Key Verse: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a
broken spirit saps a person’s strength.” (v.22)
Big Idea: Your inner attitude isn’t a side issue—it actively shapes your strength, health, and capacity to live well.
The rooftop garden was all sun and stillness, the kind that sneaks up on you after too much noise. Warm concrete underfoot. Planters spilling rosemary and lavender. The city below hummed, but softened, like it had been turned down a few notches. No rain today. No café. Just light.
I climbed the stairs with a knot in my chest that hadn’t loosened in days. I wasn’t falling apart—but I felt brittle. Tired in a way sleep hadn’t touched. My thoughts kept circling the same disappointments, like teeth worrying a bone.
Solomon sat on the concrete ledge at the edge of the garden, silver-streaked hair tied back, linen shirt catching the breeze.
“Up here,” he said, tapping the stone beside him. “The noise loses its teeth.”
I sat. Let my shoulders drop a fraction.
“A lot packed into today,” he said after a moment. “Proverbs 17:19–28.” He slid his weathered leather notebook between us. The pages were dense—arrows, boxes, symbols, quick sketches. “It can sound scattered if you skim it. Conflict. Words. Foolishness. Joy. Silence.”
He drew a loose circle with his finger. “But I was writing about one thing: the inner life. The place where strength is either generated or quietly drained.”
He gave me the overview first—how loving conflict feeds pride, how reckless words spend energy you don’t have, how restraint can look like wisdom even when you don’t feel wise, how foolishness weighs not just on the fool but on everyone near them. “I wasn’t observing from a distance,” he said evenly. “I wrote this after living it.”
A woman edged near the planters, stretching her knee, wincing as she pulled out an earbud. Solomon noticed her immediately. He always does. “You can’t outrun injury forever,” he said quietly, not to her, not exactly to me—just true. She nodded, caught her breath, and headed toward the stairs. When she left, the empty space she’d occupied felt like part of the lesson.
Solomon turned the notebook toward me. Two bottles were sketched on the page. One labeled Cheerful Heart. The other, Spirit. A crack ran through the second.
“This,” he said, tapping the cracked bottle, “is where everything leaks.”
Then he quoted it slowly, letting the afternoon stretch around the words:
“Verse 22—A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.”
I frowned. “That sounds… simplistic. Like I’m supposed to just be happier and everything fixes itself.”
He laughed—soft, unoffended. “If that’s what I meant, I’d deserve your skepticism.” He leaned back, then forward again, eyes steady. “Joy isn’t decoration. It’s load-bearing.”
I crossed my arms. “Explain.”
He tapped the notebook once, twice. “Emotionally, joy keeps pain from becoming poison. Pain is unavoidable—you don’t get a vote there. But joy decides whether pain stays information or turns into identity.”
He made a small box in the air with his hands. “When joy lives inside you, grief doesn’t get the keys to the whole house. You can feel sorrow without drowning in it. Hurt without becoming hard. That’s healing—space to feel without being consumed.”
I felt that land. Hard.
“A broken spirit,” he continued, “replays the wound until it deepens. Joy interrupts the loop.”
He flipped the page and sketched a small flame.
“Spiritually, joy is alignment. Not denial—alignment. When your inner life turns toward God, even imperfectly, your spirit stands upright again. Joy says, This story is bigger than this moment. That trust restores strength.”
His voice dropped. “I lost joy when I chased control instead of the Lord. My spirit bent under the weight. When joy returned, so did clarity. Direction. Hope.”
The city breeze shifted. Somewhere below, a single church bell rang—unannounced, unrepeatable—and then silence again.
“And physically,” Solomon said, resting both palms on the notebook, “joy tells the body it’s safe enough to heal.” He nodded toward his chest. “Fear and despair keep the body braced. Muscles tighten. Sleep shortens. Immunity weakens. But joy loosens the grip. It slows the breathing. It moves you from survival into repair.” A faint smile. “That’s why I called it medicine. Not magic. Medicine.”
I exhaled without realizing I’d been holding it.
“So guarding your inner life matters,” I said.
“It matters more than most people think,” he replied. “That’s why I talk about restraint in this passage. About words. About unnecessary fights. About silence. Every one of those either protects joy—or punctures it.”
“How do I get this kind of joy?” I asked.
“This kind of joy comes only through the Holy Spirit,” he replied. “If we turn to Him and trust Him with our pain and struggles, something mysterious happens... he fills our heart with genuine, unexplainable joy.”
“Nehemiah was a leader who helped people rebuild when everything felt broken—both a city and the spirits of the people living in it. Here’s what he had to say: ‘Don’t be dejected and sad, for the joy of the LORD is your strength!’” (Nehemiah 8:10)
He closed the notebook and slid it back. “You’ve been waiting for circumstances to change,” he said gently. “But true joy grows right in the middle of your circumstances.”
As I stood to leave, the city looked the same. My problems were still there. But something inside me felt steadier—less brittle. I realized I’d been neglecting the medicine I already carried.
What? This passage teaches that joy and inner restraint protect our strength, while a broken spirit quietly drains it.
So What? In a pressure-filled world, guarding your inner life isn’t optional—it directly affects emotional resilience, spiritual clarity, and physical well-being.
Now What? Choose one way today to protect your inner life—limit negative input, speak fewer words, or pause to name one thing you’re grateful for—and do it on purpose.
No comments:
Post a Comment