They’re not all Catholic, or Orthodox, in the traditional sense, but I remember these saints in my life:

Anthony, desert monk. He teaches me to pray and persevere and take on the enemy with tenacity.

Francis of Assisi. He teaches me to keep radically depending on God.

Theresa of Avila. She teaches me the immense love of the Savior that can be experienced on a daily basis.

Martin Luther. He teaches me to start with the Scriptures and have an anchor in the study of the Word.

John Wesley. He teaches me to hunger for the fullness of God.

William Seymour. He teaches me to love others in spite of the barriers placed in front of you. He teaches me forgiveness and mercy.

Grandma Cox. The earliest memory I have of thinking about being in ministry (and the only memory of any sense of calling until the very night I was called into ministry) is when I was 10 years old sitting with her on her porch in St. Joseph, MO. She asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. After giving the standard answers of fireman, lawyer, etc., I said, “Maybe I’ll be a preacher.”  She was pretty happy with that one. Thanks, Grandma.

Marvel Norris. My mother in Zion. The woman could pray like it was nobody’s business. She taught me about her dad, who had been a pastor, and his prayer life. She modeled a heart of desperation for God I can still almost physically hear.

Calvin Olson. One of the last times I heard him speak, his words were: “I have a confession. I’m addicted to prayer meetings.”

I am thankful for the saints in my life. Those who have gone before. Those still living. We call each other on to faithfulness and fullness in God.

Blessed be the saints in our lives.