Key Verse: “Let
your wife be a fountain of blessing for you. Rejoice in the wife of your
youth.” (v.18)
The rain had turned the city gray and soft, like someone had smudged the edges of everything. The café windows were fogged, and I wiped a circle clear with my sleeve before sitting down. Inside, the world was warm—espresso steam, the low hum of conversation, the smell of bread just pulled from the oven.
Still, my chest felt restless. Not lonely exactly. Just… unsatisfied. Like I’d been grazing all day and never eaten a real meal.
Solomon arrived without fanfare—linen shirt, handmade boots darkened from the rain, silver-streaked hair tied back. When he leaned in to greet me, I caught that faint cedar scent again. He tapped the table twice, a familiar rhythm.
“You came thirsty today,” he said, gently amused.
I exhaled. “That obvious, huh?”
He smiled and slid into the chair. “It usually is.”
He didn’t open the notebook yet. Instead, he looked out the window, watching rain trace crooked paths down the glass.
“In today’s passage,” he said, “I continue something I started earlier. First, I warned about desire when it’s left unchecked—how it promises freedom but quietly steals a life. Here, I do something different. I’m not just telling you what not to do. I’m showing you where desire actually leads when it’s aimed well.”
A couple stood at the counter nearby. They weren’t arguing, but they weren’t together either—two people scrolling separate worlds, shoulders almost touching. After a moment, the man paid. The woman lingered. Then one left without looking back. The empty space they left behind felt heavier than their presence had.
Solomon noticed. He always does.
He opened the leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were simple drawings: a deep well with a stone rim, a stream branching thinner and thinner, and a cracked cistern leaking into dry ground.
“I used water for a reason,” he said. “Everyone understands thirst. I wrote, ‘Drink water from your own well, flowing water from your own spring.’”
He tapped the well.
“Fleeting desire promises relief,” he said, “but it never offers rest. It gives intensity without safety. Novelty without being known. You can be wanted for a night and still feel completely replaceable by morning.”
The café noise seemed to fade, like someone had turned the volume knob down.
“When love stays,” he continued, “something else becomes possible. Something dramatic. Something remarkable. You are seen fully—and not discarded. You don’t have to perform to be kept. Trust grows. History accumulates. Intimacy stops being a transaction and starts becoming a language.”
Then he looked directly at me and quoted it clearly, deliberately:
“Let your wife be a fountain of blessing for you. Rejoice in the wife of your youth.”
“This isn’t about control,” he said. “It’s about joy. A fountain doesn’t run dry because it’s guarded. It stays full because it’s protected.”
He turned the page and added another sketch—two figures side by side, lines between them growing thicker over time.
“Marriage offers things momentary encounters can’t,” he said. “A shared past that deepens touch. A shared future that gives meaning to sacrifice. A place where desire matures instead of burning out—where intimacy grows not from novelty, but from trust.”
I shifted in my seat. He was naming things I’d felt but never said out loud.
“Truth is, I failed here in my own life,” Solomon said remorsefully. “Spectacularly!”
“For a time in my life, I collected relationships like trophies and called it wisdom. It wasn’t. The more I reached, the emptier I became. Love isn’t proven by how much you can handle. It’s proven by how well you can keep a promise.”
“Casual desire avoids accountability. Covenant love heals through consistency.”
Outside, the rain slowed. Light pressed softly through the clouds.
“Guarding love,” he added, “means guarding what feeds it—your habits, your imagination, what you normalize. What you repeatedly give attention to eventually asks for your allegiance.”
He stood, slinging the notebook under his arm.
“Three things to remember,” he said.
“First: desire doesn’t disappear—it needs direction.”
“Second: joy grows where attention stays.”
“Third: depth always outlasts novelty.”
He smiled—warm, knowing—and stepped back into the rain. The cedar scent faded. The chair across from me stayed empty.
For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel restless. Just thoughtful. Like I’d finally named the hunger instead of chasing it.
What? Faithful, committed love is meant to be joyful, sustaining, and deeply satisfying—not limiting, but life-giving.
So What? Because fleeting desire offers intensity without security, but lasting love builds trust, meaning, and joy that doesn’t vanish when the moment ends.
Now What? Take one step this week to protect depth over distraction—set a boundary, give undivided attention, or invest intentionally in your primary relationship like it actually matters.
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