Key Verse: “There is a path before each person that
seems right, but it ends in death.” (v.12, NLT)
The café looked different today. Clear. No rain streaking down the windows, no fog blurring the streetlights. Sunlight slid across the concrete floor like it had somewhere important to be. I noticed it because inside, I didn’t feel nearly as clear.
I’d been replaying decisions all morning—conversations, compromises, things I’d justified because they felt reasonable at the time. I slid into my usual chair with that low-grade tension buzzing in my chest.
Solomon was already there. Linen shirt. Handmade boots. Silver-streaked hair tied back. Palms resting on the table like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Proverbs fourteen today,” he said, warm but steady. “Verses one through twelve.”
Gideon sat a few seats down, finishing his coffee. He caught my eye and nodded—calmer than when I first met him weeks ago. Different. Like someone who’d stopped arguing with the mirror.
Solomon continued. “In this section, I talk about two kinds of builders, two kinds of households, two kinds of hearts. Wisdom and foolishness don’t just live in thoughts—they show up in homes, work, friendships. Outcomes tell the truth eventually.”
He tapped the table once. Not loud. Final.
“Every way can seem right,” he went on, “when you’re standing at the beginning of it.”
That landed heavier than I expected.
He slid his weathered leather notebook toward me, opening it just enough to reveal a rough sketch—two roads starting from the same point. One curved gently downhill, shaded, easy. The other narrower, uneven, marked with small notches like milestones.
“Notice,” he said, “neither path looks dangerous at first. No warning signs. No sirens.”
I frowned. “So how are you supposed to know which is which?”
Solomon smiled—not amused, more like someone who’d asked that question himself and learned the hard way.
“You don’t start with the entrance,” he said. “You start with the end.”
He leaned in. The café noise dimmed—the hiss of the espresso machine, the low chatter—like the world had politely stepped back.
“In this passage,” he said, “I’m warning about something subtle. A person can be honest, hardworking, well-intentioned, completely sincere… and still be walking toward ruin. Because they trusted their instincts more than wisdom.”
That pushed back on me. “That feels harsh,” I said. “Are you saying feelings are useless?”
“No,” he replied gently. “I’m saying feelings make terrible compasses.”
He paused, eyes distant for a moment. “I built paths once that felt right. Alliances that made sense politically. Relationships that seemed harmless. I told myself I was strong enough, smart enough to manage the consequences.”
His thumb traced the edge of the notebook. “I was wrong. The damage didn’t arrive loudly. It came quietly. One step at a time.”
Gideon stood, slipping on his jacket. He walked over, hesitated. “I think I finally get it,” he said. “I kept saying, ‘This isn’t that bad.’ But I never asked where it was taking me.”
Solomon nodded, eyes kind. “You’re paying attention now. That matters.”
Gideon smiled—soft, unguarded. “Thanks.” Then he was gone, the chair across from us empty. I felt the absence like a punctuation mark. An ending that hinted at a new sentence.
I stared at the door after him. “So… how do you actually do this?” I asked. “Start with the end, I mean. Life isn’t a math problem.”
Solomon chuckled quietly. “True. But wisdom asks better questions.”
He quoted the verse then, clearly, deliberately: “There is a path before each person that seems right, but it ends in death.” “By death,” he said, “I’m not just talking about eternal death or hell, though that is the most sobering aspect of these words. But death doesn’t always mean a grave. Sometimes it’s the slow death of trust. Of peace. Of integrity. Of becoming someone you never planned to be.”
That stung because it was accurate.
“In this passage,” he continued, “I contrast laughter that hides pain, joy that doesn’t last, confidence built on sand. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to wake you up.”
I swallowed. “So what does wisdom actually do differently?”
“It listens,” he said. “It invites counsel. It measures choices by where they lead—not by how they feel today.”
He glanced toward the window, sunlight bright and honest. “And eventually, wisdom learns to ask the Creator for perspective. Because some directions feel right until we realize we’ve made ourselves the compass, rather than Him.”
That was new. Not preachy. Just… grounding.
Solomon leaned back. “Remember this,” he said, summarizing. “Not every open door is an invitation you should accept. Not every peaceful feeling is permission. And not every sincere step is safe.”
I nodded slowly, thinking of my own roads—ones I’d chosen because they were easier to explain, easier to defend.
As I stood to leave, the café felt brighter than when I’d arrived. Not because everything was solved—but because I knew what question I needed to ask next.
What? Even sincere, confident choices can lead to destruction if they’re aimed at the wrong destination.
So What? In a world that tells you to “trust your gut,” wisdom asks you to consider where your decisions are actually taking you.
Now What? Before your next big decision, pause and ask: If I keep going this way for five years, who will I become?
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