Key Verse: “Even Death and Destruction hold no
secrets from the Lord. How much more does he know the human heart!” (v.11, NLT)
The park was wide open and unapologetically bright. Late-morning sun spilled across the grass, kids zigzagged on scooters, and the lake beyond the trees flashed silver like it was trying to get my attention.
Solomon had chosen a bench near the water, angled so you could see the whole stretch of shoreline.
“You picked a day with nowhere to hide,” I said.
He smiled, tapping the bench once beside him. “Exactly.”
I sat, squinting into the light. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for inspection.”
Solomon leaned back, hands folded over his weathered leather notebook. “Perfect,” he said. “The right place isn’t always comfortable. But sometimes it’s exactly where you need to be.”
He nodded toward the lake. “In this section,” he said, “I move inward. I talk about what God sees, what shapes a life, what fuels joy or corrodes it. I contrast outward order with inward chaos.”
A breeze rolled off the water, rippling the surface. The world felt slowed again, like someone had turned the saturation up and the noise down.
“I start by saying something uncomfortable,” he continued. “That even Death and Destruction—things humans fear and mythologize—are fully open before the Lord.”
He looked at me and quoted it carefully, letting the words land. “Even Death and Destruction hold no secrets from the Lord. How much more does he know the human heart!”
I swallowed. “That doesn’t feel comforting.”
“It isn’t meant to be,” he said gently. “At least not at first.”
A jogger passed, breathing hard, earbuds in. A couple argued quietly near the playground, voices sharp but controlled. Solomon watched them with calm attention.
“We spend so much effort managing what others see,” he said. “Tone. Image. Stability. But I wrote this to say: none of that limits God’s vision. Not your discipline. Not your success. Not your mess.”
He opened his notebook and sketched quickly—this time a human figure, chest hollowed like a cave.
“Most people think God deals with behavior,” he said. “But behavior is downstream. The heart is the source. That’s His focus. And that’s why I follow this verse with warnings about rejecting correction, chasing shortcuts, stirring conflict, living loud but hollow lives.”
I felt my shoulders tense. “So what—He’s watching for failure?”
Solomon’s eyes softened. “No. He’s watching for honesty. For willingness. For readiness.”
He leaned in. “Tell me, Ethan—what part of you works the hardest to stay unseen?”
The question landed too close. I looked back at the lake, sunlight flashing like a dare.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the part that’s tired of trying to be okay.”
Solomon nodded, like he’d expected that answer. “A crushed spirit dries the bones,” he said, referencing another line in the passage. “Not because pain exists—but because it’s carried alone.”
A teenage girl dropped onto the grass nearby, phone glowing in her hand. Her smile flickered on and off as she scrolled. Solomon noticed, then quietly slid his notebook closed.
“See,” he said softly, “how easy it is to look fine and feel fractured.”
She stood a moment later and walked off. The space she’d occupied felt louder once she was gone.
“I pushed myself once,” Solomon said after a pause, “to outrun what I didn’t want to face. Desire. Ego. Control. I kept the kingdom polished while my heart went unexamined. The unraveling didn’t start in public—it started in private.”
He went on, “When our hearts drift far from God, it usually doesn’t feel like rebellion at first. It feels like distance. Life stays busy, but meaning thins out. You manage appearances more than reality. Small things trigger big reactions. There’s a quiet grief you can’t name.”
He took a deep breath before continuing, “But here’s the game changer… Distance doesn’t disqualify you. It signals an invitation. There’s always a way back. And when our hearts return to a right place with the Lord, there’s a quiet relief—peace that isn’t tied to circumstances, joy that runs deeper than mood, and a sense that life finally lines up inside. You breathe easier, stop managing appearances, and feel gently seen, steadied, and restored from the inside out.”
I turned to him. “So what’s the way back?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood and gestured for us to walk. Gravel crunched under our feet as we followed the curve of the water.
“You stop confusing privacy with protection,” he said. “And you stop treating God like an auditor instead of a healer.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Which is why wisdom begins with an awe and reverence for God. Humility.”
He stopped and faced me. “If God already sees the deepest places—and He does—then hiding doesn’t keep you safe. It just keeps you stuck.”
I felt resistance rise. “What if I don’t want Him to see?”
Solomon smiled, warm and steady. “Then you’re finally seeing the same thing He does. That’s where repair starts.”
We stood there a moment, sunlight pressing in from every angle.
“Remember this,” he said, summarizing. “God’s knowledge of your heart isn’t a threat—it’s an invitation. A joyful life doesn’t come from managing appearances, but from aligning the inner life with truth. And correction isn’t cruelty—it’s care.”
As we headed back toward the bench, I realized something unsettling and hopeful at the same time: the parts of me I’d worked hardest to hide were already known—and somehow, still welcome.
What? God sees everything, including the hidden motives and wounds of the human heart.
So What? Lasting joy and stability don’t come from image management but from honest alignment with God in the places we usually conceal.
Now What? Today, name one hidden thought, habit, or fear you’ve avoided bringing to God—and acknowledge it honestly, without excuses or spin.
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