Day 29 — The House That Stands When Shortcuts Collapse | Proverbs 9:1–12

Key Verse: “Knowledge of the Holy One results in good judgment.” (v.10b)

 Big Idea: Wisdom isn’t hidden or stingy—it throws the door wide open. The question is whether you’ll walk in. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café windows were fogged from the rain, the kind that doesn’t fall so much as lean against the city. Inside, everything felt amber and slow—clinking mugs, low jazz, the smell of citrus cleaner and espresso grounds. I slid into our usual table with a knot in my chest I hadn’t been able to loosen all morning.

Solomon was already there. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled, silver-streaked hair tied back. He looked up and smiled like he’d been expecting not just me, but whatever I’d brought with me. His leather notebook rested beside his cup, scarred and soft with age. He tapped it once, like a heartbeat.

“Aaron’s late,” I said, glancing toward the door.

“Late doesn’t always mean absent,” Solomon said. “Sometimes it means gathering courage.”

As if on cue, Aaron came in, rain-darkened jacket, eyes red like he’d rubbed them too hard. He gave us a half-wave and collapsed into the chair, staring at the table like it might give him answers if he stared long enough.

Solomon leaned in. “Today, I want to talk about a house,” he said. “A strong one. Built carefully. Open to guests.”

He slid the notebook forward and opened it. Inside were sketches—pillars, doors, tables set with bread and wine. “In this passage,” he said, “I describe Wisdom as a woman who builds her house with seven pillars. That number mattered. Seven meant complete. Stable. Thought through.”

Aaron let out a short laugh. “Must be nice.”

Solomon didn’t flinch. “Wisdom doesn’t build halfway,” he said. “She prepares a meal. She sends out invitations. She stands at the highest point of the city and calls to anyone willing to listen.”

I could hear the rain hit the windows harder, the world narrowing as Solomon spoke. 

“But there’s another voice in the same chapter,” he continued. “Loud. Flashy. No preparation. No substance. She promises pleasure without cost. That’s always a lie.”

Aaron finally looked up. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s why I’m here.” 

He swallowed. “I’ve been offered a promotion. Big raise. But it means covering for some things that aren’t clean. Not illegal—yet… questionable. But close enough that my name would be on it. If it goes bad, I’m the one standing in front of the blast.”

The table went quiet. Even the espresso machine seemed to pause.

“And,” Aaron added, voice lower, “my dad’s health is slipping. We need the money. I don’t know what to do.”

Solomon nodded slowly. “This is exactly what this chapter is talking about,” he said. “Wisdom doesn’t shout vague advice. She sets a table for real hunger.”

He tapped the page. “Notice this—Wisdom doesn’t force anyone. She invites. ‘Come, eat. Learn. Live.’ But she also says something hard: mockers don’t like correction. They want benefit without change.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. “So what—if I even question this, I lose the chance?”

“Not necessarily,” Solomon said gently. “But listen to the center of it all.” He looked straight at Aaron. “‘Knowledge of the Holy One results in good judgment.’”

Aaron frowned. “That sounds… abstract.”

Solomon smiled, just a little. “The ‘Holy One’ isn’t an idea,” he said. “It means recognizing there is a moral center to the universe—and you’re not it. God, the Holy One, is! Good judgment grows when you stop asking, ‘What can I get away with?’ and start asking, ‘What aligns with what’s true?’”

He told us then—not grandly, but plainly—about a deal he once made that secured peace for a season but cost him sleep for years. “I thought I was being clever,” he said. “I was actually being afraid. Fear dresses itself as wisdom when you let it.”

Aaron stared into his coffee. “So what do I do? Walk away and let my family suffer?”

“Wisdom doesn’t ask you to be reckless,” Solomon said. “She asks you to be honest. Before you decide, sit at her table. That means—slow down. Ask hard questions. Bring this into the light. Talk to someone who won’t benefit from your choice. And most importantly, talk to the Lord one-on-one about this. If the offer can’t survive scrutiny, it isn’t nourishment. It’s bait.”

He leaned back, boots scraping softly against the floor. “And remember—this house stays standing. Shortcuts collapse.”

A silence settled, heavy but clean. Aaron exhaled. “I think,” he said, “I already knew which door felt solid.”

When Aaron left to take a call, his chair sat empty like a missing tooth. I felt it. The weight of real choices doesn’t leave quickly.

Solomon closed his notebook. “Wisdom always leaves a seat open,” he said. “But you have to choose which voice you trust.”

As I walked out into the rain later, the city felt different—less like a maze, more like a set of doors. Some lit. Some loud. One quietly solid, waiting.

What? Wisdom invites us into a life built on truth, not shortcuts, and teaches that real judgment grows from knowing there is a moral center beyond ourselves.

So What? Every day, we’re choosing between voices—one offering quick gain, the other lasting stability. The choice shapes not just outcomes, but who we become.

Now What? Before your next big decision, pause and “sit at Wisdom’s table”: slow down, seek honest counsel, talk to the Lord, and ask what aligns with what’s truly right—not just what’s immediately rewarding.

Day 28 — Before the First Brick Was Laid | Proverbs 8:22–36

Key Verse: “I was appointed in ages past, at the very first, before the earth began.” (v.23)

 Big Idea: Wisdom isn’t a late addition to life—it’s the original blueprint. Choosing her is choosing the way life was designed to work. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café was just waking up when I arrived. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. The espresso machine hissed and sighed like it hadn’t decided whether to cooperate yet. Morning light slid through the front windows and caught dust in the air, turning it into something almost deliberate.

I felt unsettled—like I’d been making plans without checking whether the ground beneath them could actually hold weight.

Aaron was already there, same hoodie as yesterday, posture closed, coffee untouched. He gave me a quick nod and went back to staring out the window, jaw tight. Whatever he was carrying hadn’t lightened overnight.

Solomon arrived without ceremony. Linen shirt, silver-streaked hair tied back, handmade boots worn smooth with use. As he leaned in, I caught that faint cedar scent again—steady, grounding. He tapped the table twice with his fingers, a habit I was starting to recognize.

“Today,” he said, voice calm, “Wisdom stops calling and starts explaining herself.”

He didn’t open his notebook yet. Instead, he began with the wide view. “In this passage—Proverbs 8, verses 22-36—I let Wisdom speak about her origin. I’m saying she isn’t an idea humans stumbled upon. She isn’t a trend, a technique, or a life hack. She was present before anything existed.”

He paused, letting the sounds of the café rise and fall.

“Before mountains had names. Before oceans knew where to stop. Before the first sunrise split the dark.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Wisdom was already there—and she wasn’t bored. She was joyful.”

The world seemed to slow, like someone turned down the background noise. Cups clinked in the distance. A grinder whirred, then stopped.

Solomon continued, “I also make something clear here: Wisdom is foundational. Creation itself was shaped with her. She isn’t added after the fact—she’s baked in.”

“In Proverbs 8, wisdom isn’t presented as something humans invented through trial and error. She speaks as something older than humanity itself.”

“Wisdom came from God’s own nature and intent.”

“Before there was land to stand on, oceans to cross, or stars to name, God acted with purpose, order, and goodness. Wisdom is the expression of that purpose. She wasn’t created after the world as a rulebook for fixing mistakes; she was present before the world, shaping how everything would work once it existed.”

“Wisdom isn’t separate from God,” he explained.  “And she isn’t an independent being. She is God’s wisdom personified—spoken of as a voice so humans can understand something otherwise invisible.”

Aaron shifted in his chair. “That’s poetic,” he said, guarded. “But what does that actually mean for people like us?”

Solomon nodded, as if he’d been waiting for that. He opened his leather notebook and slid it forward. On the page was a rough sketch: a foundation slab, chalk lines and measurements scribbled along the edges. Above it, a half-built frame—walls rising unevenly.

“This,” Solomon said, tapping the upper structure, “is how most people live. We focus on what we’re building—career, relationships, image, security.” His finger dropped to the slab beneath it. “Wisdom focuses here.”

He quoted the verse out loud, voice steady: “I was appointed in ages past, at the very first, before the earth began.”

“I’m saying,” Solomon added, “that reality has a grain to it. Like wood. Work with it, and things hold. Fight it, and everything splinters.”

Aaron crossed his arms. “So if things fall apart, it’s because we didn’t follow the way things work?”

Solomon leaned back slightly, unoffended. “I’m saying life works a certain way—whether we like it or not. Wisdom doesn’t punish people. She simply tells the truth about how things hold together.”

A woman passed our table carrying a tray of pastries. Her phone buzzed suddenly, and the tray tipped. Aaron reached out without thinking and steadied it. She laughed, a little breathless. “Thanks. First day back after… everything.”

When she walked away, Solomon watched her go. “Rebuilding exposes foundations,” he said quietly. “Always does.”

Aaron stared into his coffee. “What if the foundation’s already wrong?”

Solomon turned the page in his notebook. The same slab appeared—but this time cracked. Beneath it, deeper supports had been drawn, reinforcing what was already there.

“Ancient builders didn’t panic when cracks showed,” Solomon said. “They went deeper.” He met Aaron’s eyes. “Wisdom existed before your mistakes. She hasn’t gone anywhere.”

He grew quieter then. “I once built something breathtaking on the surface. People came from everywhere to see it. But I ignored Wisdom in my private life—my loyalties, my desires. The structure stood for a while.” He exhaled. “Then the cracks showed.”

Solomon closed the notebook. “That’s why this passage matters. Wisdom isn’t harsh. She delights in humanity. She rejoices when people choose life. But she won’t pretend foundations don’t matter.”

He stood, boots soft against the floor. “Remember this,” he said, summing it up. “Wisdom is ancient. She’s joyful. She’s woven into how life works. Find her, and you find life. Ignore her, and even good intentions eventually collapse.”

After he left, Aaron sat quietly for a long moment. Then he said, almost to himself, “Guess I need to look at my blueprints.”

I stared into my own cup, thinking of all the places I’d been building upward without ever going down first.

What? Wisdom existed before creation and is foundational to how life was designed to work.

So What? Ignoring wisdom isn’t independence—it’s fighting reality, and even good intentions can collapse without a solid foundation.

Now What? Before your next major decision, pause and ask: Am I building on what’s ancient and true—or just what feels urgent right now?

Day 27 — When Wisdom Speaks, God Is Speaking | Proverbs 8:12–21

Key Verse: “I love all who love me.” (v.17)

 Big Idea:  To listen to Wisdom is to listen to God Himself—His heart, His order, His guidance offered relationally, not impersonally.

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The museum was quiet in the way sacred spaces often are—even when no one calls them that.

Sunlight filtered through high windows, dust specks drifting like slow thoughts. Marble floors carried our footsteps farther than expected. The exhibits moved chronologically—creation, civilization, industry—human ingenuity laid out behind glass.

Solomon liked places like this. I could tell.

He walked slowly, linen shirt brushing against his side, leather notebook tucked under his arm—he didn’t speak right away.

“People think Proverbs is about advice,” he said finally. “But this chapter—this one—is about voice.”

A man about my age stood nearby, studying the same carving. He wore a jacket with a company logo stitched over the chest. Hands shoved deep into his pockets. Restless, but curious.

Solomon glanced at him. “You’re welcome to walk with us.”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “I’m Aaron.”

“Ethan,” I said.

Solomon smiled. “Good timing, Aaron. We’re talking about Wisdom.”

Aaron laughed lightly. “I could use some.”

Solomon turned back to the exhibit. “In Proverbs 8,” he said, “Wisdom speaks in the first person. Every I. Every claim. Every invitation.”

He tapped the glass gently.

“This isn’t a separate being. This is what it sounds like when God lets His wisdom speak out loud.”

I frowned. “So… metaphor?”

“Sort of,” Solomon said. “But not fictional. Personification. The embodiment of the Lord, Himself.”

He opened his notebook and wrote a single phrase:

God, speaking relationally.

“In verses one through eleven,” he continued, “Wisdom says, I call to you. I speak truth. My words are plain. That’s God saying, ‘I’m not hiding. I’m not cryptic. I’m not trying to trap you.’”

Aaron shifted his weight. “That’s not how God usually gets described.”

Solomon smiled gently. “Because people sometimes prefer Him distant.”

We moved to the next gallery—early tools, precise and purposeful.

“Then,” Solomon said, “in verses twelve through twenty-one—the section we’re in today—Wisdom describes what she offers.”

He quoted it without ceremony: “I love all who love me.”

The words echoed softly off stone.

“This is not abstract logic,” Solomon said. “This is relational language. Covenant language.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “So if Wisdom is God’s wisdom… then God is saying that?”

“Exactly,” Solomon said simply.

I felt the weight of that settle.

“When God says, ‘I love those who love me,’” Solomon continued, “He isn’t saying He only loves a select few. God loves everyone unconditionally—but only those who respond to Him experience the closeness, guidance, and life that His love is meant to produce. This is the uncomfortable but honest part.”

He gestured to the tools behind the glass. “These were made by people who paid attention to how the world actually works. Wisdom is God’s moral and creative order—the grain of reality itself.”

Aaron folded his arms. “So ignoring wisdom is like… fighting reality.”

Solomon nodded. “Or fighting God.”

That landed hard.

We walked on. A school group passed us, voices hushed by teachers. Their absence afterward made the hall feel even quieter.

“In verses twenty-two through thirty-one,” Solomon said, “Wisdom will go on to say she was there at the beginning. With God. Delighting in creation.”

He looked at me. “That’s not poetry for decoration. It’s theology. But we’ll get to that tomorrow.”

I swallowed. “So when Wisdom speaks, it’s not just good advice, it’s revelation from the Creator, Himself?”

Solomon’s eyes softened. “Exactly.”

Aaron stopped walking. “Then why doesn’t it feel that way? Why does listening to wisdom feel optional?”

Solomon turned to him. “Because God doesn’t demand. He invites.”

He quoted it again, slower this time: “I love all who love me.”

“Love,” Solomon said, “is never coerced. Wisdom waits to be welcomed.”

Aaron nodded slowly, like something had clicked.

“And in the final verses,” Solomon added, “Wisdom says something startling: Whoever finds me finds life. Miss me—and you injure yourself.”

He closed the notebook.

“That’s God saying, ‘I built the world. I know how life works. Trust me.’”

Aaron exhaled. “That’s… heavier than I expected.”

He glanced at his watch. “Oh man! I should go.”

When he left, the echo of his footsteps lingered longer than the sound itself.

Solomon and I stood there among the artifacts—human attempts to understand the world.

He summarized quietly, the way he always does:

“When Wisdom speaks, God is speaking. Her love is His invitation. To listen is life. To ignore her isn’t rebellion—it’s self-harm.”

We walked toward the exit, sunlight growing brighter.

I realized I’d spent years treating wisdom like a helpful concept—when it had been God’s voice all along.

What? Proverbs 8 presents Lady Wisdom as the poetic voice of God’s own wisdom—speaking truth, offering relationship, and calling people into life.

So What? Listening to wisdom isn’t just about making better decisions; it’s about responding to God’s personal invitation to live in alignment with how He designed the world.

Now What? Today, when you sense a wise course of action, pause and acknowledge it as God’s guidance—not just a good idea—and choose to follow it deliberately.

 

Day 26 — Straight Words in a Crooked World | Proverbs 8:1–11

Key Verse: “My advice is wholesome. There is nothing devious or crooked in it.” (v.8)

 Big Idea: Wisdom isn’t just useful—it’s morally clean. Her words can be trusted without hidden costs. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The city was already arguing with itself when I arrived.

Car horns overlapped like competing opinions. A street preacher shouted past a guy livestreaming a rant. Screens glowed everywhere—phones, billboards, reflections in glass—each one offering certainty in thirty seconds or less.

I felt mentally cluttered. Over-advised. Under-convinced.

Solomon sat at our usual café table, half in shade, half in sunlight. Linen shirt. Handmade boots resting easy. His silver-streaked hair was tied back, and when he leaned forward I caught that faint cedar scent again—grounded, steady, unhurried.

“You look like someone who’s been listening to too many voices,” he said.

I laughed once, dry. “Everyone sounds right. That’s the problem.”

He tapped the table—soft, deliberate. “Then today’s passage is about words themselves, not outcomes.”

He let that settle, then continued. “In this section, I let Wisdom speak out loud. Not privately. Not spiritually vague. She stands in public places—intersections, gates, markets—where decisions actually get made.”

A bus sighed to a stop nearby. Someone spilled coffee and cursed under their breath. A pair of coworkers argued in whispers that weren’t quiet enough.

Solomon nodded toward the street. “Right here.”

He opened his weathered leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were two columns. One labeled Straight. The other, Crooked. The crooked column zigzagged, bending back on itself.

“In earlier proverbs,” he said, “I talked about what wisdom does for you. Protection. Stability. Life. But here, I make a deeper claim.”

He looked at me and quoted it slowly, clearly:

“My advice is wholesome. There is nothing devious or crooked in it.”

“Wholesome,” he said. “Meaning: no hidden leverage. No fine print. No moral distortion.”

I leaned back. “That feels idealistic.”

He smiled—not offended. “It always sounds that way to people who live in a world driven by manipulative words and buried conditions. ”

He flipped the page and sketched a quick crown. “Let me give you an example from my own family line.”

I had no idea where this was going.

“My son Rehoboam,” he said, voice steady but edged with sadness. “He inherited a kingdom that was strained but still united. The people came asking for tax relief. Reasonable request.”

Solomon drew two speech bubbles.

“He first listened to the older, more experienced counselors—the ones who urged humility and restraint. Their advice was straight. Hard, but clean. Give them the relief they are requesting. If you do, they will be loyal to you.”

“But he preferred the words of his younger peers. Flashy. Aggressive. Promising control. Appealing to his ego: impose higher taxes! Don't let the people control you.”

He shut the notebook.

“That advice sounded strong,” Solomon said. “But it was crooked. It required pride to function. And the result?”

He didn’t dramatize it. He didn’t need to.

“The kingdom split. Overnight.”

I felt that land heavier than I expected.

“Crooked advice often sounds empowering,” he continued. “Until you live inside the consequences.”

A pause.

Then he added, “Now let’s bring it closer.”

Across the café, a guy about my age sat hunched over a laptop, jaw tight, eyes darting between emails and texts. His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, smirked, and typed fast.

Solomon followed my gaze. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “Someone told him how to get ahead—cut a corner, frame a narrative, bury a truth. Not illegal. Just… bent.”

The man snapped his laptop shut and left without finishing his drink.

“The modern version of crooked counsel,” Solomon said, “rarely tells you to do something obviously evil. It just teaches you how to justify it.”

That hit closer than I liked.

I crossed my arms. “But if you don’t play that game, you lose.”

Solomon leaned in. The city noise seemed to soften, like someone turned the volume knob down a notch.

“I used to believe that,” he said quietly. “I thought wisdom had to compete with manipulation. I was wrong.”

He tapped the Straight column in his notebook.

“Words that are upright don’t need darkness to succeed. They don’t reshape your conscience over time. They don’t make you smaller to make you safe.”

I exhaled slowly.

“So how do you tell?” I asked. “In real time.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Ask what the advice requires of you. Does it ask you to hide?

Does it depend on someone else staying ignorant? Does it slowly teach you to excuse what you once resisted?”

He met my eyes again—that uncanny clarity, like he was reading my browser history and my thoughts.

“If it does,” he said, “it isn’t true Wisdom. Because her words are straight enough to walk on.”

The chair across from us scraped back as another patron left. The empty space felt louder than the conversation around us.

Solomon closed his notebook and summarized, voice calm but firm:

“Wisdom speaks openly. Her words are morally clean. They don’t twist you to work. If advice reshapes your character in secret, it isn’t worth the result.”

I left the café thinking about how often I’ve asked, Will this work? And how rarely I’ve asked, What will this make me?

What? Wisdom declares that her words are honest, upright, and free from manipulation or deceit.

So What? Crooked advice often sounds practical or powerful, but it quietly shapes your character—and the cost shows up later.

Now What? Before accepting advice today, ask: Would this still be good if everyone knew I followed it? If the answer is no, pause and listen for a straighter voice.

Day 25 — The Hook Beneath the Bait | Proverbs 7:10–27

Key Verse: “He followed her at once, like an ox going to the slaughter.” (v.22)

 Big Idea: Temptation rarely looks dangerous at first—it looks inviting, affirming, and harmless, until it owns you. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café was still open, lights dimmed to a late-hour amber. Espresso machines hissed like tired animals. Rain ticked softly against the windows, blurring the street into watercolor streaks of red and white. Solomon was already there, same corner table. 

He looked up and smiled, warm but knowing—like he’d been expecting this particular version of me.

“You almost didn’t come,” he said.

I slid into the chair. “I’m predictable now?”

He tapped the table once, gently. “Human.”

A couple argued quietly near the counter—low voices, sharp pauses. A woman laughed too loudly at a man’s joke near the door, touching his arm longer than necessary. Solomon’s eyes flicked that way for half a second, then back to me.

“This section,” he said, opening his weathered leather notebook, “is where I stop being poetic and start being blunt.”

He turned it toward me. Not diagrams tonight—just a single sentence written in thick ink.

She caught him and kissed him.

“In this passage,” Solomon said, “I describe a young man who isn’t evil. He isn’t hunting trouble. He’s just… unguarded.” He leaned in. “I walk the reader from dusk to disaster on purpose.”

He summarized it first, like he always did when the passage was long. “I describe how temptation approaches—how it dresses itself up as opportunity, how it flatters, how it promises secrecy and reward. And then I show the end. Not because I enjoy it. Because people keep skipping to the middle and wondering how they got there.”

I shifted in my seat. The rain intensified, drumming the awning outside.

Solomon’s finger landed on the page. “And then I say this—”

He quoted it slowly, letting the café noise fade.

“He followed her at once, like an ox going to the slaughter.”

The world seemed to slow. The hiss of steam stretched. A spoon clinked in a cup like it echoed twice.

“An ox doesn’t think it’s walking to death,” Solomon said quietly. “It thinks it’s walking to food. To relief. To satisfaction.”

“That feels… harsh,” I said. “Comparing someone to livestock.”

He smiled, not unkindly. “It’s meant to wake you up, not insult you.”

He closed the notebook partway. “Temptation doesn’t tackle you in an alley. It invites you to dinner. It tells you you deserve this. That no one will know. That you’re different. Stronger. Smarter.”

I stared at the condensation sliding down my glass.

“Fantasy,” he continued, “is its favorite language. I learned that the hard way.”

I looked up. He rarely said things like that without weight behind them.

“When I was king,” he said, voice steady but softer, “I had access to anything I wanted. And I told myself I was in control. That I could enjoy without consequence. That wisdom made me immune.”

He met my eyes. “It didn’t.”

The arguing couple left. The woman by the door slipped out with the man, laughter trailing behind them like perfume. Their empty table felt louder than their presence had.

“What made it so dangerous,” Solomon went on, “wasn’t desire. Desire is human. It was the speed. At once. No pause. No question. No counsel. That’s how chains get clasped—quickly.”

I swallowed. “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend we don’t want things?”

Solomon chuckled, gently humorous. “If pretending worked, I wouldn’t have written this.”

He slid the notebook toward me again. This time there was a sketch—simple. A hook hidden inside a worm.

“Imagine a hungry fish drifting through the water, he said. A plump, wriggling worm appears—exactly what the fish wants. It looks harmless, even generous. The fish doesn’t see the danger because the danger is hidden.”

‘The worm is the promise. The hook is the consequence. The fish only sees the worm.”

‘That’s Proverbs 7:10–27 in miniature: temptation always advertises the worm and never the hook. By the time the fish bites, the outcome is already decided.”

I thought about the ways I justified things. The mental footnotes. The just this once. The I’ll stop after.

“Here’s the uncomfortable truth,” Solomon said, tapping the page. “Most people don’t fall because they’re weak. They fall because they’re uncurious about consequences.”

The café lights flickered slightly as closing time neared. Chairs stacked. The barista wiped down counters, glancing at us like we were lingering too long—which we were.

Solomon leaned back. “Remember this: flattery is not affirmation. Secrecy is not safety. And intensity is not intimacy.”

He stood, boots soft against the floor. “Temptation promises life and delivers loss. Wisdom looks past the moment and chooses the ending.”

When he left, the chair across from me stayed warm for a second. Then it didn’t.

I sat there longer than I needed to, thinking about paths I’d walked without thinking. How often I followed at once.

What? This passage shows how temptation works—through flattery, secrecy, and fantasy—and how quickly unguarded desire can lead to destruction.

So What? Because the most dangerous choices in modern life rarely feel dangerous at first—they feel justified, exciting, and harmless.

Now What? Pause the next time something pulls at you—ask what the ending is, not just what it promises right now.

Day 24 — The Voices That Walk Beside You | Proverbs 7:1–9

Key Verse: “Love wisdom like a sister; make insight a beloved member of your family.” (v.4)

 Big Idea: Wisdom protects you only when it’s close; distance makes danger feel normal. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The morning was brighter than it had any right to be.

Sunlight poured through the park’s bare branches, reflecting off loose coins on the path. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, children laughed, and the city stretched itself awake. I showed up with a paper cup of coffee and a lighter chest than usual, like yesterday’s conversation had rearranged something.

Solomon sat on a low stone wall near the pond, notebook balanced on his knee. Linen shirt. Boots dusted with grit. His silver-streaked hair caught the light, and when he looked up, that familiar warmth met me again—steady, unhurried.

Mara arrived a moment later, hands tucked into her coat sleeves. She looked… grounded. Like someone who had slept without bracing for impact.

“This one,” Solomon said, tapping the notebook closed, “is a continuation. Not a new idea—just a deeper cut.”

He didn’t open with a warning. He opened with family.

“In this passage,” he said, “I talk about keeping wisdom close. Not admired from a distance. Not respected on special occasions. Close enough that it feels like kin.”

He leaned forward, voice carrying both authority and something personal. Then he quoted it—plain, intentional: “Love wisdom like a sister; make insight a beloved member of your family.”

Mara tilted her head. “That’s… intimate,” she said. “Not abstract.”

“Exactly,” Solomon replied. “You don’t forget family when you leave the house. You hear their voice even when they’re not there. That’s how wisdom works—if you let it.”

He opened the notebook now. Sketched a street corner. A young figure mid-step. A faint boundary line almost invisible on the page. “In this section,” he said, “I describe a young man who didn’t wake up planning to ruin anything. He just drifted. Evening. Twilight. The day dimming without him noticing.”

The world seemed to slow. A cyclist passed behind us, tires whispering over gravel. Water lapped softly at the pond’s edge.

“I’ve seen this play out a thousand modern ways,” Solomon continued. “Here’s one.”

He told us about a guy—early twenties, smart, funny, talented. Not reckless. Just lonely. The story unfolded like a quiet documentary: late nights, scrolling, casual messages that didn’t seem dangerous. A few choices made without wisdom nearby to speak up.

“He didn’t cross a line all at once,” Solomon said. “He just stood near it. Long enough that it stopped feeling like a line.”

The consequences came later. Job lost. Trust broken. Relationships scorched. Not dramatic in the moment—devastating in the aftermath. Solomon didn’t embellish. He didn’t need to.

Mara swallowed. “That’s the part that scares me,” she said. “How normal it all sounds.”

Solomon nodded. “Danger rarely announces itself,” he said. “It waits until wisdom is far enough away to be quiet.”

I felt it land in me—the late evenings, the justifications, the way drifting never feels like drifting until you look back.

“So what’s the difference?” I asked. “Between him and someone who doesn’t fall?”

Solomon’s gaze was direct, kind, unsettlingly precise. “Proximity,” he said. “Who you keep close. Wisdom doesn’t chase you. It walks with you—or it gets left behind.”

Mara exhaled slowly. “I’ve started treating wisdom like a voice I want nearby,” she said. “Not something I consult after.”

Solomon smiled at that. Not proud—pleased. “That’s how you stay off streets you don’t need to walk.”

He closed the notebook and stood, stretching his shoulders. “Remember this,” he said, gathering the day into a few lines. “Drift happens quietly. Wisdom works quietly too—but only if it’s close enough to be heard. Cherish it. Treat it like family. Because when night falls, you’ll move toward whatever voice feels most familiar.”

Mara headed off first, pausing to wave before disappearing down the path. I noticed her absence again—but this time it felt like momentum, not loss.

I stayed a moment longer, watching sunlight slide across the water, thinking about which voices I let walk beside me when no one’s watching.

What? Proverbs 7 teaches that wisdom must be cherished like family—kept close enough to guide you before danger feels obvious.

So What? Drifting into trouble rarely feels reckless; it feels normal when wisdom isn’t near enough to speak up.

Now What? Choose one daily habit—reading, reflection, a trusted voice—that keeps wisdom close, and practice it today before the evening sets in.

Day 23 — A Lamp, Not a Leash | Proverbs 6:20–35

Key Verse: “For their command is a lamp, and their instruction a light.” (v.23)

Big Idea: Wisdom isn’t a cage of rules—it’s a light that helps you see danger and choose a safer way forward. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café felt lived-in tonight. Not cozy—earned. Chairs scraped softly on concrete. The grinder coughed like an old engine. Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist, the streetlights turning it into a fine, floating dust. I came in lighter than I had in days, which surprised me. Less defensive. Less braced.

Solomon was already seated, boots crossed at the ankle, linen shirt catching the warm bulb over our table. Mara was there too, stirring her tea, steam fogging her glasses.

“Feels like a checkpoint,” Solomon said, smiling as we sat. He tapped the table once, twice—his way of calling the room to attention without raising his voice. “This passage repeats a lot of ground we’ve already covered. That’s on purpose.”

He didn’t open the notebook right away. He let the idea breathe.

“In these verses,” he said, “I restate what I’ve been building: keep wisdom close, listen to instruction, don’t wander into rooms you don’t need to enter. I warn about desire again. About consequences again. But hear me—this isn’t me piling on rules. It’s me turning on lights.”

He leaned in, voice steady with authority earned the hard way. Then he quoted it, exactly, like a line he’d written to remember himself: “For their command is a lamp, and their instruction a light.” He nodded, almost to himself. “The word ‘their’ in this verse speaks of your father and mother—the people who cared enough to warn you with truth spoken early, so it could protect you later.”

Mara smiled at that—an actual smile, not the polite kind. “That’s different than how I used to hear stuff like this,” she said. “I thought it was all about control. Don’t do this. Don’t touch that.”

Solomon nodded. “A leash pulls you back,” he said. “A lamp lets you walk.”

He slid his weathered leather notebook forward and opened it. The pages were crowded tonight—arrows, margins full of shorthand. He sketched quickly: a dark alley, a single lamp mounted high. “You don’t argue with the lamp,” he said. “You don’t feel judged by it. You’re just… grateful you can see the broken glass.”

I felt something unlock in my chest. “I’ve noticed I pause more,” I said, surprising myself by saying it out loud. “Before I respond. Before I click. Before I text back something I’ll regret. It’s not fear—it’s clarity.”

Solomon’s eyes held mine a beat longer than necessary. Uncanny. “That pause,” he said, “is light doing its work.”

Mara nodded. “I stopped pretending certain situations were neutral,” she added. “I used to tell myself, ‘I’m strong enough.’ But now I just… take a different route. It’s not dramatic. It’s quieter.” She laughed softly. “And way less exhausting.”

The café door opened and closed. Someone left; someone else came in. The world kept moving, but our table felt anchored. Solomon listened—really listened—hands folded, boots still.

“I wrote these warnings,” he said finally, “because I learned that temptation doesn’t announce itself as danger. It introduces itself as relief. Or curiosity. Or freedom. Light helps you recognize the voice before it finishes the sentence.”

He paused, then added, almost casually, “And I know how this can sound. Like religion. Like a checklist.” He shook his head. “That was never my aim. Wisdom isn’t about earning favor. It’s about staying alive to what matters.”

I thought about the last few weeks—how the edges of my days felt less jagged. How I slept better. How I’d stopped calling some compromises ‘no big deal.’

Mara wrapped her hands around her mug. “I feel… less lost,” she said. “Not fixed. Just less lost.”

Solomon smiled at that. Warm. Humble. “That’s progress,” he said. “Light doesn’t teleport you home. It gets you there one step at a time.”

He closed the notebook, the leather whispering shut. “So remember this,” he said, summarizing like a craftsman checking his work. “These words aren’t a burden to carry. They’re a lamp to hold. Keep them close. Use them when it’s dim. And don’t mistake illumination for limitation.”

When we stood to leave, the rain had stopped completely. The street looked washed clean. Mara lingered a second longer than usual, then headed out, shoulders relaxed. I noticed her absence when the door closed—not heavy this time. Hopeful.

I stepped into the night thinking about how far a small light can go.

What? Proverbs 6 reminds us that wisdom isn’t a set of restrictive rules but a guiding light that helps us see danger and choose life-giving paths.

So What? When you view wisdom as illumination instead of limitation, it becomes something you want to keep close—especially when decisions get complicated.

Now What? Take five minutes to reflect on one way your choices have changed since you started this journey, and thank the light for showing you a safer next step.

Day 22 — Fault Lines | Proverbs 6:12–19

Key Verse: “There are six things the Lord hates—no, seven things he detests:” (v.16)

Big Idea: God takes seriously the attitudes and actions that fracture trust; a life built on deceit and division eventually collapses under its own weight. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The waterfront was restless that afternoon. Wind slapped the pilings beneath the pier, and the water kept its own ledger—dark, cold, honest. Gulls argued over scraps. The sky hung low, metallic, like it might crack open if pressed too hard.

I arrived carrying a tension I couldn’t name. The kind that lives behind the sternum. Solomon stood near the railing, linen shirt moving with the wind, silver-streaked hair tied back. 

“You picked a fault line—a place where hidden pressure builds beneath the surface,” he said, gently humorous. He tapped the rail twice, listening to the echo. “Good place for today.”

Mara joined us a moment later, scarf tight, jaw set. She’d been different since the café—showing up earlier, eyes clearer—but something was chewing at her. I felt it before she spoke.

Solomon greeted us both, then introduced the passage. “In this section, I shift from habits to hearts,” he said. “I describe the troublemaker—smooth talk, crooked steps—and then I list what the Lord won’t tolerate. Not preferences. Deal-breakers.”

He leaned in as the wind softened, the world obliging him by slowing down. “Here’s the line that frames it all,” he said, voice sure. “‘There are six things the Lord hates—no, seven things he detests.’ I wrote that to wake people up. Because some patterns don’t just harm you. They poison the ground around you.”

He opened his weathered leather notebook. Inside were simple lines drawn like cracks in concrete, branching. At the center, a small house. No labels. He slid it toward us.

“I list seven,” he said, tracing the cracks. “Pride that looks down on others. Lies that make truth optional. Hands that harm. Hearts that plan damage. Feet eager to run toward wrong. A mouth that spreads false stories. And—this one matters today—someone who stirs up division among people.”

Mara’s breath caught. The water slapped the pier again.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, staring at the sketch. “I was just… venting. Sharing. But it turned into sides. Texts. Screenshots. It felt justified.”

Solomon nodded, eyes kind but clear. “Division often wears the clothes of righteousness,” he said. “It sounds like concern. Feels like honesty. But it fractures trust. And God cares about trust the way engineers care about load-bearing walls.”

He told us a story then—one from his own life, offered without spectacle. “I once let whispers do my work,” he said. “I allowed alliances to replace integrity. It kept peace for a season. Then the house cracked. Quietly at first. Then all at once.”

The wind fell still. Even the gulls paused.

“God isn’t petty,” Solomon continued. “When I say the Lord hates these things, I’m talking about a fierce protection of what makes life possible—truth, humility, peace. Deceit and discord don’t just break rules. They break people.”

Mara wiped her eyes, steadying. “So what do I do?”

“Repair,” he said. “Where you can. Silence where you must. And choose words that heal even when they cost you.”

She nodded. After a long moment, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then tucked it away untouched. “I need to go make something right,” she said. When she left, the space she vacated felt heavier—and then lighter, like a knot loosening.

For a moment, Solomon said nothing. The water moved. The pier creaked. Absence has a sound if you listen long enough.

“She left lighter,” he said at last, not looking at me. “That’s usually the first sign of truth doing its work.”

And then he was gone, cedar scent fading into salt air.

I stayed where I was, staring at the water. I thought about how often I’ve called my words honest when they were really just convenient. How easily I’ve shared things that weren’t mine to share, telling myself it was harmless. Necessary. True enough.

The pier felt solid beneath my feet—but I knew better now. Strength isn’t about standing still. It’s about what you choose to build on.

What? Proverbs 6:12–19 teaches that God opposes attitudes and actions—especially pride, deceit, and division—that destroy trust and harm community.

So What? Our words and motives quietly shape the stability of our lives; patterns of dishonesty and discord eventually cause everything to crack.

Now What? Before speaking today, pause and ask: Does this protect truth and peace? If not, choose silence—or a better word.

Day 21 — The Quiet Work of Ants | Proverbs 6:6–11

Key Verse: “Take a lesson from the ants, you lazybones. Learn from their ways and become wise!” (v.6)

 Big Idea: Your future is shaped not by your intentions, but by your habits. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The café was louder than usual—grinders screaming, cups clinking, a barista calling names like a roll call for a small army. Morning light slanted through the windows and caught the dust in the air, turning it into something almost holy. 

Solomon was already there. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled, silver-streaked hair tied back. When he smiled, it was warm—no judgment, just a quiet knowing. The faint cedar scent followed him like a memory.

“You look awake,” he said, tapping the table twice with his knuckle. “But not ready.”

I snorted. “Story of my life.”

He leaned in. “Today’s passage is one I wrote for people who know better and still stall. Procrastinators.” He let that sit. “Proverbs six. Verses six through eleven.”

He gave me the overview first, the way he always does when the words carry weight. 

“In this section, I contrast motion and stagnation. I talk about creatures without bosses who still show up early. I describe the danger of small delays—a little sleep, a little slumber—because that’s how scarcity sneaks in. It doesn’t storm the gates, it tiptoes in on cushions, disguising itself as the ‘easy’ way.”

The espresso machine hissed. The world slowed.

He slid his weathered leather notebook toward me and opened it. Inside were simple sketches: a line of ants carrying crumbs twice their size; a couch with a person melting into it; a clock with its hands quietly slipping. No labels. None needed.

“Here’s the line I want you to hear today,” he said, voice steady, unmistakable. 

“‘Take a lesson from the ants, you lazybones. Learn from their ways and become wise!’ I wrote that because wisdom isn’t impressed by intentions. It watches habits.”

As if on cue, Mara hovered near the counter, clutching her phone like a life raft. I hadn’t seen her in days. Last time, she left wounded—eyes glassy, searching for answers she hoped would be gentle.

She wasn’t gentle today.

She spotted us and hesitated. Solomon noticed before I did. He always does. He stood, boots soft on the concrete, and met her halfway.

“You disappeared,” I said when she sat down with us, her coffee untouched.

She exhaled. “I needed space. Or… avoidance. I told myself I was ‘processing.’” 

She made air quotes and grimaced. “Turns out I was just scrolling.”

Solomon nodded, not unkind. “Absence doesn’t always mean healing,” he said. “Sometimes it’s just hiding with better lighting.”

Mara winced. “Ouch.”

He smiled gently. “I’ve used the same trick.”

She stared into her cup. “I keep waiting for motivation. For clarity. For God to drop something obvious in my lap. But my days are… empty. I’m tired and somehow still behind.”

“The ants teach that wisdom is practiced, not postponed,” he said.  “They don’t wait for motivation, supervision, or perfect conditions. They work steadily while they have the chance, preparing for a future they can’t see but know is coming. Their power isn’t strength or brilliance—it’s initiative, consistency, and foresight.”

“In human terms, the lesson is this: Do the small, necessary work now, not later. Build habits before crisis forces them on you. Don’t let comfort or delay quietly steal your future. The ants remind us that a life grows strong through daily faithfulness and hard work, not sudden bursts of effort.”

Solomon pulled the notebook back and drew a single line, then a hundred tiny dots marching along it. “Ants don’t wait for clarity,” he said. “They move because it’s time to move. No speeches. No mood checks. They work while the weather is good because they know winter doesn’t ask permission.”

He looked at her, then at me. “When I wrote about laziness here, I wasn’t just talking about work ethic. I was talking about spiritual drift—the kind where you outsource growth to tomorrow. Where you say, ‘I’ll get serious later,’ and later quietly takes your wallet.”

The café noise faded again. Even the barista seemed to slow.

Mara swallowed. “So what—try harder?”

“No,” Solomon said. “Try earlier. Try smaller. Wisdom is built with crumbs, not banquets.”

He told us a story then, one he doesn’t share often. About a season when his kingdom was flush and his schedule was full—and he assumed that momentum would carry him. “I slept on decisions,” he said. “I delayed. I let comfort replace vigilance. And by the time I noticed the cost, the ants had already stored what I’d squandered.”

He closed the notebook. “Poverty, in this passage, isn’t just money. It’s the ache of unmet potential. It's a life that never quite discovers its purpose. It’s faith that never learns to stand up and walk.”

Mara’s shoulders slumped. “So… I’ve been lazy with my soul?”

Solomon didn’t flinch. “You’ve been human. But humans can learn.”

She nodded, eyes wet but steady. A moment later, her phone buzzed. She stood. “I need to go. And… thank you.” She hesitated, then smiled—a real one this time—and slipped back into the noise. Her absence felt different than before. Lighter. Like a door left open.

Solomon gathered his things. 

Solomon’s words to Mara weren’t for me, but they landed on me, just the same.

I know I’ve been drifting too — not with scrolling, but with cynicism, avoidance, and that “I’ll deal with it later” posture I hide behind.

A thought flickers: She’s actually doing something about it. Am I?

What? Proverbs 6:6–11 teaches that wisdom shows up in daily effort; laziness—especially the quiet, spiritual kind—invites loss without warning.

So What? Drift doesn’t announce itself. Small delays and comfort habits can quietly empty your life of strength, clarity, and purpose.

Now What? Choose one small, unglamorous act of wisdom today—ten minutes of learning, prayer, or honest work—and do it before you feel ready.

Day 20 — Get Out While You Can | Proverbs 6:1–5

Key Verse: “Save yourself like a gazelle escaping from a hunter, like a bird fleeing from a net.” (v.5)

 Big Idea: Wisdom knows when pride must bow so freedom can survive. 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

We met at the café again, but this time I arrived tight-chested, jaw set. The place smelled like lemon cleaner, chairs scraping the concrete floor as people jockeyed for outlets. Outside, traffic surged and stalled in waves. It felt fitting—motion without progress.

Solomon was already there, silver-streaked hair tied back, linen shirt rumpled like he’d sat with the day awhile before I showed up. He tapped the table once as I approached, eyes kind but alert.

“You’re carrying something,” he said.

“Money,” I replied. “Or the lack of it.”

He nodded like he’d expected that answer.

“In this passage,” he said, “I turn from desire to debt. Not because they’re unrelated—because they are cousins. Both make promises. Both ask you to move fast. Both can quietly take your freedom.”

Before he could say more, a young couple slid into the table beside us. Wedding rings still bright. The husband spoke too quickly, voice low but sharp.

“I was trying to help,” he said. “It was supposed to be temporary.”

The wife’s eyes were wet but steady. “You signed for it. Without telling me.”

The words hung there—without telling me—heavy as a dropped plate.

Solomon glanced at them, then back at me. “Listen,” he murmured. “You’ll hear today’s proverb before I even quote it.”

He opened the leather notebook and slid it across the table. Inside was a simple drawing: a hand shaking another hand, a rope looped gently at first, then pulled tight.

“When I wrote this,” he said, “I was thinking about agreements made too quickly. Co-signing. Guarantees. Loan agreements. The moment when wanting to be helpful turns into being trapped.”

He leaned in and quoted it plainly: “Save yourself like a gazelle escaping from a hunter, like a bird fleeing from a net.”

“A gazelle escaping a hunter is all instinct, urgency, and focus—there’s nothing casual about it.”

“A gazelle doesn’t pause to weigh options or protect its pride. It doesn’t say, ‘Maybe I can manage this.’ The moment it senses danger, its entire body commits to escape.”

The café seemed to slow—the hiss of the steam wand, the clink of cups—everything dimmed around the words.

“I don’t say, ‘Manage the trap,’” Solomon continued. “I say, run. Fast. Humbly. Immediately. Run like something wants to eat you—because something does.”

The husband beside us scoffed under his breath. “So what? —panic?”

Solomon turned to them, not unkind. “No,” he said. “Act. Now. Pride waits. Wisdom moves.”

He explained gently. “In this passage, I tell the one who’s made the promise to go, plead, lose sleep, do whatever it takes. Not because you’re weak—but because freedom is fragile. Delay makes nets tighter.”

The wife’s shoulders dropped a fraction. The husband stared at the table.

“I’ve been there,” Solomon said, voice quieter now. “I kept agreements I never should have made because I didn’t want to look foolish. I paid for pride with years of pressure. Humility would have been cheaper.”

He tapped the table twice.

“Go to the person. Admit the mistake. Ask for mercy. Renegotiate. Exit if you can. The longer you pretend it’s fine, the more it owns you.”

The couple sat in silence. Then the husband nodded once—small, but real.

“Can we… talk about it?” he asked her.

She nodded. They stood, walked toward the door together. When they left, the space they’d occupied felt lighter—unfinished, but hopeful.

Solomon closed the notebook.

“This proverb isn’t about money alone,” he said. “It’s about anything that binds your future because your pride wouldn’t slow your present. Wisdom doesn’t cling to appearances. It protects freedom.”

He stood, the faint cedar scent rising as he slipped the notebook under his arm.

“Three things,” he said.

“First: recognize the net—quick promises often hide hooks.”

“Second: move fast to correct the situation—delay feeds bondage.”

“Third: choose humility—freedom is worth the embarrassment.”

He smiled, warm and steady, then disappeared into the late afternoon noise.

I stayed behind, listening to the traffic finally break free of the intersection outside, thinking about the promises I’ve made just to feel helpful—or impressive—and what it might look like to run while I still can.

What? This passage warns against careless commitments that threaten your freedom and urges swift, humble action to escape them.

So What? Because pride keeps people stuck longer than debt ever could—and waiting only tightens the trap.

Now What? Identify one obligation you entered too quickly and take a concrete step this week to address it honestly—ask for help, renegotiate, or begin an exit.

Day 19 — Drink Deep, Not Wide | Proverbs 5:15–23

Key Verse: “Let your wife be a fountain of blessing for you. Rejoice in the wife of your youth.” (v.18)

 Big Idea: “Aim desire well, and it becomes a fountain—not a leak.” 

🎧 Listen to Today’s Audio Here

The rain had turned the city gray and soft, like someone had smudged the edges of everything. The café windows were fogged, and I wiped a circle clear with my sleeve before sitting down. Inside, the world was warm—espresso steam, the low hum of conversation, the smell of bread just pulled from the oven.

Still, my chest felt restless. Not lonely exactly. Just… unsatisfied. Like I’d been grazing all day and never eaten a real meal.

Solomon arrived without fanfare—linen shirt, handmade boots darkened from the rain, silver-streaked hair tied back. When he leaned in to greet me, I caught that faint cedar scent again. He tapped the table twice, a familiar rhythm.

“You came thirsty today,” he said, gently amused.

I exhaled. “That obvious, huh?”

He smiled and slid into the chair. “It usually is.”

He didn’t open the notebook yet. Instead, he looked out the window, watching rain trace crooked paths down the glass.

“In today’s passage,” he said, “I continue something I started earlier. First, I warned about desire when it’s left unchecked—how it promises freedom but quietly steals a life. Here, I do something different. I’m not just telling you what not to do. I’m showing you where desire actually leads when it’s aimed well.”

A couple stood at the counter nearby. They weren’t arguing, but they weren’t together either—two people scrolling separate worlds, shoulders almost touching. After a moment, the man paid. The woman lingered. Then one left without looking back. The empty space they left behind felt heavier than their presence had.

Solomon noticed. He always does.

He opened the leather notebook and slid it toward me. Inside were simple drawings: a deep well with a stone rim, a stream branching thinner and thinner, and a cracked cistern leaking into dry ground.

“I used water for a reason,” he said. “Everyone understands thirst. I wrote, ‘Drink water from your own well, flowing water from your own spring.’”

He tapped the well.

“Fleeting desire promises relief,” he said, “but it never offers rest. It gives intensity without safety. Novelty without being known. You can be wanted for a night and still feel completely replaceable by morning.”

The café noise seemed to fade, like someone had turned the volume knob down.

“When love stays,” he continued, “something else becomes possible. Something dramatic. Something remarkable. You are seen fully—and not discarded. You don’t have to perform to be kept. Trust grows. History accumulates. Intimacy stops being a transaction and starts becoming a language.”

Then he looked directly at me and quoted it clearly, deliberately:

“Let your wife be a fountain of blessing for you. Rejoice in the wife of your youth.”

“This isn’t about control,” he said. “It’s about joy. A fountain doesn’t run dry because it’s guarded. It stays full because it’s protected.”

He turned the page and added another sketch—two figures side by side, lines between them growing thicker over time.

“Marriage offers things momentary encounters can’t,” he said. “A shared past that deepens touch. A shared future that gives meaning to sacrifice. A place where desire matures instead of burning out—where intimacy grows not from novelty, but from trust.”

I shifted in my seat. He was naming things I’d felt but never said out loud.

“Truth is, I failed here in my own life,” Solomon said remorsefully. “Spectacularly!”

“For a time in my life, I collected relationships like trophies and called it wisdom. It wasn’t. The more I reached, the emptier I became. Love isn’t proven by how much you can handle. It’s proven by how well you can keep a promise.”

“Casual desire avoids accountability. Covenant love heals through consistency.”

Outside, the rain slowed. Light pressed softly through the clouds.

“Guarding love,” he added, “means guarding what feeds it—your habits, your imagination, what you normalize. What you repeatedly give attention to eventually asks for your allegiance.”

He stood, slinging the notebook under his arm.

“Three things to remember,” he said. 

“First: desire doesn’t disappear—it needs direction.”

“Second: joy grows where attention stays.”

“Third: depth always outlasts novelty.”

He smiled—warm, knowing—and stepped back into the rain. The cedar scent faded. The chair across from me stayed empty.

For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel restless. Just thoughtful. Like I’d finally named the hunger instead of chasing it.

What? Faithful, committed love is meant to be joyful, sustaining, and deeply satisfying—not limiting, but life-giving.

So What? Because fleeting desire offers intensity without security, but lasting love builds trust, meaning, and joy that doesn’t vanish when the moment ends.

Now What? Take one step this week to protect depth over distraction—set a boundary, give undivided attention, or invest intentionally in your primary relationship like it actually matters.