A Path of Patience

 

A Path of Patience

When you care deeply about someone—whether a friend, family member, or coworker—it’s not just casual. It pulls at you. Because when your own life has been cracked open and reshaped by the love, grace, and power of Jesus, you don’t walk away unchanged. You carry that fire with you, and you want them to feel it too. Not just know about Him—but actually know Him. You want them to experience the transformation that only the Ruach Elohim—the Spirit of God—can bring. That deep inner change that brings peace where chaos lived, freedom where sin held tight, and light in places that used to be nothing but shadow.

The kind of peace that settles your soul even in your worst storms is no ordinary peace—it’s the eirēnē the New Testament talks about. That’s the Greek for “peace,” but not the shallow kind. It’s peace that surpasses all understanding (Philippians 4:7). The Hebrew is even richer—shalom—a word that means wholeness, completion, harmony with God Himself. When you’ve been given that kind of wholeness, it’s impossible not to want it for those you love.

You yearn for them to walk in that same freedom you’ve come to know—the kind of freedom that doesn’t depend on perfect circumstances, but flows from surrender. Real surrender. Surrender to the One who said, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). The word He used there for rest is anapausis—it means a rest that restores, not just a break.

But what happens when they’re not interested? Or worse, resistant? What happens when their heart feels like a wall, and you can’t even find the door?

It’s hard. It’s painfully hard when someone close to you seems stuck in their own thinking—either hardened, confused, or maybe just numbed to the Gospel. You think, “But if you only knew! If you only felt what I feel… if you only saw what I see…” And frustration builds. It’s not pride—it’s desperation. Because you know what this truth has done for you. You know the rescue. The rebirth. The renewal. And when they don’t see it, it can feel like grief.

Why don’t they see what I see? Why don’t they hear and respond? Why won’t they choose life?

And the truth is—you’re not alone in that frustration. But there’s something we need to come to terms with: God never asked us to change their heart. That is not our job. That belongs to Him alone.

In Ezekiel 36:26, God Himself says, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.” That’s lev chadash and ruach chadashah—a new heart and a new spirit. That’s something only He can do. We’re not the heart-surgeons. We’re the ones called to love with consistency, patience, and truth.

This is a path of patience. And not the kind that sits politely with hands folded. No, this is makrothumia—long-suffering. That Greek word literally means "to suffer long with someone"—to endure without quitting, without hardening. It’s a holy patience, not a passive one. A path of endurance with tears in your eyes and love in your hands.

We live in a culture of speed. Instant messages. Instant information. Instant opinions. And unfortunately, that speed-mindset can bleed into how we approach faith. We want instant fruit. We want to share the Gospel and see immediate life change. But real spiritual journeys don’t work that way. They unfold over time—often hidden time, painful time.

Some people are more open. Some are not. Some respond quickly. Some resist for years. Some, tragically, may never respond at all. And that doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means every soul walks their own timeline. Remember what Paul said: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the increase” (1 Corinthians 3:6). Not everyone is the harvester. Some of us are planters. Some are just waterers. And that’s not lesser—it’s part of the process.

Look at how Jesus moved among people. He never rushed anyone. Never forced belief. He gave them space to wrestle, question, even doubt. Look at Thomas. Jesus didn’t rebuke him harshly—He showed him His scars (John 20:27). That’s patient love. And it was enough.

He didn’t pressure Zacchaeus. He just went to his house. He didn’t hound the woman at the well. He spoke truth, but gave her room to respond. Even when speaking to the rich young ruler, He loved him, but didn’t chase him when he walked away (Mark 10:21–22). Jesus honored human choice, even when it broke His heart.

And when He cried over Jerusalem in Matthew 23:37, saying, “How often I wanted to gather you… but you were not willing,” you hear the agony in His patience. His heart breaks, but He still doesn’t override their will. That is divine restraint.

And that’s the model we follow. Our job is not to convert them. Our job is to be faithful witnesses—to reflect His light and truth and love and let the Ruach haQodesh, the Holy Spirit, do the deep, invisible work.

Because real transformation doesn’t come from pressure. It comes from love. From agapē—sacrificial, steadfast, covenant-kind of love. The kind that sticks around even when the door seems closed.

Maybe you’re dealing with someone who’s skeptical. Maybe they’ve been hurt by religion, disappointed by believers, or scarred by trauma. Maybe their heart is calloused, like the hardened ground in Yeshua’s parable. But you don’t know what God is doing in the hidden places. You don’t know how many roots are growing under the surface.

So don’t quit. Don’t play the Holy Spirit. You’re not Him. You’re not supposed to be. Love them anyway. Not because they’re easy, not because it guarantees a return, but because it’s what He does with us—every single day.

One of the most powerful things you can ever do is simply live the Gospel. And yes, people are watching—more than you know. They’re watching how you suffer. How you respond to injustice. How you handle disappointment. They’re watching your joy, your quiet peace, your choices.

That’s what Scripture calls martyria—your witness. It’s not always words. It’s how you walk. And it speaks volumes. Actions speak when words fail.

And when they see it—that peace, that joy, that stillness in the storm—they may not say anything out loud. But something in them will stir. And when they finally ask… “What is it about you?”—you’ll be ready. Not with a sermon. Not with a script. But with the raw truth of your own story.

Your testimony—your edut in Hebrew—is powerful. Because it’s not theory. It’s lived truth. It’s your actual rescue story. People can argue theology all day long—but they can’t argue what Jesus did for you.

Tell them. Tell them how He gave you peace when you should’ve drowned in fear. How He gave you hope when everything looked hopeless. How He restored joy to your life after loss and disappointment. Tell it gently. Tell it with humility. But tell it.

Because that story isn’t just your history. It’s someone else’s invitation.

But even when you do that—don’t expect immediate results. It’s not a formula. Even the best testimony can be dismissed if someone’s not ready. And that’s why prayer matters more than anything else.

Because you don’t open eyes. God does.

Prayer reminds us of that. It humbles us. Keeps us from trying to save people in our own strength. So pray boldly. Pray often. Pray in the Spirit. Pray with tears. Ask God to draw them (John 6:44). That word in Greek is helkō—to drag, to pull, to draw powerfully. That’s what He does. Not through coercion—but through a pull of love and truth.

And sometimes—yes—there comes a time to step back. To give space. Not in bitterness. But in trust. Keep loving. Keep praying. But let God move without your hands always trying to shape it.

Stay faithful. That’s all He asks. Faithful in your love. Faithful in your prayer. Faithful in your witness. And leave the results to the One who sees the end from the beginning.

Because in the end, you cannot control the hearts of others.

But you can love them.

You can pray for them.

You can live out truth in front of them.

And you can trust that the God who found you has not forgotten them.

He’s still working.

And He’s very, very patient.

 

 

Images are done by chatgpt at my direction