Key Verse: “To learn, you must love discipline; it is
stupid to hate correction.” (v.1)
We met back at the café this morning. Rain streaked the windows, turning the street into a blurred smear of headlights and umbrellas. I slid into our usual table feeling raw, like I’d spent the whole week being evaluated.
Solomon was already there. He tapped the table once—a small welcome—and smiled as if he already knew why I was on edge.
“Proverbs twelve today,” he said, sliding his weathered leather notebook between us. “It’s about discipline. Not the loud kind. The personal kind.”
A barista passed with a rescue dog on a leash—muddy paws, hopeful eyes. The dog shook itself, spraying rain everywhere. No one complained. Solomon noticed. So did I.
“In this passage,” he continued, opening the notebook to a page filled with branching lines and small sketches, “I move quickly. Ten verses. Short truths. But they all orbit the same center: who you become when you’re corrected—and who’s doing the correcting.”
He leaned in. The café noise softened, like someone had closed a door on the world.
“I start with this,” he said, quoting verse one: ‘To learn, you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.’ He looked at me carefully. “That word—discipline—tends to shut people down.”
I exhaled. “Because it usually feels like punishment,” I said. “Or disappointment. Or someone, even God, being irritated with me.”
Solomon smiled, not amused—understanding. “That’s the mistake. Discipline from the Lord isn’t irritation. It’s attention.”
I frowned. “Attention?”
“Yes,” he said, tapping the notebook. “Think about it. You don’t discipline strangers. You correct what you care about. Divine discipline isn’t God stepping back with crossed arms—it’s God stepping closer, refusing to let you drift into something smaller than you were made for.”
At the counter, a man complained loudly about a wrong order. The barista apologized and fixed it quickly. The man still stormed out. Solomon watched him go.
“Verse one divides people,” Solomon said. “Not into good and bad—but into teachable and untouchable. One listens when God nudges, redirects, presses. The other resists, calls it unfair, and keeps walking.”
“It is stupid to hate correction… I chose that word on purpose. Not to insult—but to wake you up.”
He went on to explain… “Hating correction is called ‘stupid’ in that line not because it insults your intelligence, but because rejecting correction actively harms you. It’s the kind of ‘stupid’ that means self‑sabotaging, reckless. It’s like ignoring a flashing hazard sign and speeding up anyway.”
I shifted in my chair. “What if the correction hurts?” I asked. “What if it costs you something?”
Solomon nodded slowly. “It often does.” He paused, eyes clouded by old memory. “I ignored the Lord’s discipline once. More than once. I had wisdom, power, success—and I convinced myself those were proof I didn’t need correction. That’s when my integrity began to rot quietly.”
He flipped the notebook toward me. A drawing of a plumb line next to a leaning wall.
“God’s discipline is like this,” he said. “It doesn’t exist to tear the house down. It exists to show you what’s starting to bend before it collapses.”
The rescue dog wandered over and rested its head on Solomon’s boot. He absentmindedly scratched behind its ears.
“That’s why this chapter keeps widening,” Solomon said. “Correction shapes character. Character shapes work. Work reveals integrity. And integrity shows up in compassion—even toward animals.” He smiled faintly. “You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat others when they don’t expect something in return.”
I swallowed. “So when life pushes back… when something exposes me… that might not be God being against me.”
“Exactly,” Solomon said softly. “The Lord’s discipline isn’t rejection. It’s refusal to abandon you to your worst instincts.”
The barista mouthed thank you as she reclaimed the dog and disappeared into the rain. I noticed the space they left behind, like warmth fading from a room.
Solomon closed the notebook. “Let me give it to you straight,” he said. “Wise people don’t just accept correction from others. They recognize when God is shaping them—through circumstances, through conviction, through truth they’d rather avoid.”
He counted on his fingers. “Love discipline. Walk honestly. Work faithfully. Practice compassion. These aren’t separate lessons. They’re the evidence of a life genuinely teachable before God.”
We stood and moved outside, where the rain had softened to mist.
As we parted, Solomon said one last thing. “There’s a day coming when God’s correction will wear a human face and a gentle voice—calling people back without crushing them. When you feel discipline, don’t run. Lean in.”
I walked into the gray afternoon thinking about the resistance I feel when I’m corrected—by people, by circumstances, by something deeper tugging at my conscience.
Maybe the question isn’t, Why is this happening to me? Maybe it’s What is God trying to form in me?
What? Proverbs 12 teaches that wisdom grows in those who welcome correction—especially God’s loving discipline—and let it shape integrity, diligence, and compassion.
So What? If God’s discipline is care, not condemnation, then resistance keeps us stuck while humility keeps us growing.
Now What? Think of one area where life has been pushing back lately—ask, What might God be trying to straighten rather than punish?
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