Long-suffering

Many professional athletes have their trademarks when it comes to celebrating their wins. Tiger Woods has his legendary fist pump. The eight-time Olympic gold medalist Usain Bolt has his signature "lightning bolt" pose.

Once in a while, athletes celebrate prematurely, which has proven costly. Cyclist Luka Pibernik from Slovenia sprinted to the finish line and raised his arms in triumph. Unfortunately, the race was not over and another lap remained. After a grueling 3.5 hours of cycling, Pibernik's reserves were empty and slipped from 1st place to 148th.

Possible Preaching Angle:

The Bible encourages us to persevere to the end. The Apostle Paul uses the metaphor of a marathon to illustrate the perseverance of the Christian life. We are to fix our sight on the prize and to finish the race (1 Cor. 9:24-27; Heb. 12:1-2).

One of the greatest Christian leaders of the last century was John R. W. Stott, rector of All Souls Langham Place in London and a peerless preacher, Bible teacher, evangelist, author, global leader and friend to many. I knew him over many decades, but I will never forget my last visit to his bedside three weeks before he died.

After an unforgettable hour and more of sharing many memories over many years, I asked him how he would like me to pray for him. Lying weakly on his back and barely able to speak, he answered in a hoarse whisper, "Pray that I will be faithful to Jesus until my last breath." Would that such a prayer be the passion of our generation too.

In October 2011, Gordon Yeager, 94, and his wife Norma, 90, died exactly one hour apart after 72 years of marriage. They were holding hands when they died.

The couple left their home in Marshalltown, Iowa, to run some errands in town, but they never made it. A car accident sent the couple to the emergency room with broken bones and other injuries. When they were transferred to intensive care the nurses knew not to separate them. But, even in the hospital, they were more concerned about each other.

Their son Dennis Yeager said, "She was saying her chest hurt and what's wrong with Dad? Even laying there like that, she was worried about Dad. And his back was hurting and he was asking about Mom."

When it became clear that their conditions were not improving, the nurses moved them into a room together in beds side-by-side so they could hold hands.

Gordon died at 3:38 P.M. holding hands with his wife as the family they built surrounded them.

Their son Dennis said,

It was really strange, they were holding hands, and dad stopped breathing but I couldn't figure out what was going on because the heart monitor was still going. But we were like, he isn't breathing. How does he still have a heart beat? The nurse checked and said that's because they were holding hands and it's going through them. Her heart was beating through him and picking it up.

At 4:38 p.m., exactly one hour after Gordon died, Norma passed away too.

Dennis Yeager said, "They just loved being together …. They were old-fashioned. They believed in marriage till death do you part." Dennis also added, "I don't believe there was a big secret to their marriage. Sometimes one or the other would get mad, but they worked everything out. In the end, they chose each other, and that was it. They were committed."

Former pro football star and coach Tony Dungy told the following story about his father's Christian character:

My dad was usually a quiet, thoughtful man. A scientist at heart and by training, Wilbur Dungy loved to be outside, enjoying the scenery. Fishing allowed him time to contemplate, to listen, and to marvel at God's creation. My dad used fishing to teach his children to appreciate the everyday wonders of the world God created—the sandy shoreline, the dark, pine forests, the shimmering water, and the abundant wildlife. The lessons were always memorable, whether we caught a lot of fish or not.

Although we fished countless times together throughout our lives, one particular day stands out in my mind. It was a summer day in 1965. Summers in Michigan are beautiful, with comfortable temperatures and clear, blue skies. I was nine years old, and my brother was five. My dad had taken us fishing at one of the many small lakes around Jackson. On that day, my dad was teaching my brother and me how to cast. We were both working on it, mostly in silence, until my dad's voice finally broke a period of stillness.

"Hey, Linden, don't move for a minute, please." I looked back and watched my dad move his hand toward his face. Calm and deliberate, he continued to speak.

"Now, Linden, always make sure that you know not only where your pole is when you're starting to cast"—at this point, I realized my dad was working my brother's hook out of his own ear— "but also make certain that you know where everyone else is around you."

I learned something about proper casting that day, but I also learned something about patience. Years later, when I got hooked myself, in my hand, I realized how much it hurts. Remembering my dad's patience that day when Linden's hook was caught in his ear, I finally understood the importance of staying calm and communicating clearly.

The famous and luxurious Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina, was originally owned and managed by George and Edith Vanderbilt, an elegant couple known for their exceptional treatment of rich and famous guests. But today when people summarize the Vanderbilts' management of the Biltmore House, they don't just retell stories about how they treated their wealthy guests; they also point to the story of how George Vanderbilt treated a young employee named Bessie Smith.

A 2011 article about the Vanderbilts described the following scene:

Smith was a teenager when she began working at the Biltmore, and she was intimidated by its opulence. On her first day as a server, she walked into the house's grand banquet hall and, startled by the vastness of the room, dropped the tray of monogrammed china she was carrying.

George [Vanderbilt], a professorial figure with dark hair and a slightly curved moustache, rose from his chair as his guests looked on, their eyes begging: What on earth are you going to say about this distraction? But he didn't say anything. Instead, he got down on his hands and knees and helped her pick up the shards before saying, 'Come see me in the morning.'" Bessie Smith assumed she was going to be fired. Instead, [George Vanderbilt] promoted Bessie to chambermaid, so she wouldn't have to carry such heavy dishes.

On a recent visit to two California vineyards, author Margaret Feinberg discovered that vintners must adopt a long-term approach to their work. According to Feinberg:

The first year a vintner plants shoots of vines rather than seeds because these yield the strongest vines. At the end of the first growing season, he cuts them back. A second year passes. He cuts them back again. Only after the third year does he see his first viable clusters of grapes. Serious vintners leave those clusters on the vines. For most vintners, it's not until year four that they bring in their first harvest.

For those growing grapes for winemaking, they'll bottle their harvest, but won't taste the fruit of their labors until year seven or eight. Most vineyards in Napa Valley won't reach a breakeven point for their investment until year fifteen, eighteen or beyond.

Applying these insights to her spiritual life, Feinberg writes,

Sometimes I look at my own life and wonder, Why am I not more fruitful? And why does pruning have to hurt so much? Why does cultivating a healthy crop take so long? Yet those questions circle around the here and now. God's perspective is much different. Like a good vineyard owner, he knows how to bring about fruitfulness better than I ever will. And he is patient with me, more patient than I am with myself … [Also], as we fulfill our callings … we must recognize that like the vintner's, our fruitfulness will not come overnight. The first harvest of our labors may not come for three or five years.

A grandfather took his daughter and the grandchildren to visit the zoo. As they visited the orangutan exhibit the only thing separating us from these awesome creatures that possess the strength of at least five men were panes of thick glass, each 20-feet tall. Two-year-old Trevor was amused at first by the orangutans' antics. Then one of the hairy beasts suddenly began to beat on the glass. Trevor leapt into the arms of his mother, crying, "I scared! I scared!" His mother tenderly took him, placed his little hand on the glass, and showed him that the glass shielded him from the animal, so there was nothing to fear. Afterwards, any time Trevor seemed uncertain, his mom would simply say, "Remember the glass."

The first-century church faced persecution at the hands of a powerful government bent on snuffing out her message, her influence. The fact that some had been beaten, imprisoned, even killed for their faith made them feel as though there was nothing at all that stood between them and the enemies of God's kingdom. Into these trying times the apostle Peter wrote them with a reminder that though it might not seem to be true at times, they were ultimately shielded by the eternal power of God that surpasses the temporary power of any other powers and principalities—that "the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast." (1 Peter 5:10) It was Peter's way of saying, "Remember the glass. Remember the glass."

In his book The Pressure's Off, psychologist Larry Crabb uses a story from his childhood to illustrate our need to delight in God through adversity:

One Saturday afternoon, I decided I was a big boy and could use the bathroom without anyone's help. So I climbed the stairs, closed and locked the door behind me, and for the next few minutes felt very self-sufficient.

Then it was time to leave. I couldn't unlock the door. I tried with every ounce of my three-year-old strength, but I couldn't do it. I panicked. I felt again like a very little boy as the thought went through my head, "I might spend the rest of my life in this bathroom."

My parents—and likely the neighbors—heard my desperate scream.

"Are you okay?" Mother shouted through the door she couldn't open from the outside. "Did you fall? Have you hit your head?"

"I can't unlock the door!" I yelled. "Get me out of here!"

I wasn't aware of it right then, but Dad raced down the stairs, ran to the garage to find the ladder, hauled it off the hooks, and leaned it against the side of the house just beneath the bedroom window. With adult strength, he pried it open, then climbed into my prison, walked past me, and with that same strength, turned the lock and opened the door.

"Thanks, Dad," I said—and ran out to play.

That's how I thought the Christian life was supposed to work. When I get stuck in a tight place, I should do all I can to free myself. When I can't, I should pray. Then God shows up. He hears my cry—"Get me out of here! I want to play!"—and unlocks the door to the blessings I desire.

Sometimes he does. But now, no longer three years old and approaching sixty, I'm realizing the Christian life doesn't work that way. And I wonder, are any of us content with God? Do we even like him when he doesn't open the door we most want opened—when a marriage doesn't heal, when rebellious kids still rebel, when friends betray, when financial reverses threaten our comfortable way of life, when the prospect of terrorism looms, when health worsens despite much prayer, when loneliness intensifies and depression deepens, when ministries die?

God has climbed through the small window into my dark room. But he doesn't walk by me to turn the lock that I couldn't budge. Instead, he sits down on the bathroom floor and says, "Come sit with me!" He seems to think that climbing into the room to be with me matters more than letting me out to play.

I don't always see it that way. "Get me out of here!" I scream. "If you love me, unlock the door!"

Dear friend, the choice is ours. Either we can keep asking him to give us what we think will make us happy—to escape our dark room and run to the playground of blessings—or we can accept his invitation to sit with him, for now, perhaps, in darkness, and to seize the opportunity to know him better and represent him well in this difficult world.

The most-sacred symbol in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, is a tree: a sprawling, shade-bearing, 80-year-old American Elm. Tourists drive from miles around to see her. People pose for pictures beneath her. Arborists carefully protect her. She adorns posters and letterhead. Other trees grow larger, fuller—even greener. But not one is equally cherished. The city treasures the tree not because of her appearance, but her endurance.

She endured the Oklahoma City bombing.

Timothy McVeigh parked his death-laden truck only yards from her. His malice killed 168 people, wounded 850, destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, and buried the tree in rubble. No one expected it to survive. No one, in fact, gave any thought to the dusty, branch-stripped tree.

But then she began to bud.

Sprouts pressed through damaged bark; green leaves pushed away gray soot. Life resurrected from an acre of death. People noticed. The tree modeled the resilience the victims desired. So they gave the elm a name: the Survivor Tree.

A study reported in Psychological Science discovered that the "best" arguers are those who don't point their fingers. According to the study, the person who says "we" the most during an argument suggests the best solutions.

Researchers from the University of Pennsylvania and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill used statistical analysis to study 59 couples. Spouses who used second-person pronouns (you) tended toward negativity in interactions. Those making use of first-person plural pronouns (we) provided positive solutions to problems.

The study concluded: "'We' users may have a sense of shared interest that sparks compromise and other ideas pleasing to both partners. 'You'-sayers, on the contrary, tend to criticize, disagree, justify, and otherwise team with negativity."

The Two Towers is the second installment of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In order to save Middle Earth from the forces of evil, Frodo and Sam must take the ring of power to Mount Doom for destruction. The journey is long and perilous. The pair find themselves traveling in circles in the Misty Mountains. Just as they are about to give in to frustration, they happen upon the most pitiful and wretched of creatures—Gollum. Gollum, the previous possessor of the evil ring, is a dirty, homely, malnourished loner. His years of ownership resulted in his complete decay and an obsession with the ring itself.

Gollum agrees to help Sam and Frodo find their way out. Sam believes that Gollum only wants to get the ring back. As Sam, Frodo, and the pitiful Gollum walk along, Sam is perpetually rude to Gollum and at one point sneers: "Hey stinker, don't go getting too far ahead!" Frodo, who feels compassion toward Gollum, confronts Sam.

"Why do you do that; —call him names and run him down all the time?"

"Because, that's what he is, Mr. Frodo. There's naught left in him but lies and deceit. It's the ring he wants. It's all he cares about."

Looking at poor Gollum, Frodo says, "You have no idea what it did to him. I have to help him, Sam."

"Why?"

"Because I have to believe he can come back."

Elapsed Time: from the New Line Logo, the scene starts at 01:12:10 and ends at 01:12:45

Content: Rated PG-13 for violence and frightening images

To become long-suffering one has to be long-bothered.

It is a fact of Christian experience that life is a series of troughs and peaks. In his efforts to get permanent possession of a soul, God relies on the troughs more than the peaks. And some of his special favorites have gone through longer and deeper troughs than anyone else.

Human beings generate shame; God covers it with a durable product that requires the shedding of blood. Human beings suffer a metaphysical chill; God warms them with garments they should never have needed.

A true Christian is a sign of contradiction--a living symbol of the Cross. He or she is a person who believes the unbelievable, bears the unbearable, forgives the unforgivable, loves the unlovable, is perfectly happy not to be perfect, is willing to give up his or her will, becomes weak to be strong ... and finds love be giving it away.