Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil. This will bring health to your body and nourishment to your bones. Proverbs 3:7-8
Tiago lived in a world of data, metrics, and optimization. At twenty-six, he was the CEO of a successful startup that created productivity apps. His motto, printed on t-shirts and mugs in the office, was “If it cannot be measured, it cannot be improved.” He was, in his own eyes, the personification of modern wisdom.
He applied this logic to everything. His diet was calculated for maximum performance. His sleep routine was monitored by sensors. His relationships were evaluated based on “value exchanges” and “synergy of objectives.” He had even created a personal algorithm to make decisions, weighing pros and cons with mathematical precision. To him, evil was not a moral category; it was simply “inefficiency.” And the fear of God was an irrational variable he had eliminated from his life equation long ago.
His body, however, began to send signals that something was fundamentally wrong. He suffered from chronic migraines, a constant tension in his shoulders, and an insomnia that no meditation app could cure. He felt a deep weariness, a fatigue that was not physical but seemed to come from his bones.
His doctor, Dr. Elias, an older and more perceptive man, was direct after a battery of tests.
“Tiago, your test results are perfect. Physically, you are a machine. But you are sick. Your illness is called arrogance.”
Tiago laughed, uncomfortable.
“That’s not a medical diagnosis, Doctor.”
“It might be the most accurate one you have ever received,” the doctor replied. “You treat your life like a code to be debugged. But life is not a code. And your body is paying the price for the stress of trying to control everything. You consider yourself too wise, and that pride is consuming you from the inside out.”
Tiago dismissed the advice as nonsense. But the seed of doubt was planted.
The breaking point came through his grandfather, Mr. Ramiro, a retired carpenter whom Tiago visited out of a mixture of obligation and affection. One Saturday afternoon, he found his grandfather in the workshop out back, sanding a piece of wood with infinite patience. The air smelled of cedar and peace.
“I’m exhausted, Grandpa,” Tiago confessed, something he would never admit to his team. “I feel like my bones are tired.”
Mr. Ramiro stopped sanding. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and looked at his grandson.
“Bone-tiredness is soul-tiredness, my son. It happens when we try to carry the world on our shoulders. The world is too heavy.”
“But I have to carry it,” Tiago insisted. “If I don’t, everything falls apart.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” his grandfather said with a gentle smile. “Do you know which wood is the strongest? It is not the most rigid. It is the one that knows how to bend with the wind, the one that respects a force greater than its own. You are intelligent, Tiago. But do not confuse intelligence with wisdom. Being wise in your own eyes is the easiest tree to break.”
He picked up his old Bible from the workbench.
“Your problem is not a lack of rest. It is a lack of fear. Not the fear that paralyzes, but the respect that puts us in our proper place. When you fear the Lord, you understand that you do not need to have all the answers. You turn away from the evil of trying to be God in your own life. And do you know what happens? Your body relaxes. Your bones find refreshment.”
His grandfather’s words, so simple and analog, penetrated Tiago’s armor of data in a way that no medical diagnosis could. He looked at his own hands, always typing, controlling, optimizing. And he looked at his grandfather’s hands, calloused yet serene.
That week, Tiago did something radically inefficient. He took an afternoon off. Not for a “strategic recharge,” but just to walk aimlessly in a park. He turned off his phone notifications. He sat on a bench and watched the trees, the children, the clouds.
He tried to pray. It was clumsy. He did not ask for anything. He just acknowledged, for the first time, that he was not the center of the universe. That there was a wisdom far greater than his, a Designer behind the entire system. It was an act of humility, a turning away from the evil of his own arrogance.
The migraine did not disappear overnight. But at the end of that afternoon, he felt something he had not felt in years. A lightness in his shoulders. A silence in his mind. A subtle but real refreshment that seemed to reach his bones. He was just beginning to learn that true health did not come from an algorithm, but from a surrender.
(Made with AI)
This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom
https://books2read.com/u/3knogL
