As with some other virtues, trying to define patience can be a challenging thing. The definition of it, and the many angles from which it can be viewed or understood… The way it may be easier to define patience by noticing a lack of it rather then reveling in it and appreciating it at the moments when it surrounds and embraces us…

So often, I think of patience in a more positive to negative sense. That is, when I am expecting someone to become angry or frustrated with me, and they don’t show that anger or frustration, and they wait for me to say what I need to say or do what I need to do, that has so often been to me a sign of patience. And I think I have so often thought of my own patience as being reflected in those types of behaviors toward other people too.

But there is another side to patience, that I think has to do a lot more with endurance and perseverance and hope, especially in the long dark nights of life. Patience in that case is synonymous with persistence and resilience. It does not give up but literally suffers long.

Certainly, God is patient in that sense, but the difference with God is that in His all-knowing way, He sees the ending and what will come at the breaking point of the long dark night. We, however, in our limited finite sense and bindings of time, cannot see into the future. We do not know when the end of the battle and the long dark night will come. We can only hold on, wait, pray, and use every ounce of our faith to not give up in the long stretches and the struggles and the pain we may encounter along life’s way.

A great example of this that comes to mind from history today is the example shown by the early citizens of the United States. They fought for years, even decades, for their complete freedom, independence, and ability to really establish themselves in the land they dreamed of calling home on their own terms.

A survey of all they went through in hindsight shows us the points where they were closer to victory and other points where they were so near to defeat. But of course, in their time, they could not know exactly what was happening and what would happen next. They fought, stood, responded, and carried on, helping each other and believing in faith that if they would keep fighting and keep looking upward, in the end they would it gain something sweet.

As one who has benefited my whole life so greatly from the sacrifices they made and the patience and persistence they exhibited, I am grateful. And I think this teaches us that when we show such patience and persistence, reaching out for the dreams and the hopes that we have, we may benefit in our lifetime, but it may be the generations that come after us that benefit even more. And both of those things, in God’s all-knowing plan, are great blessings. In honor of those early revolutionaries and the patience and perseverance that they exhibited, I would like to share a “sentence” poem that I wrote just now.

We did not know

When the end would arrive,

But it was our

Dream

Of what the end might

Look like

That carried us through,

That gave us courage

And hope —

That gave us the patience

To lay the foundation

For a forged

An enduring

Home.

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As a Protestant, I strongly believe that anyone who follows Jesus Christ as his/her Lord automatically becomes a “saint” within God’s economy. Some people may behave in very good ways, but no one is automatically holier than someone else based solely on what they do, and all of us are equally lost and broken, in need of grace.

And all of us have many opportunities to show patience. And all of us need equally infinite amounts of patience from God and others throughout our lives.

All that said, I do enjoy reading about saints from the past in the Catholic tradition. While they were only human, the things they learned from God can serve as helpful lessons and reminders to us all.

Today, I was reading about St. Frances de Sales. I found some details of his life intriguing, but I will choose not to focus on those so much as on a few of his words. At one point, he said, “Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections, but instantly set about remedying them–every day, begin the task anew.” And when asked by others how true patience could really be achieved, he pointed frequently back to Christ. He would say, “When it is our lot to suffer pain, trials, or ill-treatment, let us turn our eyes upon what our Lord suffered, which will instantly render our sufferings sweet and supportable.”

I could expound a little or a great deal on those two quotations, but I think today I will just choose to let them strike the reader as they might and share a song which these words remind me of. See below.

Be blessed, my friends, as you walk on and daily meet opportunities for building patience.

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It’s truly ironic when the person who becomes a “poster child” for something was the exact opposite of that trait, behavior, or thing at another point in life. And sometimes people who think they don’t possess a trait actually do display it more than they are aware.

Starting in on a new month with another profile, this week’s figure may not have been particularly noted for his patience, especially in his earlier years. He was a perfectionist and legalistic at every turn. And his zeal to make sure others did what he thought was “right” led him to become an informant, a bounty hunter, and an accomplice to murder.

That was before he received his new name. One day, in a brilliant and blinding encounter, he went from being called Saul to being called Paul, a name that means small or humble. Temporarily unable to see, he was led to a safe place and nursed and healed. And after that, his life took on a whole new meaning, a whole new approach.

He was still very zealous about what he believed — in the other direction. But that encounter and the days which followed it had changed him forever. In some ways, he gained a softer touch and a deeper level of understanding towards others. He would go on to write many things about patience, both directly and indirectly. But perhaps the most famous of all those was in his attribute-laden definition of love which started right off the bat with, “Love is patient…”

What did he mean by that, saying real love was patient? I don’t think that he meant love should turn us into spineless pushovers or force us to let others treat us in dangerous or heartless ways.

But Paul had himself looked into the Face of patience when Jesus shook up his life and Paul could finally see how merciful God had been to him…even as Paul (then-Saul) had been running around killing God’s own children.

True patience reflecting true love does not need to reflect weakness. On the contrary, it is born out of a place of great strength. Strength in faith that someone can truly change with time and support. And strength in hope that the pain of the past can be forgiven and a fresh start for the future will be brighter when it finally arrives at the right time.

And these things are truly found in and truly sustained by the Savior Paul knew and loved so well for the rest of his days.

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When I was getting ready to start this year-long virtue series months ago, I asked friends and acquaintances to nominate others (whether famous or not) as suggestions for these brief profiles. Of the responses I received, one made immediate and complete sense. When I think of virtuous women I have known, she stands tall among them in my memory.

But most of what I recall of her is based on memories from before the second grade. Could I recall enough to write fully about her? And could I recall her accurately enough to offer a fair picture to my readers?

To confirm my own impressions (or add to them or correct as needed), I reached out to the source of the nomination, a most beautiful and beloved woman I affectionately call Tutu (the Hawaiian term for grandmother). About a month ago, Tutu finally wrote to share her further thoughts with me, and the timing could not have been more perfect. For I was just starting this month’s new theme. And Tutu’s very insightful notes helped me not only see how accurate my young memory had been, but also some other aspects of the nominated lady I was too young to understand and then later recall fully.

Please allow me today, then, to introduce you to an angel in skin named Ethel Harris. In that tightknit farming community, she was rightfully respected by all and affectionately called “Aunt Ethel” by a number of folks, whether they were related to her or not.

She was the first Sunday School teacher I ever had, during my toddler-preschool years, a time when I needed a very special love she gave as naturally as the air she breathed. She was something like a female Fred Rogers, and she treated each of us tiny souls with all the respect, attention, and grace she felt should be afforded to any human being. But as children are so often overlooked, dismissed, or misunderstood by adults, Ethel took it upon herself to give us extra attention and care. And it wasn’t buttery or pretentious. She spoke with us in a way we could understand, but still with sincerity, respect, and great intelligence. She felt called at every turn to model the teaching of Jesus that the littlest children should know His love and never be harmed or led astray from knowing His heart. When I was with her, every single moment as a child and also when I visited her again years later, before her passing, I felt loved about as unconditionally as I have ever felt loved by another person.

These are the things I reflected on in my own experience. But then I received Tutu’s letter.

While Tutu did confirm those things I remembered, she expounded further on Aunt Ethel’s deep and genuine humility, her fervent prayer practices for others, and her tireless generosity. And while she especially loved and prayed for the children, she had a heart of love for everyone. In Tutu’s notes, for example, I learned for the first time that Ethel also spent countless hours writing letters to prisoners to let them know they too were loved and never forgotten.

What strikes me most as I review the life of this one dear woman today? I think it is that sincerity is simply and truly seen when an authentic and loving person will choose to turn face-first to the world and shine a light from their deepest heart on others. A light that only God can put there. And a light that shines purest in the absence of fear.

I know Aunt Ethel prayed for me. I am one of so many in her still-living legacy. I could not be more sincerely honored to think about this. And I so sincerely want to live the rest of my life following her example.

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The same year that Bonhoeffer was ushered into glory, an American service member who had fought so bravely in the same war on the same continent came home.

And he came home a changed man.

Jimmy Stewart had been an actor before his first years of military service. And he had been a good one. From the beginning, sincerity was a must in most of his characters. And he soon gained a reputation of being both a regular guy and ideally approachable in most of his films.

But his wartime experiences changed him and, for a time, tormented him. He came home guant and dealing with nightmares and other symptoms we today would recognize as some level of PTSD. Yet, since acknowledgment of and treatment for such a condition were not really in existence at that time, he did what he knew how to do as a civilian to try and press forward.

He went back to acting.

Acting had never looked like acting with Stewart, however. So when his first assigned post-war film premiered, viewers likely thought he was just acting so well, like he’d always done.

But viewers who went to seen It’s a Wonderful Life in theaters didn’t know that in many of those realistically-passionate scenes, Stewart was using his acting to work though his angst, fighting his demons while the cameras rolled.

Members of the cast would later acknowledge that’s the way it was, and that it was rather unnerving to be on set with him at those times. But those same scenes, all these years later, draw us in magnetically by their raw humanness. By their frank sincerity.

Throughout the movie, Stewart demonstrated how he really felt. And while I don’t advocate harming others or scaring them half to death when we are sincere about our needs and feelings, I do think it is a great gift when we allow others to openly and honestly speak and be. And it is a great gift when others allow us to do the same.

Thank you, Jimmy, for being real for and with us. Sometimes we need the reminder.

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Sincerity, according to the dictionary I use when my ESL students, means that we show outwardly what we really think or feel inwardly.

By extension, many people may think of sincerity as being synonymous with transparency or even predictability. But is that always the case? In the life of one man, I would say both yes and no.

He was a young, brilliant intellectual with a quiet passion for truth. Over the course of his years living, studying, working, and thinking, he developed an ever increasing sense that the truest measure of abstract faith is found in visible obedience. “One act of obedience,” he wrote, “is worth a hundred sermons.”

No one who read his works or heard him preach could doubt his sincerity, that what he observed and taught fell one hundred percent in line with what he believed. And such sincerity would cost him increasingly more, test his faith even more fully, as the years went by.

Yet, as those years went by and his nation descended into further evil and chaos, the young man who had long held a pacifist’s stance began to secretly but actively try to overthrow his nation’s sovereign in a violent way. Were his feelings at that time fully transparent to the world? No. Fully predictable to the world? Absolutely not. But were they nonetheless sincere? I sincerely believe so.

For he would go to his death for his actions, but he would still preach what he knew to be true and show his Master’s love towards those around him in his prison to the very end.

His name was Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and he was executed at the age of 39. One cold spring morning at dawn, he was brought from his cell in a Nazi camp and led to a gallows to be hanged. It was April 9th, 75 years ago this past week. And it was just days after he had led his fellow prisoners in a worship celebration of his Master’s resurrection.

Protestants don’t canonize saints in the sense of the Catholic tradition. But if we started, I imagine this young man would be at the top of our collective list. And I find irony in that. Because he wanted always to mainly point others to the One he followed. As he once prayed, “May God in his mercy lead us through these times; but above all, may he lead us to himself.”

And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing we see reflected in his life: that while it was not always completely transparent or predictable, no one could doubt the depth of its sincerity.

Sounds a lot like the earthly life of his Master.

In Bonhoeffer’s honor and to the praise of the One who was there to lead him home, I offer a short poem:

When I stare into the coral horizon

And breath the last breaths of these lungs,

I will drink deep with anticipation

The marvelous truth of the glories to come.

My neck will snap, my body swing.

But my soul will rise up to meet its King.

Then, robed in white, His praises I’ll sing.

Wiedergeboren. Ruhm.

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Sometimes a person is naturally sincere, so that what they do and who they are spring up, like two intertwined vines from the same root, out of their core being. There is no pretense.

And sometimes a person possesses all of the potential they need to learn how to live genuinely and care genuinely for others, but their aim, passion, or outlook remains unrefined, misguided.

This month, we will look at a couple examples of each. This week, we will start with the latter.

He was a young fisherman and a younger brother who had a local reputation for his quick temper. Perhaps we can excuse at least a part of his impetuous attitude and selfishness with stereotypical thoughts of male egotism and youthful naivete.

That is a snapshot of who he was.

But then, he started hanging out with another guy, a teacher who was teaching a new way of thinking in a new style. And hanging out with that teacher for several years began an amazing transformation in the young fisherman.

He would walk and talk with the teacher, and serve alongside him. He would witness wonders and be humbled nearly beyond bearing. He would be present during several of the most iconic moments of human history. And he would be the one given charge to care for the teacher’s mother when the teacher first passed away and then later flew away into Heaven.

His name was John, son of Zebedee. And his was a life beautifully transformed.

While I certainly believe that the love and truth of Jesus had the greatest effect on him overall, and I wholeheartedly believe that Mary was only a common person with no divine power of her own, I can’t help but wonder how much of John’s sincerity was shaped by Jesus himself and how much of it was influenced or enhanced by John’s time of caring for Mary. Certainly the combination of the two fed a spring of goodness already somewhere present in John’s heart. And it led him to become a channel through which so much of God’s goodness would be expounded to us.

How many people have come to know the love of Jesus personally though John’s carefully and sublimely written gospel? How many people have come to understand a deeper meaning of love through John’s epistles? How many people have read with wonder of the power of God’s love as described in John’s revelation?

Before becoming the only apostle to die at a natural old age, he endured a time of prisoner’s exile. And though St. Paul has often received much more attention for the breadth and depth of his writings and his work, today I celebrate the life and the quiet, faithful sincerity of John.

The art posted with these thoughts is a royalty-free image I found online. When I see it, I think of John and smile. Love lifted him up above himself to see a wider view and to bless so many. And love was what he lifted up to Heaven and out to the world as an offering in return.

And that, my friends, is a most true and sweet essence of sincerity.

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So many of us cry out for justice to truly be blind and for social equality and goodness to prevail.

But where does it start?

It starts in each heart, with each one who would practice the second greatest commandment: to love neighbor with the same care one would show one’s self.

Today, instead of profiling one specific person, I simply want to let Ms. Keller’s beautiful words stir our souls. And I want to quietly commend everyone who chooses to do what is good and right for another person, no matter if their just or good acts will ever be widely know.

Let us press on to love and to uphold the welfare of each other.

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Growing up with a mother who has always loved all things western, from cowboys and Native Americans to horses and guitar-picked ballads, I think it only fitting that I should write a post about justice and lawmen of the “Wild West” period.

I decided to do a flash jaunt of research and was fascinated by a list of archives I discovered at legendsofamerica.com. What I found most interesting about browsing the biographical blurbs there was how a number of those real-life sheriffs, deputies, rangers, and marshals lived a kind of double life — being both some sort of criminal and some sort of lawman.

That led me to think about how this concept of justice is ultimately an objective one…but that it can seem subjective, especially in self-regulating societies like the western frontier or in daily circumstances where we are right in the middle of things.

What is the difference? Essentially, it is simply in point of view. God, being high above, can see both or all sides much more equally than we can from a limited, horizontal plain.

In that light, and in honor of all the frontier-based lawmen who were really good, fair, and just, I have written the following poem to help us maintain such perspective.

After Ned Branson robbed the bank, I tracked

His mangy hide for two days. I lacked

Anything beyond my gun, coat, canteen,

And my faithful mare, Trinity.

Behind, in Silver City, I left Sally and little

Alice with my heart, and I whittled

Away the hours of riding with strokes

Of prayers for them, their best in my hope.

But I was well aware of what might be

And the violent confrontation awaiting me:

How it might not end well, how I could

Rot in this desert, fallen where I’d stood.

On the second day, I found Ned’s path

Led down, but there was a way to catch

Another view by shifting Trinity left

And climbing to a majestic cliff.

From there, I looked out just in time

To spy the tension, tuned so fine,

Between my prey and the Madder Gang,

Ned and Charlie now posed to draw and aim.

And from such heights, I could clearly see

Who drew first and whose shot streamed,

To strike a deadly mark, across the span

So that I blinked and saw Ned hit the sand.

I waited for the gang to ride away —

I would deal with them another day —

Before I descended to place Ned’s frame

In a dry and sandy shallow grave.

Then I found a stream with a patch of green

Where Trinity could feast and I could sleep

Before we turned homeward, alive and well,

To a house so love-filled, even if so small.

And on the way back, I mused aloud,

“My view from the level plain’s ground

Would not have been the same

As what I saw from high above that day.”

When I finally came to the edge of town,

Before I turned right, toward our house,

I paused to thank Almighty God

Who had, in mercy, brought me home.

And I thought of how His vast view

Is always higher, clearer, true.

I asked Him to help me always recall

How He’s the best lawman of all.

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We so often think of negative consequences or fateful punishment when we hear the word justice. Yet, there is really a neutral feeling to the word and a positive side we can easily overlook.

As definitions in Webster’s Dictionary point out, the doling out of justice may include bestowing merited rewards and showing equal, impartial, and fair treatment to another — no matter who they are. Combining those two meanings, we might also observe that a just person is a person who generously bestows blessings on others all around them, in fair measure and regardless of who those other people may be.

In that regard, justice cannot be administered by someone who is selfish. Indeed, if the vices of greed and self-centeredness grip the mind and heart of the person at hand, he or she will never be able to administer true justice. And so, selfishness can stand as an antonym and a barricade to the presence of justice in a person’s life.

And not just the life of a rich, famous, or powerful person. But also in the lives of common people like you and me. However, since most of the historical records still available to us detail the lives of the rich or the powerful, let us the consider the example of one man who was both, in his time, so that we might consider if his example is worth following.

Though history has preserved it, relatively few people know his name or his story apart from a now somewhat-less-popular Christmas song which combines a 13th century melody with lyrics penned in the 1850s. And his name is something of a tongue twister for England speakers outside of Eastern Europe.

His name was Wenceslas, and he ruled Bohemia (the modern day Czech Republic) as a Duke from the age of 18 until his life was (unjustly) cut short several years later. Only posthumously was he given the title King of Bohemia, the title by which we may have heard his name in the song.

It is a happy, lively tune, telling the tale of a ruler who stopped at nothing to provide for his people, going to personally attend to their needs and show them kindness, no matter how lowly their circumstances might be. In fact, besides the note that he banished his own mother, the former queen regent, soon after he began to rule, we don’t see much sign of him administering justice in a negative sense. It seems he spent the vast majority of his time bestowing goodness and righting wrongs wherever he could.

When Wenceslas began to rule, other leaders in the country insisted that half of the kingdom be given to his younger brother, Boleslaus. This was only fair, after all, and would likely help maintain peace in the land. Interestingly, Boleslaus was not prone to pure justice and was much greedier at his core. Where Wenceslas thrived in his generosity, Boleslaus brewed in his self-centeredness and longed for years to rule it all.

Finally, one September day, Boleslaus carried out a plot with three conspiring noblemen. First, the noblemen all stabbed his brother, and then Boleslaus finished Wenceslas off with a lance — right in the doorway of a church.

There are several ironies in the story. The ending of Wenceslas’ life was gruesome and heartbreaking, yet the tune which commemorates it is so sweet and cheerful. He had the status of a king, but he spent his years giving away his worldly goods, time, and energy to touch the lives of those he ruled. He could have treated some people better than others, but he seems to have had equal care and kindness for every single needy person. And even though his brother wanted only to destroy him, Wenceslas would live on forever in the memories of those who love what is good, in the Spirit of the One he worshipped.

This is justice in us: when we are filled less with ourselves and more with that Spirit, so that we want to bless others in equal measure and our deeds long reep the rewards, even after our earthly life has ended.

To quote the final refrain of the song, “Therefore, Christian men be sure, wealth or rank possessing, ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.” This, too, is justice. Perhaps the sweetest justice of all.

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