A Reflection on Humility, Teachability, and the Gospel in Others
My father once taught me something simple yet deeply spiritual: to learn from every person I encountered each day. He challenged me to pay close attention to the first three people I met—as if they were the First Reading, the Second Reading, and the Gospel. Each person was a living scripture, bearing a message I was meant to receive that day.
I’ve carried that wisdom with me, though what it teaches me changes over time. Lately, it’s been echoing in the moments when I find someone to be an obstacle—when I encounter a person who seems uninterested in growing, learning, or building unity. It especially stings when that person is close to my life, or when they sow division among people I love.
As an athlete, I always asked myself: Am I coachable?
Was I open to instruction? Or stubborn and defensive?
Did I listen?
As a coach—and even more so as a teacher—I still ask these same questions. And I ask them as a wife, a friend, and a member of any team or community.
Am I standoffish? Resistant to correction? Clinging to my way?
Do I let pride block the grace that comes through humility?
The lesson of humility is never finished.
I can get along with most people. I may be selective with my inner circle, but I strive to be open. Even if I come off as gruff or opinionated, I know how to submit to the needs of the whole. I know how to be part of something bigger than myself. I know how to listen, to accept feedback, and to change. I want to be better—I crave it.
So when I encounter someone who refuses to do the same, I struggle. I grow impatient. I get angry—not because I think I’m superior, but because I’m exhausted. Tired of always being the one to soften. To reset. To carry the weight of making things right. To constantly be generous when others seem unwilling.
But in those moments, I remember the wisdom of St. Bernard of Clairvaux:
“Humility is the foundation and guardian of all virtues.”
St. Bernard, a Doctor of the Church, modeled fierce love for truth with radical humility. His life reminds me that humility is not weakness—it’s the strength to keep laboring in love, even when others don’t. That we are called to be teachable not just when it’s easy, but precisely when it’s hard.
The truly wise are always learning, always being taught. The foolish go on, certain of their own way. (See Proverbs 12:15: “The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice.”)
Humility doesn’t mean staying silent in the face of dysfunction—it means not letting pride rule your reaction. It means asking, even in pain or frustration:
What is the Gospel in this person?
What is the message I’m meant to receive today?
How is Christ revealing Himself through this encounter?
Every relationship is a classroom. Every encounter is a reading. Every day is a chance to grow. And if I’m honest, sometimes I’m the one who isn’t coachable. So I begin again. I return to humility—not weakness, but strength rooted in love. —-Mary
