Key Verse: “Getting
wisdom is the wisest thing you can do!” (v.7)
The café windows were fogged from the rain, the kind that turns the city into a watercolor. My shoes squeaked on the tile as I stepped inside, shoulders tight, mind louder than the espresso grinder. I’d been thinking about legacy all morning—what I’d inherited, what I was unintentionally passing on. Habits. Reactions. Silences.
Solomon was already there, same corner table. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled. His silver-streaked hair was tied back, a few strands loose like he hadn’t bothered to argue with the wind. When I slid into the chair, the faint scent of cedar reached me—steady, grounding.
He tapped the table once, smiling. “You look like someone carrying boxes they didn’t pack themselves.”
“Feels that way,” I said.
He nodded, then slid his weathered leather notebook forward. The cover was creased, corners softened by years. “Good. That means today’s words will find a place to land.”
A barista passed by, a young guy with tired eyes and a chipped mug. He hesitated, listening as Solomon spoke, then moved on. I noticed him because Solomon did—his gaze kind, attentive, like everyone mattered.
“In this passage,” Solomon began, “I’m talking the way my father talked to me. Not lecturing. Inviting. I say, Listen, my sons, to a father’s instruction. I’m reminding my readers that wisdom isn’t new information. It’s a living thing, passed hand to hand.”
The café noise softened, like someone had turned down the world’s volume.
“I had a father, King David, who taught me,” he continued. “And I chose to listen. That choice shaped everything that came after—my leadership, my failures, my regrets. Wisdom doesn’t promise you won’t stumble. It promises you’ll know how to get up.”
He opened the notebook. On the page, a simple sketch: a relay race. One runner passing a baton to the next. “Instruction,” he said, tapping the baton, “is meant to move. It dies when it stops with you.”
Solomon traced the baton in his sketch one more time. “Here’s the part people miss,” he said quietly. “You’re always handing something back over your shoulder—whether you mean to or not. Your patience teaches. Your shortcuts teach. Even your silence teaches.”
He met my eyes, uncanny in his certainty. “Those who come behind you will live with what you normalized. Wisdom doesn’t just save you trouble—it spares the next person from learning everything the hard way. That’s why I chased it. I wasn’t thinking only about my life. I was thinking about theirs.”
The thought landed heavier than I expected. I wasn’t just choosing for myself. I was shaping the air someone else would someday breathe.
I thought about my dad. The good things. The hard ones. The things he never said.
Solomon leaned in. “Now, let’s think about this for a moment.”
He underlined a sentence on the page with his finger. “Getting wisdom is the wisest thing you can do. I wrote that because people love shortcuts. They want results without pursuit. But wisdom isn’t inherited like eye color, like you’re just born with it. No, you have to go after it. It’s chased. Protected. Paid for with attention.”
A couple at the next table argued in whispers—money, maybe time. The woman’s hand trembled around her cup. Solomon glanced at them, then back to me. “See them? They’re not fighting about dollars. They’re fighting about what they value. Wisdom clarifies that before the fight starts.”
He straightened, voice steady. “These verses are saying: don’t treat wisdom like a tool you borrow. Treat her like a companion you commit to. She guards you. She lifts you. She changes how the world meets you.”
Something in my chest loosened. I’d been waiting for wisdom to arrive like mail I forgot to check. Solomon was saying I had to go get it.
He closed the notebook and stood, boots whispering against the floor. “Three things,” he said, tapping the table once more.
“First: Wisdom is worth more than comfort. You don’t drift into it—you decide.”
“Second: What you choose to learn becomes what you leave behind.”
“Third: Honor wisdom, and she will shape a life you don’t have to escape from.”
He nodded, a gentle smile, and walked toward the door. The bell chimed. The café felt louder again.
The barista was gone; a fresh cup sat where he’d been. I noticed the empty space and felt the weight of choices—mine, and the ones still open.
What? Wisdom must be actively pursued and valued above everything else, because it shapes both your life and what you pass on to others.
So What? In a world chasing quick wins and loud opinions, choosing wisdom gives clarity, stability, and a legacy that doesn’t crumble under pressure.
Now What? Pay attention to who’s watching your life right now—a child, a coworker, a friend. Choose one wise habit today that you’d be willing for them to copy, and practice it on purpose.
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