A Humble Heart
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann
Last week, we reflected on the value of persistence — holding steady in our hopes and commitments, even when results don’t come quickly. This week, we turn to another kind of strength: humility. If persistence teaches us to keep going, humility teaches us how to keep going — with honesty, compassion, and grace.
Humility is often misunderstood. It isn’t about putting ourselves down or pretending to be less capable than we are. It’s about seeing ourselves truthfully — strengths and shortcomings together — and recognizing that we are part of something larger than our own efforts. True humility doesn’t diminish us; it frees us. It opens us to learning, forgiveness, and connection.
There’s an old saying from recovery circles that captures this beautifully: “We admit what we can’t control, and we trust something greater than ourselves to guide us.” That spirit of surrender is not weakness; it’s wisdom. The early steps in Alcoholics Anonymous describe humility as the beginning of healing — the moment we stop trying to manage life alone and start allowing grace, or life, or love, to do its quiet work in us.
Prayer, in that sense, isn’t a performance or a request list. It’s an act of being seen — of standing in truth before the sacred, before one another, before ourselves. The most powerful prayers are often the simplest ones: help me, thank you, forgive me, guide me.
When we pray or reflect with humility, something in us softens. We begin to see others with more compassion and ourselves with more clarity. Pride gives way to peace. Judgment turns to understanding. And we find that life feels a little lighter — not because our problems vanish, but because our hearts have opened.
So as we carry last week’s lesson of persistence forward, let’s add to it the gentle wisdom of humility. Keep showing up. Keep praying or reflecting. But do it with openness — not to impress or to control, but to be changed. The humble heart is the one that goes home lighter, freer, and more at peace.
Rev Steve