Key Verse: “Guard your heart above all else, for it
determines the course of your life.” (v.23)
Big Idea: If you want to live well, guard what shapes your inner life.
I was waiting while a friend was in surgery. Time stretched thin and loud.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. It always does. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flattening everything into a long, pale hallway where minutes refused to behave. I’d come early—partly for the quiet, partly because my chest felt crowded with thoughts I couldn’t organize. Vending machines blinked awake like insomniacs. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeped—steady, insistent, alive.
Solomon was already there, seated in one of those molded plastic chairs designed more for efficiency than mercy. Linen shirt, silver-streaked hair tied back, boots planted like he planned to stay awhile.
Hard place to think,” he said, gently humorous. “But a good place to learn what’s worth guarding.”
He slid his weathered leather notebook onto his knee. The cover creaked like an old hinge. “Today,” he said, “I’m continuing something I once wrote to my son. Proverbs four—verses twenty through twenty-seven. It’s about paying attention, direction, and protection.”
The hallway noise softened, as if the building itself leaned in.
“In this passage,” he said, “I urge my son to listen—really listen. To keep my words close, not because they’re poetic, but because they’re life. I talk about eyes fixed forward, feet choosing steady ground, mouths that don’t leak poison. It’s a whole-body picture. Wisdom isn’t a thought—it’s a posture.”
“Life moves in a direction whether you choose it or not. Inputs shape outcomes. Attention becomes affection. Affection becomes action.”
A gurney rattled past. A nurse followed, moving fast, jaw tight, eyes tired. Solomon tracked her quietly.
“See her?” he said. “Strong heart. Overworked life. She’s been guarding everyone else and forgetting the center.”
We watched as she reappeared moments later at the vending machine. She rested her forehead against the glass, just for a second.
Solomon nodded toward a poster on the wall—an anatomical diagram of a human heart, arteries branching in careful colors. “No one argues with guarding that heart,” he said. “You don’t eat just anything when it matters to you. You don’t sit forever and expect it to stay strong. You pay attention to what you consume, how often you move, when you need rest. You notice warning signs—tightness, fatigue, rhythms that feel off—and you don’t call that weakness. You call it care.”
“But the inner heart? We often treat it like it should survive anything. Endless noise. Constant outrage. Screens that never stop asking for your attention. News that feeds fear. Social feeds that train comparison. Entertainment that numbs instead of nourishes.”
The monitor beeped again, patient and precise.
“A physical heart doesn’t fail overnight,” he continued. “It’s shaped by habits. Daily ones. So is the spiritual heart. What you scroll. What you replay. What voices you trust. What you let loop in your mind while you’re tired.”
He leaned in. “You wouldn’t eat fast food three times a day and call it self-care. But you’ll feed your inner life a steady diet of anxiety, outrage, lust, or distraction—and wonder why peace feels out of reach.”
I felt that land somewhere deep.
“Above all else,” he said quietly, “guard your heart. That phrase isn’t poetry—it’s priority. The word there is natsar. To watch. To keep. Like a sentry on a wall. Because from it flow the springs of life. Not just feelings—decisions. Reactions. The roads your feet keep finding.”
“Guard it from what?” I asked.
He smiled, warm and knowing. “From anything that wants access without permission. From media that trains your nervous system to stay on edge. From comparison dressed up as inspiration. From constant input that never allows reflection. From fear that calls itself being informed. From numbness that pretends to be rest.”
He drew a small gate on the page. “Guarding isn’t hardening. It’s choosing what gets in and how long it stays. A well-guarded heart isn’t sheltered—it’s clear. It has room for grief without letting grief take the wheel. It stays tender without being reckless.”
The nurse noticed us watching and walked over, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said. “Long night.”
Solomon met her eyes. “You don’t owe anyone an apology for being human,” he said. “But you do owe your heart some care.”
She laughed once, brittle at first, then real. “Don’t we all.”
I asked about my friend. “Is he doing okay?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Let me check and I’ll come back.”
She disappeared down the hall. Her absence felt heavier than her presence, like a door closing softly.
“I thought guarding my heart meant building walls,” I said.
“Walls keep danger out,” Solomon replied, “but they keep life out too. Gates are wiser. You decide when to open. You decide what voice gets volume. You decide when to power down.”
The world slowed again. Even the beeping seemed to wait.
“Eyes forward,” he said. “Don’t stare at what destabilizes you. Don’t keep consuming what spikes your fear or hollows you out. Straight paths aren’t accidental. They’re chosen.”
He stood, boots quiet on linoleum. “Three things,” he said, tapping the table. “Watch what you let in. Name what’s already shaping you. Choose your next habit with intention.”
Then he was gone, cedar lingering as the lights hummed back to full volume.
Moments later, the nurse returned, smiling. “Your friend’s doing great. Surgery went well. You’ll be able to see him soon.”
Relief settled in. I stayed seated, hand over my chest, aware of a rhythm I hadn’t been listening to.
Some doors don’t get kicked in. They’re left open.
What? Wisdom calls us to actively protect our inner life, because our habits and inputs shape the direction of our lives.
So What? In a noisy, always-on world, unguarded hearts are quietly trained by fear, comparison, and constant consumption—until clarity and peace feel foreign.
Now What? Today, tend one gate: limit one media input that agitates or numbs you, and replace it with something that steadies and strengthens your heart.
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