I stared at the doctor while he waited for my response. His last few sentences silently played in my head, on repeat, with his gentle expression and question lingering in the air between us:
“Do you want to try the medication now, and see if it might help?”
We’d been in this ongoing conversation for almost a year. We’d been over the risks and possible side effects. We’d talked through what had been going on for years, with even more intensity this past year. It had become part of our family’s normal, and the doctor reminded us that maybe this medication would help it be less normal. Every three months for nearly a year, we picked the conversation back up — after trying other things, waiting it out, researching, and considering all the options again. Is medication something that might help? Is this the next right step?
I’ve never been against medication. In every way, I thought I was 100% for it… and yet, this recent consideration uncovered some resistance within me. I felt hesitation every time the question came up.
Why was I resisting? Was the hesitation my gut instinct? The Holy Spirit? Was this hesitation spiritual? Or, was it fear and misplaced pressure I put on myself to be able to make everything right in my own power, for this person I loved?
Sitting in the doctor’s office that day, I knew I could no longer get around the thick wall that had arisen over time. Day after day, another layer of cement had been poured. It was as if this figurative wall kept rising and growing wider with time, unashamed about erecting itself in the middle of our home. I studied it. I tried to figure out how to pull it down. I prayed over it in circles. I pounded it with my fists. And last spring, it was as if I stared at it and finally saw a word spray-painted across the expanse of it in all caps: “HELP.”
Someone I loved needed help that I couldn’t provide, no matter how many things I read or tried. No matter how many times I flipped back through my memory, trying to figure out what I did or didn’t do enough of that led us to this point, I came up short.
I recited a million if onlys and lay awake through the dark hours of the night wondering what I missed, and how I could’ve missed something in the first place that set us on this downward spiral. Was it the pandemic lockdowns? Was it the layers of raising a mixed-race family in America during this cultural moment? Every question I asked and every new “fix the problem” thing to try led me to another dead end, and another hour of crying in the dark on my closet floor.
So, finally, last May, we said yes, we need help. And this summer, that help looked like surrender to a small, daily pill.
We all find resistance within us at times. Sometimes it’s quiet and other times loud. Sometimes our resistance protects us from harm and is a healthy caution, but other times it is the thing that’s keeping us from exactly what we need most.
Peter’s resistance to Jesus’ washing his feet came to mind multiple times this past year, and I saw my own resistance in Peter’s quick response at the Passover meal.
He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”
Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”
“No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.”
John 13:6-8 NIV
I imagine Peter feeling as if refusing Jesus’ foot washing was the more spiritual way. While the context is not the same as my own, I can relate to Peter’s pride and to Jesus’ words that he doesn’t realize what He’s doing, but will later understand.
I reread my journals professing how I would trust God for good and help. Yet when He showed up in our doctor’s office with a slow and seemingly non-miraculous offer — one that came with possible side effects — I resisted. Like Peter, staring at Jesus with a bowl of water and a towel, I didn’t want His help to come that way.
The more I acknowledge my limitations, the more I understand that resistance is almost always an invitation. Feeling resistant is an invitation to further exploration. It’s an opportunity to be curious, a feeling to lean towards with grace-filled questions, and something that can ultimately lead to a deeper trust in and surrender to Jesus.
Maybe you feel resistance towards being vulnerable in your own needs and limitations, or receiving help for yourself or for someone you love. Maybe you feel resistance towards people who look and live differently than you. Maybe you feel resistant to a new perspective or re-considering an opinion you’ve held onto for years.
What do you do when you feel that uncomfortable sensation that says to run or hide or refuse?
A few questions to ask and a prayer to pray when we feel resistance:
- What messages have I heard about this thing or person I feel resistance to? Who were they from? Why do I believe them?
- What would Jesus say about those messages?
- What am I afraid of?
Inhale: God, help me see through the layers of my resistance.
Exhale: Release me from fear and pride, and give me the courage to receive what I need most from You.
Tasha,…Blessings, understanding, answers and prayers to you and you family
Come Jesus. Come \0/
This comes at a perfect time for me as I am attempting to release control on some things I “think” I have control over.
Dear Tasha…..Thank you for your enlightening words this morning. I thought I was the only one that had gone through a similar situation. As far as the medication goes, when you watch tv and they show so many different drugs, but then I just look at all the side effects they could cause including death depending on how they react with our bodies. Not to mention the price of most of them. I just would not and could not get past these feelings and I kept telling the doctor “No”. This went on for a long time. The other thing you mentioned about trying to help someone and you kept running it through your mind. I definitely can truly relate to that. My ex-husband now has a violent form of dementia and we had been married for 54 years. I am 77 years old. I detected it early on and the doctors told me he was lucky that I found it so early. I researched and prayed and did everything I could think of for 3+ years, but he would not accept the diagnosis and continued to drink heavily, not take the medication that only worked to a point if found early. Every night for those 3+ years he abused me in so many different ways until in 2022 he tried to kill me. The doctors and police and my support groups all said I had to get him out of the house. My son (54 years old) without even ever coming to see us told me I was lying and it was just his old age. The rest of the story is so long and tedious to write here, but since 2022 until this year I kept wondering what more could I do for him. My husband and son both blame me for the whole thing. I was telling the truth and because my son said I was making all these things up, he no longer considered me his mother and I could NEVER see or talk to my 1 grandchild who is the love of my life and was 11 at the time. Now he is 15 and still no communication allowed. They have blocked every way I could try to contact them including any cards I would send him, they ripped them up and trashed them before he got home from school. There were checks and money in many of them. The checks were never cashed and I guess the money was torn up too, but this year, between all the devotions I receive every morning from you women from (in)courage and constantly praying for help, I no longer blame myself as I knew I was not the one saying untruths, but my husband and son were the ones calling me the names and using ever curse word they could think of. My faith is unshakeable and they have no faith. I still have my days when my mind goes back and reviews everything that happened, but they are not nearly as frequent as the every day reviews that kept me up nights wondering around my apartment crying and trying to think,”What did I do wrong? ” I also live in a senior facility with 100 residents and I am different from them. They don’t like the way I dress or my hair or jewelry and they make mean comments all the time in the dining room which I can hear. There have been a few who I tried to talk to and as they got to know me, they saw that it was just me and saw all the generous things I did for them and even the people who hated me. Thank you Tasha for your words and the time I took up if you read this, but being alone is hard to go through with no support. I wish you and your family a Blessed Labor Day weekend with joy and love……………………..Betsy Basile