Key Verse: “Honesty guides good people; dishonesty
destroys treacherous people.” (v.3)
The waterfront was washed in dull silver when I arrived. Morning fog hung low, blurring the line where water met sky. The tide moved slow but steady, knocking against the wooden pilings beneath the pier. Each knock sounded deliberate, like time tapping its watch.
Solomon stood near the railing, hands folded behind his back, linen shirt tugged gently by the wind. His silver-streaked hair was tied back, boots scuffed and solid.
“You picked a place that doesn’t let you fake things,” he said without turning. “Water tells the truth eventually. Think about it, you can hide cracks in a dock, rot in a beam, or weakness in a foundation—but water will find it. Over time, it reveals what was solid and what was pretending.”
“In the same way that water finds the cracks,” he said, “a lack of honesty and integrity will eventually be exposed.”
I shrugged out of my jacket and leaned beside him. My chest felt tight. “That sounds ominous.”
He smiled, warm but knowing. “Only if you’re hoping it won’t.”
We sat on a bench bleached by sun and salt. Solomon opened his weathered leather notebook and sketched a simple scale—one side level, the other barely tipped. “In this passage,” he said, tapping the page, “I talk about weight. Honest weights. Crooked ones. But also the kind that almost balance.”
He quoted the key verse aloud, steady and unflinching: “Honesty guides good people; dishonesty destroys treacherous people.”
I exhaled slowly. “That’s the problem,” I said. “I’m not dishonest. I’m… umm, …almost honest.”
He glanced at me, eyes sharp now. “That word usually introduces trouble.”
A jogger passed us, shoes slapping the boards. Somewhere down the pier, a fisherman cursed under his breath. Solomon continued. “Proverbs 11 starts in the marketplace, but it doesn’t stay there. It moves from business to leadership to whole communities because truth leaks. It never stays contained.”
I swallowed. “At work, I adjust projections. Smooth rough numbers. It’s not exactly accurate—just optimistic. Everyone does it. No out-and-out lies. Just numbers that are almost right.”
“So, not truthful then,” Solomon said gently.
That stung. “Come on,” I said. “There’s a difference between lying and managing reality.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and for a moment the world seemed to slow—the gulls gliding, the water flattening. “That difference,” he said, “is where most people lose themselves.”
He flipped the notebook toward me and drew a line—straight at first, then subtly curved. “Almost honest always bends after the point where you stop looking.”
I felt defensive heat rise in my chest. “So you’re saying I’m ‘treacherous’? That seems extreme.”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m saying treachery rarely announces itself. It dresses like responsibility. Like loyalty. Like being practical.”
A couple walked past us arguing quietly. Their voices faded, then disappeared altogether. The absence felt heavy.
“The word translated here as ‘honesty’ means straightness—no deviation. And ‘guides’ means safe passage through unknown terrain. “Almost honest” doesn’t guide. It improvises. It reacts. It keeps adjusting to stay ahead of consequences.”
I stared out at the water. “But if I go fully honest,” I said, “I lose credibility. I might lose my job.”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s the risk. Integrity may cost something upfront. Dishonesty charges interest later.”
He paused, then added quietly, “I once believed I could build stability on partial truth. I surrounded myself with advisors who told me what I wanted to hear—and I learned too late that comfort is a poor substitute for clarity.”
The fisherman nearby reeled in his line. It snapped. He shook his head and walked away. Solomon watched him go.
“Almost honest works until pressure hits,” Solomon said. “Then it breaks at the weakest strand.”
He quoted the key verse again, slower now: “Honesty guides good people; dishonesty destroys treacherous people.”
“This is talking about people who shift their footing when it suits them.”
I felt exposed. “So what do I do?” I asked. “Confess everything? Blow things up?”
He smiled—kind, steady. “Not necessarily. You choose a line and stop moving it. One report. One conversation. One decision where you refuse to edit reality for comfort.”
The fog began to lift. Sunlight cut through in pale streaks across the water.
“Remember this,” he said, standing. “Truth doesn’t demand perfection. It demands direction. And water”—he gestured to the bay—“always tests direction.”
He walked down the pier, boots thudding softly. I stayed seated, heart pounding, already rehearsing the email I’d been avoiding. I wasn’t ready for courage. But I was done pretending almost was enough.
What? Proverbs 11 teaches that integrity is about straightness, not spin—truth that doesn’t bend under pressure.
So What? Almost honest may protect you short-term, but over time it erodes trust, stability, and your own clarity.
Now What? Identify one place where you’ve been managing the truth, and choose one action today that tells it cleanly, without edits.
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