When was the last time you felt completely stuck?
Not just busy. Not just tired. Stuck. Like you’re standing in the middle of a crowded room, trying to take a step forward, but your legs just won’t cooperate. You know exactly where you need to go, but the distance between you and your destination feels like it stretches out into infinity.
That’s the feeling I’ve been living with for a while now. And honestly? It’s exhausting.
The Weight of "Should"
We live in a culture that worships momentum. We scroll through feeds filled with people launching businesses, traveling to new countries, and achieving goals that seem impossibly far from our own reality. We’re told that if we just try harder, believe stronger, or pray louder, the paralysis will break.
But here’s the thing about the paralytic in : He didn’t carry himself to Jesus.
— "They brought him before him and asked him to do something for him."
The text is clear. The friends carried him. They lowered him through the roof. They did the work he couldn’t do with his own hands. And that distinction matters more than we usually realize.
I’ll be honest—I’ve struggled with this too. For years, I treated my spiritual stagnation as a personal failure. If I wasn’t growing, it must mean I wasn’t praying enough. If I felt distant from God, it must mean I was doubting too loudly. I turned my stillness into a sin, and my waiting into a weakness.
It took a long time to realize that “should” is a heavy word. It carries expectations that aren’t always ours to bear. It implies that if we were perfect, we’d already be moving. But the paralytic wasn’t lazy. He was paralyzed. There’s a difference. One is a choice; the other is a condition.
The Promise in the Pause
So, what do we do when we’re in the pause?
First, we stop fighting it.
This is hard. When you’re immobilized, the instinct is to thrash. To kick the walls. To scream at the ceiling until your voice gives out. We want the problem to solve itself, so we shake it violently, hoping the pieces will fall into place.
But shaking doesn’t fix structural damage. Sometimes, you need to stop moving so you can see what’s actually broken.
Second, we look for the friends who carry us.
This is the part that trips most of us up. We want to be self-sufficient. We don’t want to owe anyone anything. But the paralytic’s friends didn’t ask for permission. They just showed up. They saw the weight he was carrying, and they decided they’d help lift it.
Who are your friends? Who sees your struggle and doesn’t look away? Who offers a hand without making you feel small for needing it?
Third, we trust that movement is coming.
Jesus looked at the paralytic and said, "Take courage, my child; your sins are forgiven" (). Then, to prove his authority, he healed the man’s body. He told him, "Rise, take up your bed, and walk home" ().
Notice the order. First, forgiveness. Then, healing. First, identity. Then, ability.
We often skip the first part. We want the miracle of movement without the grace of acceptance. We want to walk home without being told we were already loved. But you can’t separate the two. You can’t heal the body if the soul is still bound.
Three Ways to Live This Out
Here are three concrete ways to apply this this week.
1. Name the Paralysis. Write it down. Be specific. Don’t say “I’m stressed.” Say “I can’t finish the report because I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake.” Or “I can’t call Mom because I’m angry about what she said last year.” Naming it takes some of its power. It stops being a vague cloud and becomes a specific thing you can look at.
2. Find Your Carriers. Reach out to one person. Tell them where you are. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to be honest. Say, “I’m struggling with X. I could use some encouragement/a prayer/a distraction.” Let them carry a little of the weight. Even if it’s just listening, it helps.
3. Practice Small Movements. Don’t wait for the big breakthrough. Start small. If you’re trapped in faith, pray for thirty seconds. Read one verse. If you’re frozen at work, do one tiny task. If you’re halted in relationships, send one text. Movement builds momentum. You don’t have to run. You just have to take one step.
A Season of Turning
It’s autumn now. The leaves are changing color, dropping off the branches. The days are getting shorter. There’s a sense of letting go, of preparing for the cold months ahead.
It fits. We’re in a season of surrender. Of trusting that even when things seem dead, there’s life underneath. That even in the silence, He is speaking. That even in the waiting, God is working.
So, breathe. Let go of the grip. Trust that you’re not alone in the waiting. Trust that movement is coming.
— "I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in them bears much fruit, for apart from you can do nothing."
