Key Verse: “Those who control their tongue will have
a long life; opening your mouth can ruin everything.” (v.3)
The café windows were fogged from the inside, the kind of blur that makes everything look gentler than it is. Steam rose from mugs. The grinder screamed, then stopped. Somewhere behind the counter, milk hissed like it was letting off pressure.
I slid into our usual table carrying the weight of words I wished I could rewind. Not shouted. Not cruel. Just… careless. The kind that slip out fast and leave wreckage behind them.
Solomon was already there. “Day forty,” he said quietly. “That’s usually when people start realizing wisdom isn’t just about what you do. It’s about what you release.”
He slid his weathered leather notebook forward but didn’t open it yet.
“Today,” he continued, “I talk about listening, desire, integrity, and light. Proverbs thirteen, verses one through nine. It’s about how life either grows sturdy or slowly collapses. And the hinge point”—he tapped the notebook—“is the mouth.”
Gideon arrived late, shoulders tight, jaw set. He nodded, sat down, kept his jacket on like armor. For weeks he’d been all resistance. Today, there was a crack in it. Not surrender. Just fatigue.
Solomon noticed. He always did.
“In this passage,” Solomon said, “I contrast two paths. One leads to protection and flourishing. The other to exposure and fading influence. Wisdom builds fences. Foolishness removes them and calls it freedom.”
He opened the notebook. A simple drawing: a field, a fence, and a small gate labeled tongue.
Then he quoted it, steady and exact: “Those who control their tongue will have a long life; opening your mouth can ruin everything.”
Gideon scoffed under his breath. “Feels exaggerated.”
Solomon smiled—not offended. Experienced. “So did fire, once,” he said.
That caught my attention.
“There was a man who came long after me. His name was James and he was the brother of Jesus…” Solomon went on, voice lowering as if the café had leaned closer. “He watched communities burn over words and tried to explain it in pictures people couldn’t ignore.” (See James 3:2-12)
He sketched a spark near the fence. “He said we all stumble in many ways. That the mouth is small, but it boasts big. That a tiny spark can set a whole forest on fire.”
I felt my stomach tighten. Yesterday’s sentence replayed. One spark. Plenty of dry ground.
“The danger,” Solomon said, “isn’t volume. It’s scale. Words travel farther than intention. Faster than regret.”
Gideon shifted in his chair. “So what—just shut up forever?”
“No,” Solomon said. “Build a gate.”
He drew a hinge. “James talked about a bit in a horse’s mouth—small, but it steers the whole body. A rudder on a ship—tiny, but it determines the direction in heavy wind. I was saying the same thing generations earlier. Control the tongue, and you protect the life attached to it.”
The café noise dimmed. Cups clinked in slow motion. Someone laughed too loudly, then stopped.
“Here’s the part people miss,” Solomon continued. “Words don’t just affect others. They shape you! Speak recklessly long enough and your inner world catches fire. Speak wisely and you create shade.”
I asked the question sitting in my chest. “But honesty matters. Aren’t we supposed to say what’s true?”
Solomon nodded. “Truth matters. Timing matters. Tone matters. James warned that the same mouth can bless and curse—and that something’s broken when that feels normal.”
He leaned closer. “Honesty without wisdom isn’t courage. It’s impatience wearing a costume.”
Gideon exhaled through his nose. “I keep thinking if I don’t say it, I’ll explode.”
“And if you do say it,” Solomon replied gently, “who else gets burned?”
That landed. Harder than rebuke. Softer than shame.
Solomon flipped the page. Two lamps this time. One bright and steady. One flickering.
“In verses eight and nine,” he said, “I talk about light and righteousness—how integrity shines. Wickedness, though, dims over time. It looks bold at first. Loud. But fire consumes its own fuel.”
He paused, then added quietly, “I’ve lived both.”
That silence said more than a story.
Across the room, a barista wiped her eyes while a customer spoke too sharply. Solomon watched, then looked back at us. “See? Small fire. Still dangerous.”
Gideon stared at the notebook. “So wisdom protects?” he said slowly. “Not by winning arguments. By preventing damage?
Solomon smiled. “Exactly.”
Gideon stood to leave. At the door, he turned back. “I’m tired of rebuilding,” he admitted. Then he was gone. The empty chair felt like progress.
Solomon closed his notebook. “Here’s what I want you to carry,” he said. “Your words are not decorations. They’re forces. Guard them.”
Outside, the fog had lifted. I pulled my phone out, typed an apology, and waited—just long enough to make sure it was building, not burning.
What? Wisdom guards the tongue because words carry disproportionate power—small, but capable of protecting life or setting it ablaze.
So What? In a reactive world, unfiltered speech destroys trust and influence, while disciplined words create safety, light, and lasting impact.
Now What? Before speaking today, ask: Is this a spark—or a shelter? If it burns, wait. If it builds, speak.
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