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