Scripture: John 5:8-9 “Jesus said to him, ‘Get up, take up your bed, and walk.’ And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.”
I was sitting in my car last Tuesday, engine idling, staring blankly at the dashboard. My fingers drummed nervously against the steering wheel, keeping time with my racing thoughts. A deadline loomed over me like a storm cloud, my chest tight with stress. My instinct? Freeze. Avoid. Watch TikTok. Wait for a better time to deal with the weight of it all.
And then this passage came to mind.
Thirty-eight years—that’s how long the man at Bethesda’s pool had waited for healing.
What strikes me about Jesus’ command isn’t just the miracle itself, but the three-part invitation into a new story:
Rise
The first movement happens inside us. Before our body can move toward change, our spirit must believe it’s possible.
I remember when my marriage was crumbling—how I stayed emotionally paralyzed for months, weighed down by hurt and uncertainty. There’s one particular day I’ll never forget. It was Lent, deadlines pressing in, and I simply could not get out of bed. It was 2 p.m. I had left the office, unable to concentrate, needing to be alone. The weight of the future felt unbearable.
Sadness turned into despair. My thoughts turned dark—darker than I ever imagined they could. I remember feeling strangely grateful that we didn’t own a handgun. The thought rattled me.
And then—out of nowhere—my phone rang. A colleague, a friend I hadn’t spoken to in months. I tried to send it to voicemail, but for some reason (I think it was divine), it wouldn’t go through. It just kept ringing. Annoyed, I finally answered.
I am convinced that call saved my life. The simple sound of a familiar voice offering not solutions but presence reminded me I wasn’t alone in the universe. It was as if God was saying through my friend, “I see you. You matter. Stay.”
Rising didn’t start with fixing things. It started with acknowledging that healing was possible, even before I knew what form it would take.
The man by the pool had to trust before his legs did. Don’t we all? Rising is that moment when something within whispers, “Perhaps today can be different than yesterday.”
But Jesus doesn’t stop at simply commanding him to rise. He asks something even stranger.
Take Up Your Mat
Jesus tells the man to carry the very thing that had once carried him. His mat had been his identity, his prison, and his shame.
I remember sitting in my counselor’s office, arms crossed, reluctant to unpack the past. After a long pause, he looked at me and said, “Your trauma shaped you, but it doesn’t have to define you.”
His words settled into my chest like a truth I wasn’t ready to hear—but needed to.
Taking up our mat means integrating our past without being imprisoned by it. The hurts that once held us down become powerful testimonies we carry with us.
And then comes the hardest part—actually stepping forward, day by day, into a new way of living.
Walk
Healing isn’t just about relief—it’s about responsibility.
When my marriage ended, walking meant doing more than just surviving—it meant learning how to truly live again. The grief had become familiar, almost like a strange kind of comfort, because at least I knew what to expect from it. Moving forward meant stepping into the unknown, into a life I hadn’t planned for.
One small step I took was being willing to be open about the difficult place I found myself in. My therapist also told me, “You are only as sick as your secrets.” It was time to own my struggle, pain, and fear.
For the man at Bethesda, walking meant leaving the familiar behind. He had lived at the edge of that pool for decades. His suffering had become part of his identity. Walking meant entering a world where he could no longer rely on old excuses or familiar patterns.
Walking means trading familiar pain for unfamiliar health. It’s moving away from the pool’s edge where we’ve waited for so long.
That day in my car, staring at my deadline, I realized something. I’ve risen before. I’ve taken up my mat. And I’ve walked. So why was I sitting in my own paralysis again?
This morning in my time of prayer/meditation, I asked myself:
Where am I still lying beside the pool when Jesus has already spoken “rise” over me?
What mat—what old identity, limitation, or fear—am I clinging to instead of carrying as testimony?
And what is one step I can take today toward the new life God is calling me into?
Perhaps you might ask yourself the same.
Prayer
Jesus, I confess how comfortable I’ve grown with certain limitations, even when they no longer serve me. Help me to rise when You call, to carry my past as a testimony rather than a burden, and to step forward even when the path feels uncertain. Today, I choose to participate in my own healing rather than waiting passively by the pool. Give me the courage to trust You enough to walk. Thank you for the people you place in our paths who help us rise when we cannot do so alone. Amen.
Grace and Peace,
Andrea