Key Verse: “Save yourself like a gazelle escaping
from a hunter, like a bird fleeing from a net.” (v.5)
We met at the café again, but this time I arrived tight-chested, jaw set. The place smelled like lemon cleaner, chairs scraping the concrete floor as people jockeyed for outlets. Outside, traffic surged and stalled in waves. It felt fitting—motion without progress.
Solomon was already there, silver-streaked hair tied back, linen shirt rumpled like he’d sat with the day awhile before I showed up. He tapped the table once as I approached, eyes kind but alert.
“You’re carrying something,” he said.
“Money,” I replied. “Or the lack of it.”
He nodded like he’d expected that answer.
“In this passage,” he said, “I turn from desire to debt. Not because they’re unrelated—because they are cousins. Both make promises. Both ask you to move fast. Both can quietly take your freedom.”
Before he could say more, a young couple slid into the table beside us. Wedding rings still bright. The husband spoke too quickly, voice low but sharp.
“I was trying to help,” he said. “It was supposed to be temporary.”
The wife’s eyes were wet but steady. “You signed for it. Without telling me.”
The words hung there—without telling me—heavy as a dropped plate.
Solomon glanced at them, then back at me. “Listen,” he murmured. “You’ll hear today’s proverb before I even quote it.”
He opened the leather notebook and slid it across the table. Inside was a simple drawing: a hand shaking another hand, a rope looped gently at first, then pulled tight.
“When I wrote this,” he said, “I was thinking about agreements made too quickly. Co-signing. Guarantees. Loan agreements. The moment when wanting to be helpful turns into being trapped.”
He leaned in and quoted it plainly: “Save yourself like a gazelle escaping from a hunter, like a bird fleeing from a net.”
“A gazelle escaping a hunter is all instinct, urgency, and focus—there’s nothing casual about it.”
“A gazelle doesn’t pause to weigh options or protect its pride. It doesn’t say, ‘Maybe I can manage this.’ The moment it senses danger, its entire body commits to escape.”
The café seemed to slow—the hiss of the steam wand, the clink of cups—everything dimmed around the words.
“I don’t say, ‘Manage the trap,’” Solomon continued. “I say, run. Fast. Humbly. Immediately. Run like something wants to eat you—because something does.”
The husband beside us scoffed under his breath. “So what? —panic?”
Solomon turned to them, not unkind. “No,” he said. “Act. Now. Pride waits. Wisdom moves.”
He explained gently. “In this passage, I tell the one who’s made the promise to go, plead, lose sleep, do whatever it takes. Not because you’re weak—but because freedom is fragile. Delay makes nets tighter.”
The wife’s shoulders dropped a fraction. The husband stared at the table.
“I’ve been there,” Solomon said, voice quieter now. “I kept agreements I never should have made because I didn’t want to look foolish. I paid for pride with years of pressure. Humility would have been cheaper.”
He tapped the table twice.
“Go to the person. Admit the mistake. Ask for mercy. Renegotiate. Exit if you can. The longer you pretend it’s fine, the more it owns you.”
The couple sat in silence. Then the husband nodded once—small, but real.
“Can we… talk about it?” he asked her.
She nodded. They stood, walked toward the door together. When they left, the space they’d occupied felt lighter—unfinished, but hopeful.
Solomon closed the notebook.
“This proverb isn’t about money alone,” he said. “It’s about anything that binds your future because your pride wouldn’t slow your present. Wisdom doesn’t cling to appearances. It protects freedom.”
He stood, the faint cedar scent rising as he slipped the notebook under his arm.
“Three things,” he said.
“First: recognize the net—quick promises often hide hooks.”
“Second: move fast to correct the situation—delay feeds bondage.”
“Third: choose humility—freedom is worth the embarrassment.”
He smiled, warm and steady, then disappeared into the late afternoon noise.
I stayed behind, listening to the traffic finally break free of the intersection outside, thinking about the promises I’ve made just to feel helpful—or impressive—and what it might look like to run while I still can.
What? This passage warns against careless commitments that threaten your freedom and urges swift, humble action to escape them.
So What? Because pride keeps people stuck longer than debt ever could—and waiting only tightens the trap.
Now What? Identify one obligation you entered too quickly and take a concrete step this week to address it honestly—ask for help, renegotiate, or begin an exit.
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