Key Verse: “The generous will prosper; those who
refresh others will themselves be refreshed.” (v.25)
Big Idea: A life becomes replenished not by guarding what you have, but by letting goodness flow through you.
The park was louder than I expected. Kids shrieked near the splash pad. A jogger’s breath came in sharp bursts as he passed. Leaves scraped the concrete in short, dry spirals. I sat on a bench with a coffee that had already gone lukewarm, feeling thin and irritable, like I’d been stretched too far without anything poured back in.
Solomon was already there, feeding something small and fearless from the palm of his hand. A squirrel, I think. When he looked up, he smiled like he’d been mid-thought and happy to have company.
“You look spent,” he said gently.
“I feel… depleted,” I admitted. “Like everything costs more than it used to.”
He tapped the bench twice, inviting me to sit closer. When I did, I caught the faint scent of cedar. “That makes today’s words timely,” he said. “Let’s talk about the last section of Proverbs 11.”
He didn’t rush to the verse. Instead, he traced the shape of the whole passage with his hands, like outlining a map in the air. “Here I contrast two kinds of lives,” he said. “One that curves inward—tight-fisted, self-protective, obsessed with appearances. And another that opens outward—honest, generous, rooted. The first looks shiny at first. The second looks slow. But only one actually lasts.”
A man with a cardboard sign shuffled by the path. “ANYTHING HELPS.” His shoulders slumped like they’d learned that phrase didn’t always work. A few people avoided eye contact. Solomon watched him go, eyes thoughtful.
“In this section,” Solomon continued, “I talk about outcomes. Roots. Then fruit... Harvest. Not as punishment or reward games—but as cause and effect. Life has a way of multiplying what you plant.”
He reached for his weathered leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were rough sketches—trees with different root systems, arrows looping back on themselves, a simple scale tipped by tiny stick figures. He pointed to one drawing: a person pouring water into another cup, which overflowed back into their own.
Then he said the key line, slow enough that the park noise seemed to dim around us: “The generous will prosper; those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed.”
I hesitated. “That still sounds a little… calculated,” I said. “Like kindness with a receipt.”
Solomon didn’t bristle. He leaned in instead. “That’s the tension, isn’t it? But notice what I don’t say. I don’t say why you give. I describe what happens when a life becomes a channel instead of a container.”
A woman nearby was struggling with a stroller, one wheel caught in gravel. A teenager glanced at her, hesitated, then jogged over and helped lift it free. The woman laughed, relieved. The kid shrugged like it was nothing, but I saw his shoulders straighten as he walked away.
Solomon nodded toward them. “He didn’t calculate a return. But something still happened inside him.”
I thought about my own habits—how guarded I’d become with time, attention, money, even kindness. I thought about how often I waited to feel full before offering anything.
“You also say,” I added, flipping pages, “that some people hoard and still lose. And others scatter and somehow have more.”
“Yes,” Solomon said. A shadow crossed his face, brief but real. “I learned that the hard way. I accumulated more than I needed—projects, pleasures, alliances—thinking abundance would quiet my restlessness. Instead, it amplified it. Meanwhile, I watched quieter people give steadily, and their lives gained weight. Purpose. Substance.”
He tapped the notebook once. “Righteousness here isn’t about being impressive. It’s about being aligned. Living in a way that nourishes others instead of draining them.”
All of us want lives that feel 'refreshed', renewed, filled with 'vitality' and 'enjoyment'. Problem is..." he said... matter of factly, "This refreshment doesn't come from seeking to be refreshed, it comes from seeking to refresh others. To be a blessing to someone outside yourself. Generosity doesn’t diminish you — it enlarges you. Refreshing others leads to your own renewal."
"It's like a math formula as immutable as two plus two equals four... refreshing others equals refreshing yourself!"
The man with the cardboard sign returned, this time stopping near our bench. Before I could overthink it, Solomon stood, spoke to him softly, and pressed something folded into his hand. The man’s eyes watered. He thanked Solomon twice, then walked on.
When Solomon sat back down, the bench felt emptier and fuller at the same time.
“In this passage,” he said, “I also warn that a life turned inward doesn’t just hurt the person living it. It withers the ground around them. But a righteous life—an honest, generous one—keeps feeding people long after you’re gone. Even your absence can bless.”
I swallowed. “So if I feel dry…”
“…check what’s flowing through you, not just into you,” he finished.
We sat quietly. The park noises returned to full volume. Somewhere, a dog barked. A leaf landed on Solomon’s boot.
Before we parted, he summarized, counting softly on his fingers. “First: life multiplies what you sow. Second: generosity refreshes both giver and receiver. Third: righteousness isn’t loud—but it’s enduring.”
As I stood to leave, I realized my coffee was still lukewarm. But I felt… steadier. Less hollow. Like maybe refreshment didn’t always come from being filled—but from being poured out wisely.
So What? In a culture trained to hoard energy and protect self, wisdom reminds us that real renewal often comes through giving, not grasping.
Now What? Today, intentionally refresh one person—through time, attention, encouragement, or generosity—without expecting anything in return.
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