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