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.
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.
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