Key Verse: “Keep the commandments and keep your life;
despising them leads to death.” (v.16)
The rooftop garden shimmered in late afternoon heat. Bees drifted over lavender, the city humming below like a distant engine. The air smelled of basil and warm stone. No rain. No coffee cups. Just sky and summer.
I came in restless. Solomon stood near the railing, sleeves rolled, silver streaked hair tied back. The breeze tugged at it gently.
He smiled when he saw me. “You look like a man negotiating with gravity.”
“Feels like it. Are rules always good? Or do they just control people?”
He didn’t answer right away. He pointed toward the streets below—cars in ordered lanes, pedestrians waiting at crosswalks, a crane turning above a half built high rise.
“In this section,” he said, “I gather wisdom about restraint—self control, humility, listening. I contrast hot tempers with patience, stubbornness with teachability. I warn about ignoring counsel. It all orbits one idea: whether you’ll live under wisdom or under impulse.”
He turned toward me.
“And I wrote this plainly: ‘Verse 16… Keep the commandments and keep your life; despising them leads to death.’”
“That sounds intense,” I said. “Death?”
“You're thinking of death only to mean a coffin,” he replied. “But there are other kinds. The death of trust. The death of marriages. The death of peace in your own mind. The death of vibrancy in your soul.”
The world seemed to quiet around us.
“When I say ‘keep the commandments,’” he continued, “I’m describing alignment with the design of reality.”
“Design?”
He nodded. “The commandments weren’t arbitrary. They revealed how life actually works.”
He counted on his fingers.
“No other gods—because what you worship shapes you.No idols—because shrinking the infinite distorts truth.Don’t misuse God’s name—because words shape worlds.Remember the Day of rest—because you are not machinery.Honor your parents—because respect anchors stability.Do not murder—because life is sacred.Do not commit adultery—because intimacy is covenant, not consumption.Do not steal—because trust is the currency of community.Do not lie—because truth is the skeleton of reality.Do not covet—because envy rots joy.”
He lowered his hand. “Tell me—what part of that sounds outdated?”
I couldn’t answer. Laid out like that, they didn’t sound restrictive. They sounded sane. Almost freeing!
“But people break them all the time,” I said. “And they seem fine.”
“For a while,” he said. “But every command protects something precious. Break one, and something breaks with it.”
I exhaled sharply. “Even if I agree—they’re impossible. I can’t even keep from coveting for a single day.”
Solomon smiled knowingly. “Exactly.”
He pulled a weathered notebook from his satchel and sketched a shoulder joint—ball, socket, tendons stretched tight. “Imagine someone tears their rotator cuff,” he said. “The surgery repairs the damage. But then comes physical therapy.”
“My dad did PT after his knee replacement,” I said. “He hated it.”
“Of course he did. The exercises feel small. Repetitive. Restrictive. Lift only this far. Hold for ten seconds. Again and again.”
He mimicked the slow, controlled motion.
“In the moment, it feels like limitation. ‘Why can’t I just walk normally?’ But the therapist knows unrestrained movement too soon will cause more damage.”
A bee hovered between us, then drifted away.
“The commandments function like spiritual therapy,” he said. “Humanity has torn something deep—pride, selfishness, distrust of God. The law doesn’t just expose the injury; it prescribes the movements that restore strength.”
“But physical therapy hurts,” I said.
“Yes. Because healing weak muscles is uncomfortable.”
He tapped the notebook.
“Honoring God above ambition feels restrictive. Telling the truth when a lie would protect you feels risky. Resisting envy feels like denying yourself something you deserve.”
He looked at me steadily. “But each command strengthens something atrophied in you.”
I felt that.
“And here’s what most people miss,” he said. “No patient rehabilitates by willpower alone. They need guidance. Encouragement. Sometimes even assistance moving the limb.”
He held my gaze.
“You are not strong enough to restore yourself. That’s why the same Creator who commands, also walks with you, enabling you in the therapy.”
“So when you wrote, ‘Keep the commandments and keep your life,’” I said slowly, “you weren’t saying ‘perform perfectly or else.’”
“No,” Solomon said. “I was saying: follow the path of restoration. Refuse it, and the injury worsens. Accept it, and life returns.”
He closed the notebook.
“Despising the commandments is the same as skipping rehab because it’s uncomfortable.”
“And death?” I asked.
“Untreated injury spreads.”
The city noise rose again—the hum of traffic, a siren in the distance.
“God’s commands,” he said softly, “are movements that restore your design. And when you come to the end of your strength—when you admit you can’t lift the weight alone—that’s when His strength begins to move through you.”
The sun slipped lower across the skyline.
For the first time, obedience didn’t feel like control.
It felt like rehab. And maybe I was more injured than I wanted to admit.
What? Proverbs 19 teaches that God’s commands protect life, and rejecting them slowly damages the soul—relationally, emotionally, and spiritually.
So What? In a culture that equates freedom with self definition, ignoring God’s design quietly erodes trust, joy, and stability.
Now What? Choose one commandment this week and ask honestly: Where am I resisting this? Then ask God for the strength you don’t have on your own.
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