think,” he replied. “That’s why I talk about restraint in this passage. About words. About unnecessary fights. About silence. Every one of those either protects joy—or punctures it.”

“How do I get this kind of joy?” I asked.

“This kind of joy comes only through the Holy Spirit,” he replied.  “If we turn to Him and trust Him with our pain and struggles, something mysterious happens... he fills our heart with genuine, unexplainable joy.”

“Nehemiah was a leader who helped people rebuild when everything felt broken—both a city and the spirits of the people living in it. Here’s what he had to say: ‘Don’t be dejected and sad, for the joy of the LORD is your strength!’” (Nehemiah 8:10)

He closed the notebook and slid it back. “You’ve been waiting for circumstances to change,” he said gently. “But true joy grows right in the middle of your circumstances.”

As I stood to leave, the city looked the same. My problems were still there. But something inside me felt steadier—less brittle. I realized I’d been neglecting the medicine I already carried.

What? This passage teaches that joy and inner restraint protect our strength, while a broken spirit quietly drains it.

So What? In a pressure-filled world, guarding your inner life isn’t optional—it directly affects emotional resilience, spiritual clarity, and physical well-being.

Now What? Choose one way today to protect your inner life—limit negative input, speak fewer words, or pause to name one thing you’re grateful for—and do it on purpose.

Day 53 — Injustice in the Public Square | Proverbs 17:10–18

Key Verse: “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—both are detestable to the LORD.” (v.15)

 Big Idea: Wisdom refuses to confuse justice for convenience—especially when power, policy, and public opinion are involved. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The beach had traded rain for brightness. Not the soft kind—this was sharp, revealing light, the kind that shows every footprint before the tide gets ideas. The ocean kept its steady rhythm, indifferent to headlines. A breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen.

Solomon waited near a line of weathered posts, shoes off, linen shirt moving with the wind. Silver-streaked hair tied back. He tapped the edge of his leather notebook against his palm, slow and measured.

“No more rainy days.,” he said, scanning the horizon. “Clear weather exposes things.”

We walked closer to the water. The sand was cool underfoot. He opened the notebook. Today’s page wasn’t sketches or symbols—it was columns. Labels. Systems. Courts. Gates. Councils.

“In this passage,” he began, “I talk about how people respond to correction, how money speaks, how promises are made too quickly.” He tapped the page. “But all of it lives inside public life. Not just homes—institutions.”

I frowned. “Proverbs always felt… personal.”

“It is,” he said. “And it’s public. Wisdom doesn’t clock out when you enter a courtroom, write policy, or cast a vote.”

He spoke through the full passage, Proverbs 17:10-18—not reading, remembering. Rebuke that reshapes the wise. Fools untouched by punishment. Trouble stirred intentionally. Bribes smoothing outcomes. Pledges made without foresight. Then he stopped.

The world slowed—the waves holding their breath, gulls hovering like punctuation marks in the sky.

Then he said it plainly: “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—both are detestable to the LORD.”

The words felt bigger here, carried by open air. “That sounds like a headline,” I said.

“It should,” Solomon replied. “I wrote it for gates and councils. For judges, legislators, and leaders. For anyone entrusted with the power to decide who bears the cost when systems move forward.”

Out beyond the break, a surfer paddled hard, dropped in to a clean waist-high wave, and rose to his feet. Solomon watched him ride the face of it, steady and balanced.

“Public injustice rarely begins with villains,” he said. “It begins with rationalizations.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Calling injustice ‘Efficiency. Stability. Party loyalty. The greater good.’” His smile thinned. “Words that make injustice feel responsible.”

I thought of trials streamed online, late-night votes rushed through chambers, press conferences that explained away harm. “So what’s wisdom supposed to do—protest everything?”

“Wisdom starts by refusing to lie,” Solomon said. “In the public square, truth is usually the first casualty. A wise person guards it.”

He slid the notebook forward and sketched a scale. One side he labeled Facts. The other, Narrative.

“When spin outweighs reality,” he said, “verdicts tilt. Policy bends. Innocence becomes expendable.”

He didn’t look at the page. He looked at me.

“Before this ever reaches a courtroom,” he said, “it shows up in smaller rooms.”

I waited.

“When you repeat a story because it flatters your side. When you assume motives without evidence. When you stay quiet because the truth would make things awkward.”

He closed the notebook. “That’s how people practice for bigger injustices.”

“But systems are messy,” I pushed back. “Compromise is how anything gets done.”

“Compromise is not the same as inversion,” he said, leaning in. “I’m not condemning negotiation. I’m condemning calling wrong right because it’s useful.” He paused. “When institutions punish truth-tellers to protect reputations, they don’t just silence individuals—they train an entire culture.”

He knelt and drew two paths in the sand. One straight. One slowly bending toward shadow.

“Public injustice,” he said, “is personal injustice scaled up.”

A lifeguard’s whistle cut through the air—sharp, corrective. Solomon smiled faintly. “Truth-telling isn’t hatred. It’s care with a spine.”

I felt the tension rise. “But what about safety? Careers get ruined. People get crushed.”

His voice softened. He tapped the notebook—authority shaped by regret. “I know. I watched courts sell justice. At times, I benefited from it. And I paid for it later.” He looked out at the water. “Wisdom doesn’t promise protection from consequences. It promises you won’t lose your soul trying to avoid them.”

The tide crept higher, erasing his lines. He stood.

“In this passage,” he said, “I warn about bribes because they don’t just change outcomes—they reshape hearts. About pledges because public promises made without wisdom become traps. About correction because leaders who can’t receive it eventually persecute those who offer it.”

“So how should a wise person deal with injustice out there?” I asked, gesturing toward the city beyond the beach.

“Three things,” he said, counting on his fingers. “First: tell the truth plainly—facts over spin. Second: refuse shortcuts that punish the innocent, even when it may appear to hurt ‘your side’. Third: stay human. Don’t become what you oppose.”

He closed the notebook. The sun was higher now. The beach louder. Life resumed at full speed.

I watched the water swallow our footprints. Lines don’t last here. You have to redraw them every day.

What? God calls it detestable when power flips justice—excusing guilt or punishing innocence—whether in courts, governments, or institutions.

So What? Because societies are shaped by what they reward and punish; when truth-tellers are condemned, everyone learns to lie quietly.

Now What? Choose one public issue you engage with—news, work, or community—and commit to facts over spin this week, even if it costs you comfort.

Day 52 — Under the Heat | Proverbs 17:1–9

Key Verse: “Fire tests the purity of silver and gold, but the Lord tests the heart.” (v.3, NLT)

Big Idea: Pressure doesn’t create who we are—it simply reveals who we’ve become. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café windows were propped open today, sunlight spilling across the concrete floor like a slow-moving tide. The late-morning crowd hummed—cups clinking, a milk steamer hissing, a low playlist of acoustic guitar drifting overhead. No rain. No gloom. Just warmth and motion.

I arrived lighter than I had been lately, but still carrying questions. Pressure had been stacking up—work deadlines, strained conversations, a sense that something in me was being squeezed. I slid into my usual seat and rubbed my hands together, not from cold, but nerves.

Solomon was already there.

Silver streaks cut through his dark hair, tied back loosely. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled. Handmade boots scuffed and honest. His weathered leather notebook sat between us, closed for now.

“Ethan,” he said, warm smile. “Today is a good day to talk about heat.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

He chuckled softly, tapping the table once with his knuckle. “In Proverbs seventeen, I bring up a cluster of things—peace in a simple house, restraint with words, patience with flaws, loyalty in friendship. It’s a chapter about what holds when life presses in.” 

He paused. “And then I say this.” He leaned in, voice lowering as the café noise seemed to blur. “Fire tests the purity of silver and gold, but the Lord tests the heart.”

I exhaled. “So… God stress-tests people?”

“God doesn’t test people to trap them—He tests them to reveal what’s in them. Not to Him (He already knows), but to ourselves.”

He slid the notebook forward and opened it. Inside were sketches—crude furnaces, arrows, a heart drawn beside a lump of ore. He traced one diagram with his finger. “Silver doesn’t start shiny. It comes buried in rock. To purify it, you apply heat until it melts. The impurities—called ‘dross’—rise to the surface. The refiner scrapes them away. Then more heat. More scraping. Repeat. Over and over.”

“How do they know when it’s done?” I asked.

Solomon smiled. “When the refiner can see his reflection in the metal.”

That landed harder than I expected.

A barista nearby was quietly losing it—jaw tight, movements sharp—as a customer complained about foam density like it was a moral failure. 

“Heat doesn’t make that man impatient,” Solomon said. “It shows the impatience already there.”

I shifted in my chair. “That feels unfair. Sometimes pressure just… pushes you past your limits.”

He nodded. “I used to tell myself that too.” His voice carried the weight of memory. “When I was younger, I had everything—resources, power, opportunity. And I thought my heart was solid. Then comfort revealed my pride. Desire revealed my lack of restraint. Pressure came later, and it exposed what ease had been hiding.”

“Many years after me, a prophet named Malachi picked up this same image—' For he will be like a refiner’s fire… He will sit like a refiner of silver, burning away the dross. He will purify…’ He paused for a second, “Picture the Lord like a refiner—patient, attentive—watching the metal until it’s pure. He doesn’t walk away from the fire.” (Malachi 3:2-3)

“Another old Psalm says it plainly—'For you have tested us, O God; you have purified us like silver.’ This tells us that we’re tested the way silver is purified. Not crushed. Refined.” (Psalm 66:10)

Solomon was quiet for a moment, eyes resting on the cup between his hands. Then he leaned in—close enough that the noise of the room seemed to soften.

“Let me tell you why the Lord bothers,” he said. “Because He sees worth where you see interruption. You call it inconvenience; He calls it something precious that shouldn’t be left unfinished.”

He tapped the table again, slow and deliberate.

“He isn’t chasing your comfort. He’s guarding your future. Feelings come and go, but the kind of person you’re becoming—that lasts. So He works there, even when it costs you ease.”

His voice lowered. “And He never sends you into the fire and walks away. Refiners don’t do that. They stay close. They watch. They know when enough is enough. Love doesn’t abandon—it remains.”

He sat back, exhaling softly. “And hear this: the Lord does not waste your pain. If your struggles can produce life, clarity, strength—He will make it so as we trust in Him. He refuses to let loss have the final word.”

Solomon met my eyes, steady and kind.

“Refining isn’t cruelty,” he said. “It’s commitment. It isn’t harshness—it’s love that takes you seriously.” He closed the notebook slowly. “I learned the hard way: character isn’t proven in calm seasons. It’s revealed in refining ones.”

I frowned. “So what—every hard thing is God doing this to us?”

“No,” he said quickly, kindly. “Life has heat on its own. Consequences. Other people’s choices. A broken world. But the Lord uses that heat—without wasting it. The question isn’t why is this happening? It’s what is this showing me?”

I stared into my coffee. Reflections wobbled on the surface. “What if I don’t like what it shows?”

Solomon’s gaze softened. “Much of the time you won’t. But that’s the point. When the impurities in your heart come to the surface, the Lord’s purpose is to scrape them off.”

“That’s… uncomfortable,” I muttered.

He laughed under his breath. “Yes. Refining usually is.”

We sat in silence for a moment. The world sped back up—the grinder roared, chairs scraped, someone laughed too loudly. But inside, something slowed.

Solomon leaned back. “Let me leave you with this. The Lord doesn’t apply heat to watch you fail. He applies it because He sees value in you worth refining. And He stays close enough to know when the process is complete.”

I swallowed. “And if I resist it?”

He smiled. “Then the heat tends to last longer.”

When we stood to leave, the café felt different. Brighter. Less threatening. As if the pressure I’d been dreading wasn’t an enemy—but an invitation.

I stepped outside into the sun, wondering what in me was rising to the surface… and what might finally be scraped away.

What? Pressure reveals the true condition of the heart, just as fire reveals the purity of silver and gold.

So What? Life’s stress doesn’t invent our flaws or strengths—it exposes them, giving us a chance to grow wiser and cleaner on the inside.

Now What? The next time pressure hits today, pause and ask: What is this revealing in me—and what needs to be refined?

Day 51 — The Narrow Bridge of Self-Control | Proverbs 16:22–33

Key Verse: “Better to be patient than powerful; better to have self-control than to conquer a city.” (v.32, NLT)

 Big Idea: Real strength isn’t about overpowering people or situations—it’s about mastering yourself, especially in moments charged with emotion. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The wind off the river cut through my jacket as I stepped onto the pedestrian bridge. Traffic hummed somewhere behind me, but out here the sound softened—water rushing below, gulls calling, metal cables creaking faintly with each step. Late afternoon light slid across the surface of the river, broken and restless.

Solomon was already there, leaning against the railing, hands folded over his weathered leather notebook. He looked like he’d been waiting awhile. Or maybe he always looked that way—unhurried, fully present.

“You picked a good day to feel conflicted,” he said without turning around.

I exhaled. “Is it that obvious?”

He smiled and finally faced me. “You’re gripping your thoughts the way people grip railings when they’re afraid of falling.”

Before I could respond, Sandra joined us, hair tied back in a tight pony tail. She looked steadier than the last time I’d seen her. Not fixed—but grounded.

Solomon noticed instantly. His eyebrows lifted just a touch. “Something’s different.”

She nodded. “I talked to my brother.”

The river surged below us, fast and brown from last night’s rain.

“I didn’t confront him,” she said. “Not the way I usually do. I stopped trying to manage the outcome. I asked questions. I listened longer than was comfortable. I told him I was scared, not angry.”

She swallowed. “He listened. Really listened. He didn’t bolt. He didn’t lash out. He admitted he’s overwhelmed. We talked about changes—small ones—but real. He agreed to make some changes. A real breakthrough!”

Solomon’s smile deepened, but he didn’t rush to speak. He let the moment breathe.

“That,” he said gently, “is strength most people never learn.”

He opened his notebook and held it between us so we could see. “In this passage, I talk about how wisdom plays out under pressure—how insight refreshes the soul, how words can heal, how anger quietly sabotages lives.”

He tapped the page. “I wasn’t writing theory. I was writing scars.”

The wind picked up. Below us, the river pushed hard against the bridge pylons, splitting and reforming on the other side.

Solomon drew two circles. “Most people experience life like this. Something happens.” He tapped the first circle. “A trigger. A look. A tone. A fear.”

Then the second. “A response.”

He didn’t connect them at first.

“Most people live like these two circles are touching,” he said. “Trigger—reaction. No space. No pause.”

I nodded. That was me. Emails sent too fast. Words sharpened by pride. Regrets that showed up later like unpaid bills.

Then Solomon drew a narrow bridge between the circles.

“This,” he said, tapping it, “is where wisdom lives.”

He gestured to the bridge beneath our feet. “Look around. The water moves whether you want it to or not. You don’t stop the current. But you don’t have to jump into it either.”

Sandra leaned on the railing, watching the river. “That’s what it felt like,” she said. “Like everything in me wanted to rush in and take control.”

“Exactly,” Solomon replied. “Patience stretches time right here.” He tapped the bridge. “Self-control stands guard. It keeps your first impulse from grabbing the wheel.”

I frowned. “But it feels weak. Like you’re letting things slide.”

Solomon turned to me, his voice calm but firm. “Conquering a city looks impressive. Mastering yourself looks invisible. But one lasts longer.”

He paused, eyes distant for a moment. “I conquered cities and still lost myself. I wish I’d known earlier that strength without restraint eventually turns on its owner.”

A couple holding hands passed us, earbuds in, never looking up. A moment later, they were gone, the space they’d occupied already forgotten.

“Whoever controls this space,” Solomon said, tapping the bridge again, “controls the outcome. Skip it, and your triggers decide for you. Use it, and you do.”

Sandra exhaled slowly. “That pause changed everything.”

“Yes,” Solomon said. “Because wisdom understands people, not just problems.”

The sun dipped lower, the light warming, the shadows lengthening across the water.

Solomon closed his notebook. “Here’s what I want you to carry with you today,” he said. “Patience isn’t weakness. It’s delayed strength. Self-control isn’t silence—it’s direction. And the hardest battles you’ll ever fight won’t be against other people. They’ll be right here.”

He tapped his chest lightly.

Sandra said goodbye first, her footsteps fading down the bridge. I noticed the absence she left behind—like a conversation that had finished well.

I stayed a moment longer, hands resting on the railing, watching the river move beneath me.

Maybe strength wasn’t about stopping the current.

Maybe it was about choosing how—and when—you crossed.

What? True wisdom shows up as patience and self-control, creating space between impulse and response.

So What? Most damage in life doesn’t come from lack of power, but from unguarded reactions that cost more than we expect.

Now What? The next time you feel triggered, pause long enough to name what you’re feeling before you respond—build the bridge, and cross it on purpose.

Day 50 — When Words Find Their Way | Proverbs 16:12–22

Key Verse: “The wise are known for their understanding, and pleasant words are persuasive.” (v.21)

 Big Idea: Wisdom understands people, not just problems—and speaks truth in a way hearts can actually hear. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

We made it back to the café today, which felt quieter than usual, like the world had turned its volume knob down a notch just for us. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows in honeyed sheets, catching the steam off mugs and the dust motes drifting lazily in the air. 

I arrived carrying yesterday’s conversation like a stone in my pocket—Sandra’s face at the waterfront, the way her voice tightened when she said “brother.”

Solomon was already there. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled, silver-streaked hair tied back. He smelled faintly of cedar again, like an old library that somehow still felt alive. He smiled when he saw me, tapped the table once—his tell—and slid his weathered leather notebook closer.

“Proverbs sixteen,” he said. “A stretch of verses about leadership, humility, justice, and restraint. I wrote this section to remind people that power isn’t loud, and influence isn’t force.”

He leaned in. “The whole passage moves like this: rulers are accountable, pride trips us, plans matter but surrender matters more, patience outperforms strength, and words—well—words carry weight.” He paused, letting the espresso machine hiss and settle. “Then I narrow it down.”

Sandra came in just then, wind-flushed, scarf half-knotted. She hesitated when she saw us, like she didn’t want to interrupt, but Solomon caught her eye with uncanny precision.

“Sit,” he said gently, already making space. “You’re part of today.”

She smiled weakly and joined us. I noticed how her shoulders stayed tight, like she was bracing for impact.

Solomon opened the notebook. Inside were sketches—forked paths, a small flame cupped by hands, a diagram of a mouth connected to a heart. He traced one line with his finger. “In this passage, I talk about wisdom as something visible. Not flashy. Recognizable.” He looked at Sandra. “People know the wise by how they understand—and by how they speak.”

He quoted it then, slow and clear: “Verse 21 says, ‘The wise are known for their understanding, and pleasant words are persuasive.’”

Sandra exhaled. “That’s the problem,” she said. “I understand my brother’s situation. He’s drifting. I see it coming. But every time I talk to him, it’s like I make it worse.”

Solomon didn’t rush. The café clinked and murmured around us, but our table felt suspended. “Understanding people,” he said, “is different than understanding situations. Situations can be solved. People have to be reached.”

I felt something in my chest resist that. “But isn’t truth just… truth?” I asked. “If it’s right, shouldn’t it land?”

Solomon smiled—warm, not smug. “I once thought that,” he said. “I spoke truth like a hammer. Accurate. Heavy. I learned—painfully—that truth without gentleness feels like rejection to the listener, even when it’s right.” He tapped the notebook again. “Pleasant doesn’t mean fake. It means fitting.”

Sandra stared at the diagram of the mouth and heart. “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Say less? Say it nicer?”

“Say it wiser,” Solomon replied. “Wisdom listens for the wound underneath the behavior. Your brother isn’t just skipping school. He’s testing where he belongs. If your words sound judging, he’ll run. If they sound like curiosity or caring, he might stay.”

She swallowed. “I’ve been planning speeches.”

“Plans are good,” Solomon said. “But presence is better. Ask him questions you don’t already have answers to. Use words that feel like open doors.” He glanced at me. “That’s why I wrote that patience is better than power earlier in the passage.”

The world seemed to slow then—the way it does when something true settles in. Even the grinder behind the counter went quiet.

Sandra nodded slowly. “So… gentle doesn’t mean weak?”

“No,” Solomon said. “It means strong enough to carry truth without dropping it on someone’s head.”

He leaned back, authority softened by regret. “I’ve watched kingdoms crumble because leaders loved being right more than being understood. God’s wisdom—real wisdom—moves toward people. It invites. It doesn’t corner.”

Sandra stood to leave, pulling her scarf tighter. “I think I know what to try,” she said. When she walked out, her absence felt like a question mark left hanging in the air.

Solomon turned to me. “Remember this,” he said. “Understanding opens ears. Pleasant words open hearts. And when hearts open, truth finally has a place to land.”

I sat there long after he left, thinking about all the times I’d tried to win conversations instead of people—and wondering who might still be listening if I’d chosen my words differently.

What? Wisdom shows up in understanding people deeply and choosing words that invite rather than repel.

So What? In a loud, reactive world, the way we speak often matters as much as what we say—especially with people we love.

Now What? Before your next hard conversation, pause and ask one genuine question first—then let your words aim for connection, not control.

Day 49 — When God Edits the Plan | Proverbs 16:1–11

Key Verse: “We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.” (v.9)

Big Idea: Planning is human; surrender is wise—because the best paths are often the ones we didn’t map. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The trail hugged the edge of the bluffs like a quiet promise. Sunlight sifted through the pines in thin gold ribbons, warming the sand and turning the river below into a sheet of hammered silver. I could hear the current gushing, steady and patient. I came restless, carrying a to‑do list in my head that refused to sit still.

Solomon stood where the mountain trail widened, hands in his jacket pockets, face tipped toward the light. He looked relaxed, like a man who had nowhere else to be—and meant it. “You picked a good day to walk,” he said, smiling. “The world slows down out here. Makes truth easier to hear.”

Sandra arrived a minute later, hiking shoes dusty, hair pulled back tight like she’d meant to run straight through the morning without stopping. She exhaled when she saw us, the kind of breath you don’t realize you’re holding. “Hope I’m not late.”

“You’re right on time,” Solomon said, gently humorous as always. There was that uncanny thing he did—like he could read the margins of people’s lives.

We started down the mountain trail together. Solomon introduced the passage as if opening a window. “In this section,” he said, “I talk about planning, motives, fairness, and outcomes. I bring up the way people weigh their options—and the way God weighs hearts. I contrast confidence with humility, ambition with integrity. It’s a map, but not the kind you think.”

He slowed us to a stop where the trees parted and the water widened below. The wind moved through the needles. Time felt stretched thin.

“Here’s the line that holds it all together,” Solomon said, and quoted it the way you quote something you learned the hard way: “We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.”

Sandra laughed once, sharp and nervous. “That verse follows me around,” she said. “Which is… not comforting right now.”

Solomon nodded, inviting. “Tell us.”

She stared out at the horizon. “It’s my brother,” she said quietly. “He’s seventeen. Smart. Kind. But lately he’s been skipping school, hanging with people who don’t care about him, disappearing for hours. My mom thinks it’s just a phase. I don’t.” Her voice tightened. “I’ve tried talking to him. I’ve tried backing off. I’ve tried everything in between. Nothing sticks. I keep planning conversations, interventions, strategies… and every one of them falls apart.”

I felt my own chest tighten. The list‑maker in me recognized the panic.

Solomon took out his weathered leather notebook and opened it on his knee. He sketched two lines diverging from a point, then curved them back together farther down. “Some people think this verse means God disregards your plans,” he said. “Like… you plan A, and He says… ‘Surprise—plan Z.’ But that’s not what I meant. It’s a reflection on the tension between our free will and God’s sovereignty.”

He tapped the starting point. “You plan because you’re human. Planning isn’t the problem. Pretending your plan is the boss—that’s where trouble starts.” He looked at Sandra. “God doesn’t disregard your strategies. He cares about your heart. The verse tells us that God often works in the "micro" moments—the unexpected delays, the "chance" meetings, or the closed doors that steer you toward a different path.”

Looking upward at the sun beams coming through the tree tops, He said, “This is my way of saying, ‘Keep doing your best. Pray that it’s blessed. And He will take care of the rest.” 

She swallowed. “So… how do I know which step He determines?”

“By paying attention to what He’s shaping in you,” Solomon said. “Not just what you’re choosing.” He flipped the notebook and drew a scale. “Earlier in this passage, I say the Lord examines motives. Not methods. Motives.”

The river hush filled the pause.

“I learned this late,” Solomon added, voice quieter now. “I made brilliant plans that grew a kingdom—and hollowed my soul. I chased outcomes and neglected obedience. The steps I chose looked efficient. They weren’t faithful.”

Sandra blinked hard. “I don’t want to control him,” she said. “But I don’t want to lose him either.”

Solomon’s gaze softened. “Then don’t frame it as control. Frame it as stewardship.” He glanced at me, like he knew the word would land. “Sometimes God reroutes us because He’s protecting something we can’t see yet.”

He continued, weaving other voices in like harmonies. “The psalmist said, ‘The Lord directs the steps of the godly.’ And in an earlier Proverb, I reminded all of us: if we trust with our whole heart and don’t lean on our own understanding, He makes paths straight. Same melody. Different verse.”

Sandra nodded slowly. “So the interruption could be mercy.”

“It often is,” Solomon said. “Fairness matters to God. So does timing. In this passage I insist on honest scales—on integrity that doesn’t tilt when pressure hits. The right step isn’t always the fastest one. But it’s the one that keeps you whole.”

We walked again. A couple passed us laughing, then disappeared down a side trail. Their absence felt loud.

At the overlook, Solomon stopped. “Here’s what I want you to keep,” he said, summarizing with the clarity of a man who’d paid for his conclusions. “Plan boldly. Hold loosely. Listen deeply. Let God set the cadence of your steps, because He sees farther than you do—and He’s kinder than your fear.”

Sandra breathed out, steadier now. “I think I know my next step,” she said. “Not the whole path. Just the next one.”

Solomon smiled. “That’s usually how it works.”

As the sun climbed, I felt something in me unclench. My lists weren’t evil—but they weren’t sovereign either. There was relief in not being the final authority over my own future.

What? Proverbs 16:1–11 teaches that while we plan and decide, God weighs our hearts and ultimately directs our steps.

So What? This matters because life‑shaping decisions aren’t just about outcomes—they’re about who we’re becoming as we walk them.

Now What? Name your next right step—not the whole plan—and ask God to shape your motives before you choose your direction.

Day 48 — How Wisdom Flourishes | Proverbs 15:21–33

Key Verse: “Fear of the Lord teaches wisdom; humility precedes honor.” (v.33, NLT)

Big Idea: Wisdom flourishes when your life becomes a place where truth can land, take root, and grow. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The lake was loud with life that morning. Paddleboards sliced the water. Someone’s dog barked itself hoarse at a flock of geese. Sunlight bounced off the surface so hard it made me squint. No rain. No café. Just blue sky and a breeze that smelled like sunscreen and pine.

Solomon was already there, sitting on a low stone wall near the path, sleeves rolled, leather notebook tucked beside him like it belonged outdoors. He looked… lighter today. Like someone who knew exactly where to stand to catch the warmth.

“You picked a good day to listen,” he said as I approached. “Harder to hide from wisdom when everything’s this exposed.”

I snorted. “I came for wisdom, not a tan.”

He smiled, that gentle, knowing grin. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

A woman slowed near us, hesitated, then stepped closer. Mid-thirties, athletic build, ponytail damp with sweat. She held a water bottle like it was a question she didn’t know how to ask.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve seen you here the past few days and I couldn’t help overhearing. You've been mentioning... wisdom?”

Solomon turned toward her as if he’d been expecting her all morning. “We did. I’m Solomon. This is Ethan. We’re spending 90 days focusing on street-smart wisdom found in the Book of Proverbs.”

“I’m Sandra,” she said. “I’m—” she paused, searching for honest words. “I’m trying to become wiser. Not smarter. Wiser. And I don’t know where to start.”

Something in my chest tightened. Because same.

Solomon patted the stone beside him. “Then you arrived right on time.”

She sat. The geese wandered off. The world felt like it leaned in.

He opened his notebook, the leather creaking softly, and glanced at the lake. “In this section,” he said, “I talk about what makes a life receptive to wisdom—and what makes it hostile to it.”

He gave us the flyover first. Proverbs 15:21–33. He talked about joy versus foolishness, correction versus stubbornness, gentle words versus cutting ones. About how some people crave pleasure because they refuse discipline, while others grow because they listen when truth stings. He spoke of reverence, humility, patience. Not as rules. As soil conditions.

“Wisdom,” he said, “doesn’t grow everywhere. Some lives are like pavement, hard to penetrate. Some are poisoned—soured by pride, bitterness, noise, and self-justification. But some are tended like a Japanese bonsai—pruned with care, shaped over time, and never rushed.”

He continued, “Paved lives resist truth. Poisoned lives distort it. Tended lives receive it.”

Sandra leaned forward. “So how do you… tend it?”

Solomon’s eyes softened. “That’s the right question.”

He tapped the notebook. “Today’s passage tells us, ‘Foolishness brings joy to those with no sense; a sensible person stays on the right path.’ Some of us chase joy so hard we abandon direction. Wisdom grows where you value your destination more than how entertained you feel today.”

I felt that one land. Hard.

He continued, pulling threads from the passage. “Plans succeed with good counsel. Gentle answers keep conflict from poisoning the ground. Honest feedback—though it feels like pruning—makes a life healthier. Listening is how wisdom breathes.”

Sandra frowned. “I read a lot. Podcasts. Books. But I still feel… stuck.”

Solomon nodded. “Information is seed. But humility is soil.” He paused, and the lake seemed to hush around us. “Here’s the center of it.” He looked straight at her. At me. “‘Fear of the Lord teaches wisdom; humility precedes honor.’”

He let the words hang.

“Fear?” Sandra said. “That’s a tough sell.”

He chuckled quietly. “Not fear in the sense of terror or fright. This kind of fear is an awareness of the immenseness, power, and presence of our Creator that leads to profound reverence. It is living like God is real, present, and not impressed by our posturing. This is the beginning of being teachable.”

Sandra swallowed. “So wisdom isn’t about being impressive.”

“No,” Solomon said. “It’s about being interruptible. Living with enough humility that you allow truth to stop you mid-stride.”

He told us a story then—brief, unpolished—about a season when he stopped listening. When power insulated him. When correction felt like disrespect. “That’s when my life got loud,” he said. “And empty. Honor chased me later. It never comes first.”

Sandra stared out at the water. “So if I want wisdom to grow…”

“You make room,” Solomon said. “You welcome correction. You slow your speech. You choose counsel over applause. You live like your life answers to Someone higher than your moods.”

A jogger passed. A breeze lifted Sandra’s ponytail. She stood, eyes clearer than when she’d arrived. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think I know my next step.”

She walked off down the path, sunlight swallowing her up. After she had taken a few steps, she paused. Turning around, she asked, “Do you think I could join you again tomorrow?"

“Absolutely,” said Solomon with anticipation. “And the days after that, if you’re still interested.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, then continued into the sunlight. 

Solomon closed his notebook and looked at me. “Wisdom isn’t rare,” he said. “But environments that nurture it are.”

As we stood to leave, he summarized it simply: “Honor grows downstream from humility. Teachability is strength. And a life aware of God becomes a place wisdom loves to stay.”

I watched the lake one last time. Thought about the ways I’d paved over parts of my own heart. And wondered what might grow if I stopped.

What? Wisdom grows in a life shaped by humility, reverence for God, and openness to correction.

So What? Because brilliance without teachability leaves you stuck, while humble awareness creates real growth and lasting honor.

Now What? Choose one place today to practice humility—invite feedback, listen without defending, or acknowledge God’s presence before making a decision.