This earth, carnal, heavy and hard, prods me onward down this dusty path, narrow.
Dust fills my lungs and I crave hard the fresh breath of Spirit, pure.
And my own thoughts become frivolous, and I long deeply for thoughts birthed from the holy womb of heaven.
Thoughts that give life and sustenance to dry and weary places, fresh water to cracked and barren land.
My own emotions leave residue of deception, and I suddenly want nothing more than Emotions grown and tended in the happy garden of heaven.
Emotions that hold the hand of truth and walk in the footsteps of wisdom.
and my own house, small and weak, feels lonely and empty, built by experience, established by pride.
Where is that house called strong, with pillars hewn and table set?
Where is that house called sensible, with wine mixed and bread fresh?
Where is that house called safe, built by Wisdom, established by Understanding?
A king of old, with ancient rhyme and divine favor, told me to find this house.
He wrote of its rooms filled with knowledge and halls filled with pleasures.
He spoke of a Lady, who built and kept this house, called Wisdom, and of her righteous and pleasing ways.
These words drive me onward, these stories pull me from the woods of my comfort into the nearby town, civil and obediently placed within the confines of my perceptions of humanity.
The people of this town wander as I do.
They search for reason but desire drives them to death.
They long for purpose but pride pushes them to hell.
They long for understanding but passivity blinds them.
And a woman, sitting high by her house, calls out to those passing by.
She promises danger, she lures with adventure, and she bids for significance.
Her voice is loud, her form alluring, and her pleasures easy.
But her house she did not build.
Her table is not set, her food not prepared, her wine has gone bad, and her rooms are filled with pain.
Her house was not founded, and it sinks, slowly, into the ground where it was built hastily.
Many turn in and are satisfied for but a moment. Most who cross over her threshold do not come back.
She is Folly, beautiful but dangerous. She has the appearance of intimacy but denies its power. She has born children but forgotten about them, too caught up in her own wants to care for their needs. They lay dead in her house, filling it with their stench.
But the smell reaches my nostrils and I turn away from the shadow of Folly’s house, persuaded by the warnings of that old king, still ringing in the corners of my mind.
Then I hear another voice, strong and powerful, steady and full of grace.
Another woman, sitting high, calls out to those who pass by.
She promises safety, she lures with contentment, and she bids for understanding.
Only a few turn in.
And I am one.
And in the midst of this beautiful house I find peace, I find pleasure, I find insight.
I have found the house called steadfast, the house that Wisdom built.
“Through wisdom a house is built,
And by understanding it is established;
By knowledge the rooms are filled
With all precious and pleasant riches.”