The smell hit me first—floor polish, fresh paper, and nervous energy. I was visiting a local primary school for their harvest festival. Still, that distinctive scent instantly transported me to my own September mornings: new exercise books, unmarked backpacks, and that mixture of excitement and dread that comes with fresh starts.
Walking past the school gates, I found myself wondering about something that had been nagging at me lately. The children in those classrooms will spend the coming months absorbing facts, mastering skills, and passing tests. Vital work. Yet on this pilgrim path, I'm learning there's a difference between collecting information and growing in wisdom.
The Hebrew word for wisdom, חָכמָה or hokmah, refers to practical wisdom—the art of living well and seeing life clearly. It's what the Proverbs call "the beginning of wisdom": recognising that our knowledge has limits, that the universe holds more mystery than our textbooks suggest.
I meet fellow travellers who know theology backwards—can quote Augustine and debate predestination—but struggle to forgive their neighbour or find peace in uncertainty. They've mastered the information but missed the transformation. Knowledge puffs up, Paul warned, but wisdom builds up.
The best teachers I remember weren't those who knew the most facts, but those who helped me ask better questions. They taught me that "I don't know" isn't failure—it's where learning begins. That changing your mind isn't weakness—it's growth.
I notice that Jesus surrounded himself with fishermen and tax collectors, rather than religious experts. He told grown adults they needed to become like children. His curriculum wasn't systematic theology, but rather daily life: noticing sparrows, talking to strangers, and sharing meals with the wrong people. Formation mattered more than information.
This September, as many return to lecture halls, I'm asking myself: What is life trying to teach me right now? What questions am I avoiding? Where might I need to unlearn something that's no longer serving me well?
The road itself becomes our classroom when we walk with our eyes open. Life writes the curriculum in ordinary moments, difficult conversations, and small choices that shape who we become. Often, the teacher appears as the last person we'd expect.
The autumn term starts for all of us. I'm taking my seat with curiosity rather than certainty, knowing the most important lessons lie just ahead on the path.
What has September always stirred in you? Where do you sense life inviting you to learn something new this season?