Key Verse: “I was appointed in ages past, at the very
first, before the earth began.” (v.23)
The café was just waking up when I arrived. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. The espresso machine hissed and sighed like it hadn’t decided whether to cooperate yet. Morning light slid through the front windows and caught dust in the air, turning it into something almost deliberate.
I felt unsettled—like I’d been making plans without checking whether the ground beneath them could actually hold weight.
Aaron was already there, same hoodie as yesterday, posture closed, coffee untouched. He gave me a quick nod and went back to staring out the window, jaw tight. Whatever he was carrying hadn’t lightened overnight.
Solomon arrived without ceremony. Linen shirt, silver-streaked hair tied back, handmade boots worn smooth with use. As he leaned in, I caught that faint cedar scent again—steady, grounding. He tapped the table twice with his fingers, a habit I was starting to recognize.
“Today,” he said, voice calm, “Wisdom stops calling and starts explaining herself.”
He didn’t open his notebook yet. Instead, he began with the wide view. “In this passage—Proverbs 8, verses 22-36—I let Wisdom speak about her origin. I’m saying she isn’t an idea humans stumbled upon. She isn’t a trend, a technique, or a life hack. She was present before anything existed.”
He paused, letting the sounds of the café rise and fall.
“Before mountains had names. Before oceans knew where to stop. Before the first sunrise split the dark.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Wisdom was already there—and she wasn’t bored. She was joyful.”
The world seemed to slow, like someone turned down the background noise. Cups clinked in the distance. A grinder whirred, then stopped.
Solomon continued, “I also make something clear here: Wisdom is foundational. Creation itself was shaped with her. She isn’t added after the fact—she’s baked in.”
“In Proverbs 8, wisdom isn’t presented as something humans invented through trial and error. She speaks as something older than humanity itself.”
“Wisdom came from God’s own nature and intent.”
“Before there was land to stand on, oceans to cross, or stars to name, God acted with purpose, order, and goodness. Wisdom is the expression of that purpose. She wasn’t created after the world as a rulebook for fixing mistakes; she was present before the world, shaping how everything would work once it existed.”
“Wisdom isn’t separate from God,” he explained. “And she isn’t an independent being. She is God’s wisdom personified—spoken of as a voice so humans can understand something otherwise invisible.”
Aaron shifted in his chair. “That’s poetic,” he said, guarded. “But what does that actually mean for people like us?”
Solomon nodded, as if he’d been waiting for that. He opened his leather notebook and slid it forward. On the page was a rough sketch: a foundation slab, chalk lines and measurements scribbled along the edges. Above it, a half-built frame—walls rising unevenly.
“This,” Solomon said, tapping the upper structure, “is how most people live. We focus on what we’re building—career, relationships, image, security.” His finger dropped to the slab beneath it. “Wisdom focuses here.”
He quoted the verse out loud, voice steady: “I was appointed in ages past, at the very first, before the earth began.”
“I’m saying,” Solomon added, “that reality has a grain to it. Like wood. Work with it, and things hold. Fight it, and everything splinters.”
Aaron crossed his arms. “So if things fall apart, it’s because we didn’t follow the way things work?”
Solomon leaned back slightly, unoffended. “I’m saying life works a certain way—whether we like it or not. Wisdom doesn’t punish people. She simply tells the truth about how things hold together.”
A woman passed our table carrying a tray of pastries. Her phone buzzed suddenly, and the tray tipped. Aaron reached out without thinking and steadied it. She laughed, a little breathless. “Thanks. First day back after… everything.”
When she walked away, Solomon watched her go. “Rebuilding exposes foundations,” he said quietly. “Always does.”
Aaron stared into his coffee. “What if the foundation’s already wrong?”
Solomon turned the page in his notebook. The same slab appeared—but this time cracked. Beneath it, deeper supports had been drawn, reinforcing what was already there.
“Ancient builders didn’t panic when cracks showed,” Solomon said. “They went deeper.” He met Aaron’s eyes. “Wisdom existed before your mistakes. She hasn’t gone anywhere.”
He grew quieter then. “I once built something breathtaking on the surface. People came from everywhere to see it. But I ignored Wisdom in my private life—my loyalties, my desires. The structure stood for a while.” He exhaled. “Then the cracks showed.”
Solomon closed the notebook. “That’s why this passage matters. Wisdom isn’t harsh. She delights in humanity. She rejoices when people choose life. But she won’t pretend foundations don’t matter.”
He stood, boots soft against the floor. “Remember this,” he said, summing it up. “Wisdom is ancient. She’s joyful. She’s woven into how life works. Find her, and you find life. Ignore her, and even good intentions eventually collapse.”
After he left, Aaron sat quietly for a long moment. Then he said, almost to himself, “Guess I need to look at my blueprints.”
I stared into my own cup, thinking of all the places I’d been building upward without ever going down first.
What? Wisdom existed before creation and is foundational to how life was designed to work.
So What? Ignoring wisdom isn’t independence—it’s fighting reality, and even good intentions can collapse without a solid foundation.
Now What? Before your next major decision, pause and ask: Am I building on what’s ancient and true—or just what feels urgent right now?
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