BE THE PATIENT - THE BOOK --- A Quiet Walk Toward Christ
Be the Patient
- A Quiet Walk Toward Christ
For anyone weary from striving.
For anyone learning to hear Him quietly.
For anyone discovering the Lord may be gentler than they imagined.
Dedication
For my Mother
My mother lived nearly a century,
and much of what is gentle or steady in me
was first taught by her.
Her quiet strength,
her faith,
and her love shaped me more than I knew.
I have come to believe
much of what heals the world
comes through mothers.
And perhaps Zion too
is built in that spirit—
through nurture,
sacrifice,
peace,
and enduring love.
This book is dedicated to her memory,
and to all mothers
who help teach us how Christ loves.
With gratitude.
Contents
Descent Toward the Center
- Borrowed Light Wasn’t Enough
- Don’t Follow the Robe — Follow the Voice
- The Patterns That Opened My Eyes
- When Zeal Turns Sharp
- When the Journey Changed
The Center
- Be the Patient
Return by a Mirrored Path
- What the Sacrum Taught Me
- The Sweet Wrestle of Surrender
- The Lord Is Aligning Me
- Love Before You Teach
- Just Walk With Him
- Walk Gently
Epilogue — A Simple Prayer
Appendix A — The Pattern Beneath the Path
Appendix B — Talking Feather Oath
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FOREWORD
Why I Wrote This Book
There was a time I thought my work was to wake people up.
I wrote about Zion.
I wrestled with questions.
I searched old records and scripture patterns.
I tried to understand what had been lost and what the Lord might yet restore.
Some of that searching mattered.
It helped me.
But over time something changed.
Pain slowed me down.
A damaged spine slowed me down.
The Lord slowed me down.
And in a sacred moment I felt these words:
Be the patient.
That changed me.
This book is about what happened after that.
Not after all my questions were answered.
But after I began learning to walk with Christ more quietly.
This is not a book of arguments.
It is a small record of what I learned on the way.
If it helps you hear Him more personally…
then it has done enough.
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Chapter One
Borrowed Light Wasn’t Enough
I grew up like many people do.
I trusted what I had been taught.
I loved good people.
I loved scripture.
I believed the Lord was in it.
And I do not look back on that with contempt.
It was part of my path.
But there came a point when something inside me began to stir.
Questions.
Quiet questions at first.
Questions I did not go looking for.
Questions that came looking for me.
Why do men lean so much on other men?
Why do we quote leaders more than we seek the Lord?
Why does Christ keep saying, Hear Him?
Those questions were not rebellion.
They were hunger.
And hunger can be holy.
I did not know then that the Lord was not trying to destroy my faith.
He was trying to deepen it.
I used to live mostly on what I now call borrowed light.
That is simply living on someone else’s testimony.
Borrowed light can help you begin.
Parents can give it.
Teachers can give it.
Church can help kindle it.
But another person’s lamp can only take you so far.
Sooner or later every soul has to learn whether God will speak to them too.
That became my question.
Not whether religion was true.
Whether Christ was alive enough to lead a person personally.
That changed everything.
I began searching.
Sometimes in scripture.
Sometimes in prayer.
Sometimes in patterns I had never noticed before.
I found chiasms in holy writ.
Some may not know what a chiasm is.
In simple words, it is a mirrored pattern that turns toward a sacred center.
Like a path going out and then returning.
I came to feel the Lord often speaks that way.
And perhaps shapes lives that way too.
Including mine.
But before I understood any of that…
I only knew I could not live forever on secondhand faith.
I needed living light.
I needed the Savior Himself.
That search brought turbulence.
Sometimes too much fire.
Sometimes too little tenderness.
I will speak honestly of that later.
But I honor the hunger.
Because the hunger led me toward Him.
Looking back I see something I did not see then:
The Lord was gently taking me by the hand.
Leading me from borrowed light
toward living light.
There is a difference.
Borrowed light says:
Someone told me God speaks.
Living light says:
I have begun to hear Him.
One is report.
The other is relationship.
That was the turn.
And maybe that is where many journeys begin.
Not in certainty.
In hunger.
If I could say one thing to someone beginning this road it would be this:
Do not fear when borrowed light starts feeling too small.
That may not be loss.
That may be invitation.
The Lord may be teaching you to carry your own lamp.
And that is holy work.
Chapter 1 Reflection
Another person’s testimony may help light the road.
But eventually the Lord teaches each of us
to carry a lamp of our own.
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Chapter Two
Don’t Follow the Robe — Follow the Voice
There is a picture from scripture that stayed with me.
A man in a white robe.
Many followed him.
And they were led into darkness.
That image shook me.
Because robes can symbolize religion.
Position.
Appearance.
Authority.
And sometimes we trust appearance more than we seek the Lord.
I know I did.
Now let me be plain.
This chapter is not about attacking churches.
It is about something much simpler.
A question:
Who are we really following?
That question belongs to everybody.
Not just one faith.
All of us can drift into leaning too much on respected people.
Teachers.
Preachers.
Leaders.
Authors.
Even good people can become substitutes for direct seeking.
That is the danger.
Not having leaders.
Depending on them in place of hearing Christ.
There is a difference.
When I say,
Don’t follow the robe — follow the Voice,
I mean this:
Do not let outward authority replace inward revelation.
Follow the Savior first.
Always.
I learned slowly that religious forms can help.
They can point.
They can bless.
But they are fingers pointing.
They are not the sun.
Christ is the sun.
And He keeps saying,
Hear Him.
Not merely hear about Him.
Hear Him.
That landed differently on me over time.
I began realizing discipleship is not mostly about mastering systems.
It is learning His voice.
And voices are learned relationally.
Like a child knows a mother calling.
Like sheep know a shepherd.
That is scriptural.
And it is experiential.
Some people worry that seeking the Lord directly leads people astray.
I understand the concern.
People can deceive themselves.
I have seen it.
But borrowed authority can mislead too.
The answer is not no seeking.
It is humble seeking.
Seeking with scripture.
With prayer.
With repentance.
With meekness.
And with willingness to be corrected.
That is safer than merely outsourcing conscience.
I used to think faithfulness meant never questioning what trusted voices said.
Now I think faithfulness means bringing everything to Christ.
Even what trusted voices say.
Especially that.
That is not rebellion.
That is discipleship.
And strangely enough,
following the Voice has made me gentler toward people, not harsher.
Because once you know how much you need grace to hear Him,
you stop using truth to hit people.
You become slower.
Kinder.
More careful.
That too was part of the lesson.
Follow the Voice.
Not because robes are evil.
But because only Christ can save.
Only Christ can lead the soul home.
And every true messenger, if they are true,
will point past themselves to Him.
That is how you know.
They decrease.
He increases.
That is the pattern.
If I could put this chapter in plain country language I would say:
Respect good people.
Learn from good people.
But don’t let anybody stand between you and Jesus.
Go to Him.
Ask Him.
Walk with Him.
Follow the Voice.
That is the road.
Chapter 2 Reflection
Anything that points you to Christ can help you.
Anything that replaces Christ can hinder you.
Learn the difference
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Chapter Three
The Patterns That Opened My Eyes
I did not go looking for patterns.
I stumbled into them.
And once I saw them,
I could not unsee them.
I am talking about patterns in scripture.
Sometimes people hear a word like chiasm and think it sounds complicated.
It doesn’t have to be.
It simply means a mirrored pattern.
An idea is given.
Then another.
Then another.
Until a sacred center is reached.
Then the ideas often return in reverse order.
Like walking into a canyon
and coming out by a reflected path.
Simple as that.
When I first began noticing those patterns in the Book of Mormon,
something opened in me.
Not because I had discovered a code.
But because I began sensing design.
Intelligence.
Beauty.
The Lord does things with order.
And often with symmetry.
Creation does.
Scripture does.
Life sometimes does.
That fascinated me.
But more than fascination,
it began teaching me something.
Truth often has centers.
And the center is usually where the heart is.
That matters.
Because life can get scattered.
Religion can get scattered.
Thought can get scattered.
But the Lord keeps drawing things toward center.
Toward what matters most.
I began seeing that not just in scripture,
but in discipleship.
We wander.
We learn.
We wrestle.
And if grace has its way,
we come back toward center.
Toward Christ.
That felt like more than literary structure.
It felt like a way God teaches.
Now let me say this simply.
I am not saying everyone needs to study chiasms.
Far from it.
A farmer can know Christ without ever hearing the word.
A child can know Him.
An old widow can know Him.
Patterns do not save.
Christ saves.
But for me,
patterns opened wonder.
And wonder can deepen faith.
Sometimes a pattern would stop me cold.
I would think,
Who writes like this?
Who teaches like this?
And it drew me into deeper trust.
But over time I learned the bigger lesson:
The point was never the pattern.
The point was what the pattern pointed to.
The center.
And often the center was Christ.
Mercy.
Covenant.
Repentance.
Love.
That changed how I read.
And maybe how I lived.
Because I began asking:
What is the center of my own life?
What am I arranging everything around?
That is a sobering question.
And a holy one.
In time I even began to wonder whether lives can unfold somewhat like chiasms.
You move out.
You wrestle.
You descend.
You are brought to a center.
And then perhaps grace leads you home by a mirrored path.
That thought has stayed with me.
Maybe this very book follows something like that.
Maybe many lives do.
I would not force that.
But I feel it.
And it comforts me.
Because it says the wanderings may not be random.
There may be design even in our detours.
I like that thought.
If I say all this in plain language,
I’d put it this way:
Sometimes the Lord hides beauty in patterns.
And when you begin seeing those patterns,
you may start trusting the Author more.
That happened to me.
And eventually I realized:
The most important thing about a chiasm
is not the mirrored parts.
It is the sacred center.
That may be true of life too.
And I have come to believe
the center is Christ.
Everything meaningful keeps returning there.
Chapter 3 Reflection
The deepest patterns in scripture
do not draw attention to themselves.
They quietly draw attention to the center.
And the center is often where Christ waits.
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Chapter Four
When Zeal Turns Sharp
This may be the hardest chapter for me to write.
Because it asks for honesty.
Not about what others did.
About what happened in me.
There was a season when awakening brought fire.
And some of that fire was good.
When you discover things that move you,
you want to share them.
When you see blind spots,
you want to help others see.
That can begin in love.
Mine often did.
But zeal can drift.
Truth can become edge.
Concern can become criticism.
And without noticing,
a man trying to invite people can begin pressing people.
I learned that.
Not in theory.
Painfully.
There were times I thought urgency justified sharpness.
I thought if something mattered enough,
strong warning was love.
Sometimes maybe it was.
But not always.
Sometimes it was my own frustration dressed in religious clothes.
That took me years to see.
The Lord has a way of showing us ourselves.
Usually gently.
Sometimes through suffering.
Sometimes through silence.
Sometimes through seeing the hurt in people we love.
And little by little I began realizing:
Truth may be true,
and still be spoken in the wrong spirit.
That was a hard lesson.
But a needed one.
I began noticing something about Jesus.
He could be piercing.
But never petty.
Strong.
But never ego-driven.
His correction healed.
Mine sometimes only provoked.
That difference humbled me.
I started repenting not only of wrong ideas,
but wrong energy.
That is deeper repentance.
Repenting of the spirit we carry.
That changed me.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
And it led me to something I now hold close:
Truth is never a weapon.
If I use truth to win,
I have already lost something.
If I use truth to wound,
I may be betraying the One who is Truth.
That does not mean truth should be hidden.
It means truth should be carried like Christ carries it.
With light.
With tears.
With invitation.
That is very different.
Somewhere in that season I began sensing my calling was not to be a watchman with a trumpet,
but more a Talking Feather.
And let me say plainly again what that means.
In some Native traditions,
a talking feather was passed in council.
The one holding it spoke.
Others listened.
No interrupting.
No fighting.
Speech was meant to be respectful.
Peaceful.
Measured.
That image got inside me.
I wanted that.
I still do.
Speak when invited.
Answer gently.
Love before teaching.
That became medicine for me.
Because zeal without love can bruise.
But truth carried gently can heal.
I am not pretending I mastered this.
I am learning.
Still.
But I have come to believe many awakenings need a second awakening.
The awakening from harshness.
The awakening into charity.
I needed that.
Maybe many of us do.
If I could say this chapter in plain country words,
I would say:
Just because you see something clearly
does not give you permission to hit people with it.
Love them.
Walk with them.
Speak peace.
That reaches farther.
I once thought boldness was the higher road.
Now I often think gentleness is harder.
And holier.
That lesson did not come from reading.
It came from the Lord sanding rough edges.
And I am grateful.
Very grateful.
Because I would rather become kind
than merely become correct.
That may be one of the deepest things I have learned.
Chapter 4 Reflection
Awakening can begin with fire.
But Christ teaches us
how to carry fire without burning people.
That is charity.
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Chapter Five
When the Journey Changed
Sometimes a journey changes so quietly
you do not know it has changed
until you look back.
That was true for me.
There was no one dramatic day
when I left one season and entered another.
It happened more like dawn.
Little by little.
Light increasing.
Edges softening.
Something in me began changing.
I had spent years searching,
writing,
warning,
studying,
trying to understand.
And some of that work mattered.
But I began sensing
the Lord was drawing me somewhere quieter.
Not away from truth.
Deeper into it.
I had thought awakening was the destination.
I began seeing it was only a doorway.
What mattered was what awakening was meant to lead into.
For me,
it was learning to walk with Christ.
That sounds simple.
It is simple.
And somehow it took me years to see.
I began caring less about winning ideas
and more about becoming the kind of person
who could carry peace.
That was new.
Before,
I often felt urgency.
Now I began feeling invitation.
Before,
I wanted to persuade.
Now I wanted to companion.
That is a different spirit.
I began noticing I was writing differently.
Speaking differently.
Praying differently.
Even reading scripture differently.
Less looking for ammunition.
More looking for bread.
That is a huge shift.
I think many people have an early season of fire.
And perhaps, if they keep walking,
a later season of oil.
Steadier.
Softer.
Long-burning.
I began wanting oil.
Some of this came through suffering.
Pain has a way of simplifying a man.
Physical weakness can strip away illusion.
You stop caring about some things.
You start caring deeply about others.
Love.
Presence.
Peace.
Small mercies.
Those things became larger to me.
And I began suspecting
perhaps the Lord had been leading me here all along.
Not merely to understand things.
But to become something gentler.
That was humbling.
And relieving.
Because striving is heavy.
Walking with Christ is lighter.
Not easy.
But lighter.
Somewhere in this season,
I started using a little phrase with myself:
Walk.
Talk.
Listen.
Do.
Simple enough to remember.
Deep enough to live a lifetime.
Walk with Him.
Talk honestly.
Listen more than rush.
Do the next right thing.
That began becoming less a phrase
and more a way.
And I think this may be where the real turn happened.
The journey stopped being mainly about what I had discovered.
And became more about how I was being led.
That is a very different book.
Maybe that is why this book exists.
Because there came a point I no longer wanted merely to tell people what I had found.
I wanted to tell what Christ had done in me.
That matters more.
Much more.
If I say all this in simple language,
I would say:
At some point,
I stopped trying so hard to wake everybody up
and started wanting simply to walk with Jesus.
And strangely,
that felt like waking up at a deeper level.
Maybe the deepest one.
There is a peace that comes
when the soul stops trying to manage everything.
And begins trusting.
I had only tasted that before.
Now I began wanting to live there.
Not perfectly.
But truly.
And looking back,
I think that was when the journey changed.
Not when I found all the answers.
When I began wanting Presence more than answers.
That was the turn.
And I believe it was grace.
Chapter 5 Reflection
Sometimes the great turning in a life
does not come when we discover something new.
It comes when we begin becoming different.
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Chapter Six
Be the Patient
There are moments in life
that do not feel large when they happen,
but later you realize
they quietly changed everything.
For me,
one of those moments came in a way I did not expect.
Through weakness.
Through pain.
Through my body.
I had been dealing with my spine.
Limitations.
Discomfort.
The humbling things physical struggle teaches.
Pain has a way of bringing a man to the truth.
You can only pretend strength so long.
Eventually weakness introduces itself.
And asks what you trust.
In that season,
I had an experience I can only describe simply.
A physician figure appeared in a waywalk experience.
And said something strange.
Simple.
Direct.
Unexpected.
He said:
I want you to be the patient.
That was it.
No sermon.
No grand revelation.
Just that.
Be the patient.
At first it sounded almost too plain.
But it went into me.
Deep.
Because I realized
I had spent much of my life trying to help,
trying to understand,
trying to fix,
trying to carry.
And perhaps the Lord was inviting me,
for once,
to let Him minister to me.
To stop striving.
To let healing happen.
That was harder than it sounds.
Receiving can be harder than doing.
Especially for earnest people.
But this felt like instruction.
Sacred instruction.
Be the patient.
Let Me work.
Somewhere around this same season,
another odd detail lodged in my mind.
In the experience,
the word sacrum surfaced.
I had to look it up.
I did not even know what it meant.
Turns out,
it is the large bone at the base of the spine.
Low back.
What most people would think of as the tailbone region.
I smiled when I learned that.
Because the Lord had used a word I had to go learn.
Even that felt personal.
And I began wondering whether even my wounded place
was becoming part of the teaching.
I do not want to over-symbolize that.
I just know it spoke to me.
The weak place.
The supporting place.
The hidden place.
Teaching me surrender.
I began seeing something.
Healing is not always us climbing upward.
Sometimes healing is lying still long enough
for God to do what we cannot do ourselves.
That was new for me.
I had often approached spiritual life almost like effort.
Press in.
Push through.
Figure it out.
Seek harder.
But here was another lesson.
Yield.
Rest.
Trust.
Receive.
That may be harder.
And holier.
I began to see repentance itself a little differently.
Not merely correcting wrong.
Releasing control.
Letting go.
Being healed.
There is tenderness in that.
And I needed tenderness.
I still do.
I have come to think
those words—Be the patient—
may be among the deepest spiritual counsel I have received.
Because they apply far beyond illness.
Be patient with God’s timing.
Be patient while healing unfolds.
Be patient while the Lord reshapes you.
Be the patient.
Let the Great Physician do His work.
That is not passivity.
That is trust.
I think many of us live as though everything depends on our effort.
And there is effort in discipleship.
Of course.
But there is also surrender.
And I had underlearned surrender.
The Lord was teaching me.
Gently.
I remember realizing one day:
I may have spent years trying to be the physician for others,
when Christ was asking me simply to lie down and be healed.
That thought undid me.
Still does.
Because hidden in those words
was permission.
Rest.
Stop managing everything.
Let Me carry some of this.
Maybe all of it.
That was the center turning.
And looking back,
I think much of what came after in my life
flowed from there.
More peace.
Less striving.
More listening.
Less pressing.
More trust.
That one phrase held a way.
If I say this in plain country language,
I’d say:
The Lord told me,
Quit trying so hard.
Let Me help you.
And that may be one of the greatest things He ever taught me.
Sometimes I wonder
whether the whole journey was moving toward that little sentence.
Be the patient.
Maybe this whole book is.
Maybe my life has been learning it.
Maybe all discipleship has some of it in it.
A willing lying still
before grace.
I do not claim to have mastered this.
I am still learning to rest.
Still learning to receive.
Still learning surrender.
But I know this much:
Something holy entered my life through those words.
And I have wanted to live inside them ever since.
Be the patient.
There is a gospel in that.
Chapter 6 Reflection
Sometimes the deepest spiritual progress
comes not when we strive harder,
but when we finally let the Lord do His work in us.
Be the patient.
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Chapter Seven
What the Sacrum Taught Me
I have smiled more than once
thinking the Lord used a word
I had to go look up.
Sacrum.
I did not know what it meant.
I had to learn.
That feels like the Lord sometimes.
He gives a seed.
Then lets you sit with it.
Turns out,
the sacrum is the strong bone at the base of the spine.
Hidden.
Supporting.
You do not think much about it
until something hurts there.
Then you realize how much rests on what you barely noticed.
That alone preached to me.
How much in life is like that?
The hidden things hold much up.
Quiet faith.
Unseen prayer.
Small obediences.
Things nobody applauds.
Yet they support everything.
That thought stayed with me.
And because this came tied to pain,
I could not help wondering
whether the Lord was teaching me through the wounded place.
I am not saying every ache carries a message.
Pain is pain.
Sometimes it is simply hard.
But suffering can tutor a soul.
Mine has.
And one lesson it taught me is this:
Weak places can become wise places.
That surprised me.
Most of us try to hide weakness.
Outrun it.
Fix it.
Pretend past it.
But the Lord often seems willing to teach there.
Paul spoke of strength in weakness.
I used to read that mostly as doctrine.
Now I have felt some of it.
Weakness can slow you enough to notice God.
And slowing down can be a mercy.
I had spent years pushing.
Thinking progress meant pressing.
But wounded places kept teaching another rhythm.
Rest.
Receive.
Lean.
I needed that.
Still do.
And I began seeing
maybe the strongest parts of a life
are often the hidden supports.
Character.
Humility.
Patience.
Tenderness.
Things built underground.
Like roots.
Like foundations.
Like the sacrum quietly bearing weight.
I like that.
Simple.
True.
There was another lesson too.
Pain made me kinder.
At least it has tried to.
When you suffer,
you become slower to judge other people’s burdens.
You realize everybody carries things you cannot see.
That softens a man.
Or can.
It did me.
And I began suspecting
some wounds do not merely need curing.
They become classrooms.
That is a strange mercy.
But mercy all the same.
I think sometimes we imagine spiritual growth
happens mainly through victories.
I am no longer sure.
Some of my deepest learning has come through limitation.
Through things I would not have chosen.
Especially things I would not have chosen.
That is humbling to admit.
But true.
If I say this simply,
what the sacrum taught me was this:
Pay attention to hidden supports.
Honor the weak places.
Do not despise what slows you.
The Lord may be teaching there.
That is a long way from where I started.
I once mostly saw weakness as obstacle.
Now I sometimes see it as doorway.
Not because pain is good.
But because God can work there.
That changes things.
And perhaps most of all,
the sacrum taught me
that support often sits underneath us long before we recognize it.
That is true physically.
And spiritually.
Grace has been underneath me longer than I knew.
Holding more than I understood.
That may be the deepest lesson.
Support hidden in plain sight.
Grace carrying weight.
The Lord holding what I thought I was carrying.
That is a beautiful thing to discover.
And if a simple bone helped me see some of that,
I am grateful.
Very grateful.
In plain country words,
I might say:
The weak place taught me.
Slow down.
Lean on God.
Notice what quietly holds you up.
And do not assume broken places cannot become holy places.
Some do.
Mine has.
At least enough to teach me this.
And maybe that was why the word was given.
So I would look.
And in looking,
learn.
Chapter 7 Reflection
Sometimes the places that seem weakest
become the places where grace is felt most deeply.
Do not despise hidden supports.
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Chapter Eight
The Sweet Wrestle of Surrender
There was a night
I slept more deeply than I had in a long time.
A long, healing sleep.
And in that night
something happened I have struggled to describe.
Because it was not quite dream.
Not quite vision.
And not ordinary thought.
The best words I have found for it are:
a sweet wrestle.
And even that needs explaining.
When I say wrestle,
I do not mean fighting against God.
I do not mean resisting Him.
I mean something closer to being worked upon.
Aligned.
Clarified.
Brought through.
That is different.
Very different.
In that night
I was shown things in me.
Not in a crushing way.
Not in shame.
But plainly.
Lovingly.
My sins.
My attachments.
Places I still held on.
Places not yet surrendered.
And the strange thing was,
I did not feel condemned.
I felt invited.
That matters.
Because I think many people hear repentance
and think punishment.
I have begun thinking of repentance more as release.
Letting go of what burdens the soul.
Coming out into air.
That night felt like that.
Like the Lord saying,
Will you give Me this too?
And little by little,
I did.
Or wanted to.
And in that surrender
there was peace.
That surprised me.
I would have expected struggle.
Instead there was relief.
Almost sweetness.
Which is why I call it
a sweet wrestle.
Something in me was yielding.
And what yielded,
lightened.
I woke with a strange certainty:
If I give up my sins,
the Lord can take them.
Simple.
But alive.
Not theory.
Experience.
That was a gift.
And it taught me something I have not forgotten.
Surrender is not losing.
Surrender to God is becoming whole.
I had often thought spiritual life was mostly climbing.
Trying harder.
Doing better.
Ascending.
But that night suggested another image.
Opening.
Yielding.
Allowing grace in.
That may be closer.
At least for me.
There is a phrase from earlier in my journey I have slowly changed.
I once would have said,
I wrestled with the Lord.
Now I would say,
The Lord was aligning me.
That feels truer.
More peaceful.
Less adversarial.
Because the struggle was not between Him and me.
It was between grace
and what I was still clutching.
That is different.
Very different.
And that distinction has mattered to me.
Because it turns spiritual struggle
from combat
into transformation.
That is how it felt.
A passage.
Not a fight.
And I have wondered since
whether many of the Lord’s deepest works in us
feel more like surrender than conquest.
Maybe Jacob knew something of that.
Maybe many saints have.
I only know I tasted a little.
And it marked me.
It made repentance feel tender.
Not severe.
And I needed that.
I had carried too much severity.
This was softer.
Kinder.
Holier.
In plain words,
what happened was this:
The Lord showed me things I needed to release.
I released some of them.
And peace came.
That may sound too simple.
But sometimes simple things are deepest.
I think now
there is a wrestle every disciple knows.
Not whether God will overpower us.
Whether we will trust Him enough to yield.
That is the wrestle.
And strangely,
it becomes sweet.
Because surrender carries relief.
I would even say
some of the joy of the gospel lives there.
In laying down what burdens us.
And discovering Christ can carry what we could not.
That is very good news.
That night linked itself in me
with those words:
Be the patient.
Because both were teaching the same thing.
Stop managing everything.
Yield.
Trust.
Receive.
That is a path.
A quiet one.
But a path.
And if I could say what that night taught me in country language,
I’d say:
The Lord was not wrestling me down.
He was helping me let go.
And letting go felt like peace.
I have not forgotten that.
I hope I never do.
Because there are still things to surrender.
Still ways to yield.
This chapter is not me saying I arrived.
Only that I was shown a way.
And it was gentler than I expected.
Sweet enough
I call it now
a sweet wrestle.
Chapter 8 Reflection
Repentance is not merely turning from sin.
It is often releasing what we were never meant to carry.
And sometimes surrender tastes sweet.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Nine
The Lord Is Aligning Me
There is a phrase I have stopped using.
I used to say,
I am wrestling with the Lord.
I do not say that much anymore.
Because over time
another understanding came.
Something gentler.
Truer.
I am not wrestling with the Lord.
The Lord is aligning me.
That may sound like a small difference.
It is not.
It changes everything.
Wrestling sounds like opposition.
Alignment sounds like relationship.
Wrestling suggests force.
Alignment suggests tuning.
One feels hard.
One feels peaceful.
And the more I have lived,
the more alignment feels like the deeper truth.
Think of a wheel out of balance.
It wobbles.
Pulls.
Fights the road.
But when aligned,
it rolls true.
There is less strain.
Less drag.
More peace.
I think souls can be like that.
Mine has been.
Much of what I once called struggle
may have been the Lord gently straightening what was bent.
Ordering what was scattered.
Centering what had drifted.
That is alignment.
And I have come to trust that work.
Not because it is always easy.
But because it is loving.
I have long loved patterns.
I have written of them.
Studied them.
Seen them in scripture.
But somewhere along the way
I began realizing
the Lord was not only showing me patterns.
He was patterning me.
That thought moved me.
Still does.
Because maybe discipleship is partly this:
being brought into harmony.
Mind.
Heart.
Will.
Life.
All turning more toward Christ.
That sounds simple.
It is not simple.
But it is beautiful.
And I think much of spiritual growth
may be less about becoming extraordinary
and more about becoming aligned.
There is humility in that.
Less self-invention.
More yieldedness.
Less trying to become impressive.
More becoming true.
I like that.
Very much.
Sometimes I have sensed this alignment through correction.
Sometimes through suffering.
Sometimes through peace.
Sometimes through a quiet inward nudge:
Not that way.
This way.
And often very gently.
The Lord seems far less violent with souls
than our religious imagination sometimes suggests.
He persuades.
Invites.
Tunes.
Like bringing an instrument into harmony.
That image has helped me.
An instrument out of tune may still make sound.
But when tuned,
music happens.
Maybe that is what grace does.
Tunes us.
I do not mean perfection.
I mean orientation.
A life leaning toward God.
That is enough to begin.
And perhaps enough for a lifetime.
This also changed how I think about repentance.
Repentance is not merely fixing moral failure.
It is re-alignment.
Turning back toward center.
Returning to true north.
That feels alive to me.
And hopeful.
Because alignment can happen a little at a time.
Day by day.
Prayer by prayer.
Yielding by yielding.
That is accessible.
That is mercy.
There is also peace in realizing
I do not have to engineer my own transformation.
The Lord is doing a work.
My part is cooperation.
Consent.
Trust.
That takes pressure off.
And puts hope back in.
In simple country words,
I might say:
The Lord has been straightening me out.
Lovingly.
Patiently.
And I’m grateful.
Because I have spent enough years pulling against grace.
I would rather roll true.
That may sound plain.
It is plain.
And deep enough for me.
There is another reason I love this word aligning.
It fits the chiasms I have loved.
Things moving toward center.
Toward order.
Toward balance.
Toward return.
Maybe life really can be shaped that way.
I believe more and more it can.
And maybe that is what has been happening in me.
Not heroic struggle.
Holy alignment.
That feels much more like the Savior I know.
And if I leave one thing from this chapter,
it may be this:
When life feels unsettled,
do not assume God has abandoned you.
He may be aligning you.
And alignment can feel like disruption
before it feels like peace.
Stay with Him.
Let Him tune what He is tuning.
Let Him center what He is centering.
That work is holy.
I believe much of my later journey
has simply been learning not to resist it.
And that has brought peace.
A quieter peace.
A truer one.
The Lord is aligning me.
I think that may be one of the gentlest truths I know.
Chapter 9 Reflection
Perhaps much of discipleship
is not striving to become something grand,
but allowing the Lord
to bring us quietly into harmony.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Ten
Love Before You Teach
There was a time I thought helping people meant explaining what I had seen.
If I could show the pattern clearly enough,
or point to the scriptures strongly enough,
or make a case plain enough,
people would understand.
Sometimes they did.
Sometimes they did not.
And over time
the Lord began teaching me something better.
Love before you teach.
That sounds simple.
But it has taken me years to begin learning it.
Because truth can become sharp
when it is carried without tenderness.
Even good truth.
Even needed truth.
It can wound.
And I have no desire anymore
to wound in the name of light.
Jesus keeps correcting me there.
Because when I watch Him,
He seems to love people open
before He teaches them.
He sits with them.
Walks with them.
Feeds them.
Listens.
Then speaks.
And often very softly.
That has worked on me.
I have begun to feel
that people are rarely argued into awakening.
But they may be loved toward it.
That is different.
And much gentler.
Sometimes I think the urge to teach
can hide a subtler desire to control outcomes.
To make people see.
To make things happen.
But love lets go of that.
Love trusts.
Love waits.
Love does not force ripening.
I am still learning this.
Especially because I love patterns.
And truth.
And things that matter.
But maybe the Lord has been showing me
that truth itself must be carried in charity
or it becomes something less than itself.
That feels important.
Maybe central.
A Talking Feather does not press.
He answers when asked.
He carries peace.
I have wanted to become more like that.
Sometimes the kindest thing
is not saying the deeper thing.
It is simply being present.
Being safe.
Being warm.
That too may be teaching.
Maybe the deepest things often are.
I have come to believe
love is not preparation for truth.
Love is part of truth.
Perhaps its highest expression.
And if I forget that,
I may speak correctly
while missing Christ.
I do not want that.
I would rather love badly
and keep learning
than be right without tenderness.
That is a change in me.
A needed one.
And maybe this chapter is simply that confession.
I am learning
to love before I teach.
And I think the Lord likes that.
________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 10 Reflection
Truth carried without love can wound.
But love often opens hearts before teaching ever can.
________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Eleven
Just Walk With Him
Over the years
many things have become simpler.
Not smaller.
Simpler.
That feels different.
There was a time I thought the spiritual life
must involve mastering many things.
Understanding mysteries.
Seeing hidden structures.
Piecing together patterns.
And maybe some of that had its place.
But what remains now
feels almost childlike.
Just walk with Him.
That is enough.
I have come to love the plainness of that.
Because walking assumes relationship.
Not performance.
Not arriving.
Just staying near.
One step.
Then another.
Some days prayer feels bright.
Some days dry.
Walk anyway.
Some days faith feels strong.
Some days trembling.
Walk anyway.
I think much of discipleship
may simply be not leaving.
Continuing.
Returning.
Remaining with Christ.
That has become precious to me.
I used to think the journey
was climbing toward some distant summit.
Now I wonder if often
it is simply companionship.
Keeping company with the Savior.
Learning His pace.
His voice.
His peace.
That makes the path feel human.
Livable.
I like that.
There is comfort in realizing
I do not have to understand everything
to stay with Him.
I only need the next faithful step.
Sometimes very small.
But real.
That relieves pressure.
And brings peace.
Walking with Christ
is not always dramatic.
Often it is quiet fidelity.
Small obediences.
Small softenings.
Daily turning.
And maybe those are the deepest things.
The old man from the sticks in me
would say it simply:
Just keep walking with Jesus.
That covers a lot.
Maybe nearly everything.
And the older I get,
the more true that feels.
_________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 11 Reflection
The way with Christ may be simpler than we think.
Often the next faithful step is enough.
Chapter Twelve
Walk Gently
There is a word I have grown to trust.
Gently.
I did not always honor that word.
There were seasons I thought earnestness
meant intensity.
Push harder.
Say more.
Do more.
Carry more.
But life has taught me otherwise.
The Lord often moves gently.
And those who walk with Him
may need to learn that rhythm.
I think I am learning.
At least a little.
Walk gently.
With others.
With yourself.
With truth.
With time.
Even with your own soul.
That matters.
Some growth cannot be forced.
Some healing cannot be hurried.
Some understanding ripens slowly.
Gentleness makes room for that.
And I have come to believe
the Lord is rarely anxious.
We often are.
But He is not.
That itself teaches me.
There is a softness in Christ
I think religion sometimes misses.
Strength, yes.
But also meekness.
Tenderness.
Patience.
I want more of that.
Especially in how I move through the world.
Walk gently does not mean weakly.
It means without violence.
Without pressure.
Without trying to possess outcomes.
There is wisdom there.
And peace.
Even truth can be carried gently.
Especially truth.
I think the Talking Feather way
has taught me this.
Speak softly.
Answer when invited.
Carry peace.
Do not force.
That has become more than a phrase.
It feels like a way.
And maybe this last chapter
is simply an invitation into that way.
Walk gently with God.
Walk gently with people.
Walk gently through your days.
Much of holiness may look like that.
More than we know.
And perhaps in the end
gentleness is not a lesser strength.
It may be one of the highest.
I am beginning to believe that.
And it brings rest.
_______________________________________________________________________
Chapter 12 Reflection
The Lord often works gently.
Perhaps walking gently is part of walking with Him.
Appendix A
The Pattern Beneath the Path
A Chiastic Shape of the Journey
A — Borrowed Light Wasn’t Enough
B — Don’t Follow the Robe — Follow the Voice
C — The Patterns That Opened My Eyes
D — When Zeal Turns Sharp
E — When the Journey Changed
F — Be the Patient (Sacred Center)
E’ — What the Sacrum Taught Me
D’ — The Sweet Wrestle of Surrender
C’ — The Lord Is Aligning Me
B’ — Love Before You Teach
A’ — Just Walk With Him / Walk Gently (paired return)
At the center is surrender.
Not achievement.
Not mastery.
Rest.
Healing.
Receiving.
Be the patient.
And the journey returns changed.
Outward search becomes inward peace.
Warning becomes gentleness.
Pattern becomes harmony.
Voice becomes companionship.
And the road ends where discipleship began—
walking with Christ.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Appendix B
The Talking Feather
There is an image that has stayed with me for years.
A talking feather.
In some Native councils, a feather was passed among those gathered.
The one holding the feather spoke.
Others listened.
No interrupting.
No striving to overpower.
No speaking over another soul.
Speech was meant to be respectful.
Measured.
Peaceful.
Truthful.
The feather did not symbolize authority over others.
It symbolized responsibility in how one speaks.
Speak carefully.
Speak honestly.
Speak with peace.
And listen as carefully as you speak.
That image reached me deeply.
Because I began seeing discipleship may be something like that.
Not winning arguments.
Not pressing people.
Not using truth as force.
But carrying truth gently.
Answering when invited.
Listening before speaking.
Loving before teaching.
Walking in peace.
Over time I came to think of this as a kind of inward calling.
To be, in a small way,
a Talking Feather.
Not a preacher of pressure.
A bringer of peace.
Not one who compels.
One who invites.
Not one who argues people toward light.
One who carries light softly.
That has become an aspiration for me.
A way I want to walk.
And over time
that aspiration formed itself into a simple oath.
Not as something formal.
Just a plain covenant of the heart.
I call it:
The Talking Feather Oath
I promise to walk gently.
I promise to speak only when asked.
I promise to answer with peace, not pressure.
I promise to love before I teach.
I promise never to use truth as a weapon.
I promise to stay humble, steady, and calm.
I promise to listen for the Lord’s voice
before I open my mouth.
I promise to carry what I have learned quietly
until the right moment.
I promise to help, not argue.
I promise to let people come when their hearts are ready.
I promise to walk with Christ,
and let my life—more than my volume—be my message.
I promise to be a Talking Feather:
a bringer of peace,
a keeper of truth,
and a steady friend in a shaking world.
That is the way I want to walk.
And perhaps,
in some small measure,
the way this whole book has been trying to say.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Epilogue — A Simple Prayer
Lord,
keep me gentle.
Keep me listening.
Keep me near You.
Teach me to walk with You
a little more simply.
Teach me to love
before I speak.
Teach me to trust
Your quiet work in me.
When I strive too much,
teach me to rest.
When I fear,
teach me peace.
When I resist,
teach me surrender.
Make me willing
to be the patient.
Tune my heart toward You.
Help me walk gently,
love deeply,
and follow Your voice.
And in the end,
bring me home to Christ.
Amen.
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Closing Witness from Scripture
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Book of Psalms 46:10
(That could almost summarize the whole book.)
“Learn of me… for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”
— Gospel of Matthew 11:29
(Walk Gently.)
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart… and he shall direct thy paths.”
— Book of Proverbs 3:5–6
(Alignment.)
“Be still and know that I am God” and
“In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.”
— Book of Isaiah 30:15
(Be the Patient.)
“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
— Second Epistle to the Corinthians 12:9
(Sacrum chapter.)
“Charity never faileth.”
— First Epistle to the Corinthians 13:8
(Love Before You Teach.)
“Feast upon the words of Christ… for behold the words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do.”
— Book of Mormon 32:3
(Follow the Voice.)
“By persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned…”
— Doctrine and Covenants 41–42
This one may be the Talking Feather oath in scripture.
“Come unto Christ, and be perfected in him.”
— Book of Mormon 32
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