He was the dirty kid. Smelly and inclined to eat boogers. He walked hunched and kept his head on a swivel, scanning for danger which probably wasn't there. Except at home, there was definitely danger there.

We played ball together, me and John. He was a nice kid but he didn't talk much. His spirit had been beaten out of him by his father with a PVC pipe. I don't remember how we learned that he was abused, but we learned it too late. John was underdeveloped socially, physically, and spiritually. He was much more like a wild animal than most people - a prey animal.

His father would smile at baseball games and cheer John when he got a hit. But there was something he brought with him, this sense of creepy danger. You could see right through it. And while I must admit the darker part of me would like to give that man a taste of what he gave his son, it wouldn't do any good. God will sort him out, one way or another. I am probably supposed to pray for him, but I never have.

Wisdom cries aloud in the street, in the markets she raises her voice. (Proverbs 1:20)

She is as old as time, or at least as old as God. You will find her at funerals if you look for her. Weddings, too. And hospital rooms and some churches. She will not be rushed, or microwaved, or multitasked. You will not meet her when you're frantic, distracted, or proud.

Her name is wisdom.

There is an extreme arrogance about this generation. I'm not singling out millennials, I am talking about everyone alive today - myself included. We think we’re the smartest people to ever live and that we’ve evolved into the upper echelon of humanity. But we’re still eating Tide Pods. We’re overweight and unhealthy. A large majority of people will forsake their marriage to stay up late and look at naked people on their computer. We drink depressants to make us happy.

There's really no getting around it, though I've tried. It's impossibly unpopular. No one can understand it, and it, to many, impeaches the character of God.

He afflicts.

It's not that every hurt is caused by his hand. Every bald-headed child in a cancer ward. Every mother holding a limp child in a bomb crater. No, not every affliction is his.