Key Verse: “Laughter can conceal a heavy heart, but
when the laughter ends, the grief remains.” (v.13)
Big Idea: You can hide pain behind a grin, but wisdom begins when you tell the truth about what’s hurting.
The lake was glassy that morning, sun sliding across it like a slow blessing. Ducks stitched lazy V’s through the reflection of cottonwoods. No rain, no café hum—just clean air and a bench warmed by yesterday’s heat.
Gideon wasn’t there. I noticed the empty space beside me before I noticed anything else. He’d taken the promotion, packed his desk, moved on. I was proud of him. Still, absence has a sound. It’s quieter than silence.
Solomon arrived the way he does—linen shirt catching the light. “Today,” he said, “I’m talking about the faces we wear.”
He slid his weathered leather notebook between us and opened it. Inside were circles and arrows, a little theater mask sketched in the corner—one smiling, one cracked.
“In this passage,” he continued, “I walk through contrasts. Joy that isn’t joy. Success that isn’t real. Paths that look bright and end dark. It’s a whole neighborhood of choices.”
We started wide. Proverbs 14:13–24. He talked about outcomes, not intentions. About how the wise don’t just chase good vibes—they chase good ends. About how steady work beats flashy shortcuts. About how righteousness isn’t loud but it lasts.
As he spoke, a runner passed us, earbuds in, laughing at something only she could hear. Solomon watched her go with a soft, knowing look.
Then he slowed the world. The birds seemed to hold their breath.
He read it out loud, steady and plain: “Laughter can conceal a heavy heart, but when the laughter ends, the grief remains.”
I felt it land in my chest like a stone dropped in water.
“Why call it out like that?” I asked. “Everyone does it. You ‘fake it until you make it...’ That's the saying, isn't it? What’s wrong with that?”
Solomon’s smile was gentle, not indulgent. “Nothing’s wrong with getting through,” he said. “What’s dangerous is pretending you’re healed to make it seem like everything’s fine.”
He sketched a cup in the notebook, then filled it halfway. “This is your heart. Laughter can put a lid on it. A good one. Tight. But it doesn’t drain what’s inside. When the lid comes off—late at night, alone, scrolling—the weight is still there.”
I bristled. “So what—be miserable in public? Trauma-dump on strangers?”
He chuckled, tapping the page. “You hear extremes because you’re tired. I’m not asking for spectacle. I’m asking for honesty in the right rooms. Wisdom chooses where truth goes.”
He told me a story then—one of his own. About a season when he threw feasts to outrun regret, surrounded himself with laughter like armor. “People thought I was winning,” he said, eyes on the lake. “I thought so too. But when the music stopped, the same ache was waiting. I learned this the hard way: concealment postpones pain; it doesn’t heal it.”
A breeze lifted the page of his notebook. He pinned it down. “I wrote this because I’d watched fools laugh their way into ruin and wise people tell the truth early. One path looks bright at noon and ends in shadows. The other starts with a hard conversation and ends in peace.”
I thought about my own grin—how easily it shows up at work, how practiced. How I deflect with jokes when someone asks how I’m really doing. “What if telling the truth makes things worse?” I asked. “What if it costs you?”
“Sometimes it does,” he said. “But wisdom counts costs honestly. Hidden grief leaks. It shows up as anger, as numbness, as risky choices you can’t explain. That’s why later I say the wise build something solid while fools spend energy on noise.”
He nodded toward the runner returning on the path, her laughter gone now, jaw set. “See? Faces change. Hearts stay unless we tend them.”
He widened the conversation to include another voice… “There’s a line from another one of my father’s psalms that fits here: ‘The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.’ That nearness doesn’t happen when we deny the break. It happens when we bring it into the light.” (Psalm 34:18)
The sun climbed higher. The lake flashed. I felt exposed—and strangely relieved. Like setting down a heavy bag I’d been pretending was empty.
Solomon closed the notebook and slid it back. “Remember this,” he said, summarizing the way he does when he wants it to stick. “Don’t confuse laughter with healing. Choose wisdom over appearances. Tell the truth early, to the right people, and let the Lord’s love and comfort meet you there.”
I watched the empty space where Gideon used to sit. Promotions come. People move. Grief sneaks around the edges of good news. I didn’t need to stop smiling. I needed to stop hiding.
What? You can cover pain with laughter, but it doesn’t cure it; wisdom faces the truth so real healing can begin.
So What? Hidden grief leaks into our choices, relationships, and habits—naming it early keeps it from steering your life in the dark.
Now What? Today, choose one safe place and one trusted person to tell the honest version of how you’re doing—no jokes, no spin.
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