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.

She lived millennia before Peter Jackson brought Tolkien’s lovely Eowyn to the screen and had her do what otherwise seemed impossible, wielding a sword to defeat an other-worldly enemy while magnificently declaring, “I am no man!”

And she carried out a feat equally necessary for the good of her people and surrounding nations, but she did it almost silently, in the privacy of her own personal space.

Her name was Jael, and she lived in a time and space where her only other identifying characteristic was the name of her husband. Still, we have a gift in the fact that one chapter of her life was preserved for us to learn from.

When the leader of the opposing forces escaped the army led by Deborah (mentioned in my first courage post from last month) and fled for his life, he came across the place where Jael and her family had pitched their tents. Exhausted, and believing she was a harmless, friendly woman, he entered her tent to rest and hide from those pursuing him.

But Jael knew who he was and knew that his reign of terror needed to end. So while he was sleeping deeply, she crept back into the tent and used a mallet to drive a tent peg all the way through his head, from his temple to the ground beneath him.

What a woman.

The ancient text memorializing her brave deed does not tell us exactly how she felt beforehand, in the midst of the act, or afterward. Some would say it doesn’t matter; all that mattered was that she stopped a ruthless leader from hurting more people.

But I believe it matters. Because she was a woman and feelings matter to women. (And, to be honest, so many of our own heroes living today who struggle with physical or mental health issues after they have had to carry out roles of justice have often had to shut off their feelings in the moment and don’t know how to fully deal with them afterwards.)

If I were Jael, I think my heart would have started pounding as Sisera approached and I recognized him, even as I worked up a small smile and pulled a mask of calmness over my face. And I am sure my hands would have shook at least a little as I poured the milk for him to drink and pulled a soft wool blanket over his prone, breathing form. And I might have had to set the mallet and peg down to wipe my sweaty palms before I could finally move to strike. And I might have stepped to the other side of the tent to muffle my tears in a cushion after the deed was done so that I didn’t startle my husband or children. And I might have stepped outside to throw up after I had to return to the body and show another that this enemy was indeed dead.

Yes. Postulating about her feelings matters. Because it reminds us that when human beings serve as channels of God’s justice in our world, they are still human. And the price they may pay in order for justice to be done is not only measurable if they pay with their own life. Sometimes it is actually in the surviving that a greater price must be paid. Because they did what they knew they had to do — what we needed too — but now they would have to live with the memories of it.

So when I read this account of Jael, I am simultaneously filled with empathy and gratitude. Empathy for how what she did was by no means easy (and I am not just talking about the physical strength required). And gratitude for all those, down through the ages, who have delivered justice when it was needed.

They, too, have been channels through which God worked different types of miracles. And they have reminded us that He Himself is just.

There was a time when the energy sources so widely used in our lives today were unknown or unharnessed and people in the developing world sought light, warmth, and industrial materials from the natural world around them. This included (much to the chagrin of today’s environment lovers) the harvesting of whale oil and related byproducts from those massive creatures.

No one can deny sadness in the fact that specific whale populations dwindled as a result. Yet, today I will not condemn the hunters for their eager pursuit. Instead, I will praise them for their courage.

Who among us would be brave enough to take a “sleigh ride” with them? Having our tiny wooden boat dragged over waves at breakneck speeds until the whale grew tired? Then approaching the whale to try and spear it through the heart before it could potentially destroy our boat or drown us with a flick of its flipper or a thrash of its tail?

Certainly not me.

But for all the bravado and upfront bravery displayed by the men, there was a different kind of courage being displayed at the same time.

Who among us would be brave enough to hold down the fort back home? To take care of all the family’s needs without knowing when one’s husband or father or neighbor or friend would return? Or if he would come home?

Certainly not me. (Though I might be more likely to succeed in that latter scenario.)

This was the courage displayed by the women of Nantucket, New Bedford, and many other communities throughout the development, growth, and heyday of the whaling business.

We still know a few of their names presently: these brave men and women who inspire us with their stength and tenacity, with their faith and their faithfulness. But so many of the other names, and stories, have been lost to the passage of time.

Yet, while their stories may now mostly be lost to us, their courage is still worth emulating.

A brilliant courage that stands up to the impossible and even runs right into the face of it.

And a beautiful courage that stays put, firmly committed to those we love through all the storms of life.

He lived so long ago that the details of his life story are now spun for us in a tale of various hues and colorful climaxes. Yet today, even the youngest school children know his name and couples across cultures celebrate their devotion to one another in his honor.

But do we recognize what we are really celebrating when we remember the man who was called Valentine?

Some accounts say that he not only healed a young blind woman but that he also fell deeply in love with her.

How romantic.

Yet ultimately tragic, and ironic, because all accounts say the reason for his execution came in his refusal to deny his belief that every man and woman who wanted to marry should marry, something the emperor of his time had forbidden for the sake of maintaining a stronger army.

Some people think it beautiful that he left his young love a note of eternal affection before he was led to his death.

But if we focus only on that, we miss the greater beauty of his courage. What he lived for. What he died for. What he believed in so unwaveringly.

And we miss the beauty of courage a man and a woman display when they commit to a binding covenant with each other…and the courage they display when they choose to weather many storms and see the promise they made as not only their responsibility but also as their gift to give through and to grow through. Together. For the sake of the other.

For the word marriage may, in English, begin with a “m” and end with an “e” …but it has never been about the good of the individual. It has been about the good of the unit, and by extension, the good of the community, the nation, the world. And even the good of Heaven’s pleasure.

Ironic, as well, because in a day and age when we have more rights and freedom to marry than ever, so many people choose to disregard that right. It takes courage to take up that yoke. And it takes courage to appreciate the beauty and defend the worth of each couple who pulls together well, no matter what life throws at them.

This Valentine’s Day, I will celebrate the man who had the courage to do what was right until the end. And I won’t be receiving a dozen roses or a diamond ring or be whisked away to a fancy steak dinner. But I won’t mind. I will be happy to sit at home, sipping chocolate, and praying for my married friends to press on courageously and faithfully.

I have heard some people distinguish between happiness and joy (especially in the Christian sense) as happiness being temporary, fixed on momentary circumstances and joy being something deeper, keeping our hearts set on what is better even in hard circumstances.

But what about hope?

Is hope only true and real when it never wavers? Is hope only given to the deserving or earned by the highest achieving, or can if be present in any heart? If hope is lost or diminished, has it vanished or is it weakened forever?

This week, we step back into British history, over 200 years ago, to glimpse the pendulum-like life of poet William Cowper. In sum, he went from the brink of insanity and multiple suicide attempts early on to a revelation of new life and purpose in the Christian faith. And then, another horrid breakdown when he was even convinced God was disgusted with him and wanted to condemn him to death. Followed by amazing hymn and poetry writing periods that have left us with some most cherished verses and songs (and anti-slavery pieces that have even inspired civil rights activists generations later). And then, in the end, several years of sadness after the loss of a dear, long-time friend before Cowper’s own passing.

Some would look at Cowper’s deep doubts and (ironically) doubt that his spiritual conversion was real or that his productive bursts of hope were anything more than rantings and creative delusions.

I am not an expert on his life and inner struggles. But I will attest to the unique struggle faced by souls naturally gifted with high sensitivity and creativity. In order to observe the world and produce wonderful works of art, we must be sensitive to notice and synthesize so much going on inside us and around us at the same time. To maintain this ability, we must remain open to feeling. But we feel so deeply, it is truly a challenge to not live life swinging between extremes in thought and emotion and productive ability.

Sometimes, in the ebbs or the valleys, hope (while it has not left us completely) can certainly seem invisible or chased away.

That is when, as Cowper so famously introduced the thought into our psyche and vocabulary, “God moves in mysterious ways, His faithful wonders to perform…” And, by grace, we come to sense that hope again, the hope that was there to some degree all along.

I bless the name of the God who created each temperament and knows each temperament intimately, the name of the God who does not give up on us when we honestly and understandably struggle to hold onto hope.

I thank God that Cowper did not succeed in taking his own life. And that he discovered, with the help of John Newton, the only true source of grace he could possess to save him from God’s wrath and the only true source of hope that could help anyone withstand any storm.

Then, he wrote, “There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel’s veins, and sinners washed beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”

In many cases, especially for those who were not of royal birth, we know very few details about individuals from ancient history. Yet, somehow, what we know about one such person has made him something of a poster child for hope in our modern world. Here are a few of the key things history records…

He lived in a culture when identity was found in sonship and genealogy, so he is only known as Jeremiah, son of Hilkiah.

After entering an exacting, demanding profession, he was called at a very young age to take on a new job that terrified him, but a job he would do faithfully for many years afterward nonetheless.

He was beaten, publically ridiculed, threatened with death, imprisoned in a dungeon, and held captive in a muddy cistern while following his calling.

And he was freed from all of that in time to see his beloved city and homeland overrun by enemies who would carry most of his people away into political exile.

Hope?

This same man would go on, out of his sorrow, to pen some of the most beloved words cherished by followers of his God. But let us not divorce those latter words from the former, a rich contrast from which the latter spring.

He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver. I became the laughing stock of all my people; they mock me in song all day long. He has filled me with bitter herbs and sated me with gall. He has broken my teeth with gravel; he has trampled me in the dust. I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.” I remember my affliction and my wondering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him to the one who seeks him. It is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. (Lamentations 3:13-26, NIV).

In a triad of the most foundational virtues, love is what we long to give and need to live, and faith sees invisible promises as tangible cords to grasp. But hope?

Hope is the metaphorical sparrow flittering around us in Dickinson’s short, classic poem and the magnificently fragile moth meeting Gandalf in his moment of utmost dispair in Tolkien’s sweeping, epic masterpiece. It is a pillar of stone that grows in strength through each trial, holding up every burden that would otherwise crush the life out of us.

It is in the sun rising again every day as a blessing from the Maker who whispers, “Here it is: My gift for a fresh new start and your chance to trust My mercy again.” It is in the acceptance of that gift, the reflection of that Maker’s light.

We can look back on Jeremiah’s life and see all the events of his life after they happened. But in the moment, in each of those days, he certainly couldn’t understand all that was to come, for though he was a prophet, he was a completely human one.

He was honest about his struggles and feelings, but he still held onto the new dawn waiting over each horizon.

May we do the same.

Several days ago, I needed to stop by a local grocery store and pick up a few forgotten items. That particular shopping center has clearly painted crosswalks and stop signs at the spot where most cars drive in from two directions. Thus, I found myself sitting with my brakes firmly applied while a small burst of shoppers entered and exited in front of me.

For whatever reason, two of the pedestrians caught my full attention. The first was an elderly woman who hobbled along, leaning into the stiff breeze, a look of concentration or sadness on her lovely face beneath her snowy hair. A few seconds later, a man, also advanced in years and crowned with white, slipped across the way before I gently eased forward and slid into a parking spot.

I thought about those fellow shoppers as I went in, through, out, and on my way again. I thought of how many Christmases they each have seen…and what types of things they each may have gone through on those Christmases, and even in this very season upon us.

And I wondered if either of them still have any family or friends left, or if either of them will spend this Christmas all alone. True, they are both complete strangers to me. But they are two precious encapsulations of wisdom, experience, and humanity.

That woman I saw may or may not be someone’s wife, mom, grandmother, aunt, or sister. But she is someone’s daughter. And that man I saw may or may not be someone’s husband, father, grandfather, uncle, or brother. But he is certainly someone’s son.

Jesus came into the world as a baby, and as a beloved song says, “The child, the child sleeping in the night: He will bring us goodness and light.” Jesus would not go on to marry or father human children. But He was a son and the Son. A child who would offer to fill hearts with goodness and light.

Therefore, the beauty of Christmas, the day now so often referred to as a holiday for children, is that it is for all of us–this invitation to be filled with His gifts. It doesn’t matter if we have married or not, nor if we have had children or not, nor if we have many or few friends and relatives (left) in our circle. The Savior still comes near to shine in us and on us and through us.

Because good is what He is and light is what He gives.

This week, as you shop for last minute items of your own, travel, or are otherwise out and about, please take the time to notice and show kindness to the people around you…especially those who have seen many Christmases or who appear to be toiling beneath a load of sorrow or loneliness. Be His goodness and His light to those you love and those you have never seen before.

And be blessed in knowing that when you bless another, the heart of that Baby beats in you.

My word art is back for the advent Sundays in December, highlighting a line of four different Christmas hymns before I share a blogging plan for the new year.

This week, I draw out a simple invitation. One extended to us from the Christ child and all of Heaven with Him.

He would grow to understand all aspects of the human condition, including weariness, and so He can empathize with us when all we want is to lie down, curl up, shut off.

Some would say His greatest gift is sacrifice, forgiveness, or grace. But I have sometimes felt that the gift of His rest is equal to all of those.

What is one of the sweetest ways to be blessed in the busy holiday weeks ahead? Receive His gift of rest each day.

What is one of the sweetest ways to bless others during the busy holiday weeks ahead? Practice patience and promote a slower pace, encouraging others to rest and supporting them when they choose to do so.

A small suggestion? Yes.

A simple task? Not in our culture.

But worth the effort of letting go?

I think so.

How else will we really have hearts quiet enough to hear the angels sing?

In this month, one hundred and ninety-nine years ago, a large ship was rammed and sunk by a male sperm whale in the farthest reaches of the Pacific. The following summer, several of the men from that ship’s crew, who had miraculously survived the ordeal afterward, made it home.

Safe and sound.

I have the honor and privilege of supporting members of our armed forces while they are deployed. It is completely voluntary on my part…and one of the best parts of my life. This past week, I heard from one of the soldiers I had encouraged via letters for months. He sent me an email to let me know he was finally home.

Safe and sound.

What does it mean to return to our loved ones safe and sound? When I meditate on that, I think of safe as physical wellness and sound as soundness of mind.

But while many have appeared to be of sound mind after surviving chronically or acutely stressful and even traumatic circumstances, that soundness does not always continue.

At least one of those surviving sailors struggled with symptoms of what we now call PTSD and paranoia the rest of his life, even more in his old age when he was eventually declared to be insane. And while some service members really do maintain strong mental health, some of them bear more pain and psychological imbalance than they can truly handle alone as life marches on.

In truth, soundness of mind is one of the greatest blessings any person can be given.

And if something happens to disrupt that soundness, unwavering support and compassion from others is perhaps an even greater blessing bestowed.

Has God blessed you with sound mental health? Or brought you some healing of mind? If so, be thankful and cherish it every day.

Do you care about someone who is struggling with or in danger of developing mental health concerns? Pray for strength to love them and to bless them with your support. And be blessed in knowing your support of them is a heaven-sent gift.

Most of all, thanks be to the God who desires for us to be safe and sound. But who blesses us because He loves us always, especially when we draw near to Him. In any state of mind.

Today, I was thinking about the concept of shining, and for some reason the adjective resilient came to mind. So I did a little hunting. “(Of a person or animal) able to withstand or recover quickly from difficult conditions” was the first meaning listed in the online dictionary. In the etymology notes, it said this comes from the Latin root, meaning “to leap back.”

There is something about this word that should particularly appeal to members of my contemporary culture. Not only are Americans generally know for our future-focused, independently-formed outlook on development and improvement. We are also, now more than ever, attracted to and driven by what is instant, painless, and doubtlessly positive.

By all accounts, then, a resilient person should be admired, our ideal. So does it follow that the person who cannot spring back at all is a hopeless case, or that the person who cannot spring back quickly is not worth our patience, compassion, or company? And even if a person does spring back quickly, what if they dare to admit that what knocked them down has changed their life forever and they recognize it will never be the same again? Is resignation to a new view of reality a sign one is not really resilient?

Here is where shining, persevering, and being resilient intersect in my mind.

Sometimes shining the light of Christ means giving another a hand when they are struggling to get back up via their courage and faith that have taken a beating. Sometimes it means respecting their “new normal” and respecting the time it takes for them to adjust to that new normal. Sometimes it means choosing to love those around us who would be dismissed by others, simply standing by the hurting ones because true love is patient.

And sometimes being like Christ means facing our own trials and mistreatments and dark nights of the soul with all the emotions and questions that are human while we continue to put one foot in front of the other. Being real without giving up.

We are told, after all, to look to Him as our example: the one who sweat blood when He was under duress, the one who sighed in exasperation when others simply didn’t get Him, the one who went on a cleansing rampage of rightful anger, the one who withdrew when He was exhausted. The one who was swallowed in a dark tomb for days until He was called forth to shine, brilliantly, with the morning sun.

In all these things, He was not faithless or slow or bad.

Just because one does not spring back in an instant, that doesn’t mean one will not spring back at all. And just because one springs back in a changed form doesn’t mean the end result is wrong or a loss.

In truth, perhaps that is when we will most fully and brilliantly shine, as we never could have before.