Key Verse: “The way of the righteous is like the
first gleam of dawn, which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.”
(v.18)
We met early today—earlier than usual—on the riverwalk just before sunrise. The city was half-awake, lights still glowing in office windows, streetlamps buzzing softly as if reluctant to let go of the night. The water moved slow and dark beside us, carrying reflections that broke apart with every ripple.
I arrived quiet, coffee in hand, thoughts heavier than the sky. I’d been impatient lately. With myself. With change. With how long growth seemed to take.
Solomon stood near the railing, handmade boots planted firmly, linen shirt catching the faint breeze off the water. He tapped the railing twice, like he was calling my attention back into my body.
“Good timing,” he said gently. “This passage only really makes sense when the light hasn’t fully arrived yet.”
A jogger slowed nearby, stretching. A man in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Broad shoulders, tired eyes. He looked like someone who worked hard and felt like it wasn’t adding up. He overheard Solomon and gave a short laugh.
“Tell me about it,” the man said. “Feels like I’ve been running for years and I’m still nowhere.”
Solomon smiled at him. “You’re right on schedule.”
The man frowned, unconvinced, but stayed.
Solomon opened his weathered leather notebook, pages curled and crowded with sketches. “In this section,” he said, “I’m continuing a conversation about paths. Not destinations—paths. I describe two ways of living. One grows clearer the longer you stay on it. The other grows darker, even when you think you know where you’re going.”
He drew two lines. One began faint, then widened into light. The other started bold and tapered into black.
“This is a warning about shortcuts that feel fast but cost you vision. And it encourages patience on the path that feels slow but keeps giving you more light.”
The jogger crossed his arms. “Yeah, but what if it feels like I’m barely moving?”
Solomon leaned in, eyes kind, voice steady. “Because dawn doesn’t announce itself with fireworks. It shows up quietly. Incrementally. And if you judge it too early, you’ll miss what it’s becoming.”
The world seemed to slow. The sky shifted—almost imperceptibly—from charcoal to deep blue.
“That verse,” Solomon said, tapping the page, “is personal to me. I wrote it after years of learning that wisdom compounds. You don’t wake up enlightened. You wake up faithful. And the light follows.”
I felt that land somewhere deep. I’d been measuring progress by brightness, not direction.
The jogger exhaled. “So… I’m not behind?”
Solomon shook his head. “You’re walking. And that’s the only way dawn works. We tend to forget that even 'baby steps' keep you moving forward.”
The man nodded, something easing in his shoulders. After a moment, he jogged on, footsteps fading down the path. I noticed the space he left behind—and how the light had grown without us noticing.
Solomon closed the notebook. “Darkness,” he said, “isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just living without enough light to see what’s tripping you. But when you choose the right path—even clumsily—the light keeps coming.”
He stepped back, boots soft against the pavement. “Three things to remember.”
“First: Don’t rush what’s designed to grow over time.”
“Second: Clarity comes from consistency, not intensity.”
“Third: Stay on the path long enough for the light to catch up.”
He nodded once, then walked away as the sun finally broke the horizon. The river caught fire with color. I stood there longer than usual, letting the day arrive.
What? The right path doesn’t bring instant clarity—it steadily grows brighter the longer you stay on it.
So What? When progress feels slow, it’s easy to quit or compare, but wisdom reminds us that lasting change happens gradually and faithfully.
Now What? Identify one small, right step you’re already taking in the right direction—and commit to staying with it today, without rushing the light.
No comments:
Post a Comment