“Then Jesus went with them to the olive grove called Gethsemane, and he said, ‘Sit here while I go over there to pray.’ He took Peter and Zebedee’s two sons… ‘Stay here and keep watch with me.’” Matthew 26:36–38 (NLT)
When I read this passage, I no longer rush past it. Jesus did not take everyone into Gethsemane.
He left some at a distance. He invited a few closer. And even among the twelve, only three were asked to stand near His anguish.
That detail unsettles me in the best way. Because it forces a question: Who am I taking with me into my Gethsemane moments? And just as importantly: Who is taking me with them?
If I am honest, much of my life has been spent being strong for others. I have often been the one people call in crisis, in transition, in prayer, in need. I do not resent that. I am wired to love deeply, to give generously, to show up.
But over time, I began to notice a pattern. There were seasons when people leaned heavily on me and when their season shifted, so did their presence. Some relationships seemed sustained by my effort, my initiation, my availability. When I paused, some of them quietly dissolved.
It was not dramatic.
It was not malicious.
It was simply revealing.
I realized that being loving and being accessible are not the same as being mutually connected. Years ago, during a formative season of spiritual training, someone spoke a sobering word over my life. They said that I would encounter difficult relational dynamics, even within faith spaces. Not to harm me but to train me. To sharpen discernment. To teach me the difference between people who are with me for access… and people who are with me for me.
That word proved true.
In professional spaces, I saw how quickly interest can gather around perceived momentum. In personal spaces, I learned how easily a helper can become a crutch and how quietly a crutch can be set aside when no longer needed. None of this has made me cynical. But it has made me aware.
And awareness is a gift.
Through counseling and reflection, I have also come to understand that some of my patterns were formed long before adulthood. Independence became strength. Strength became identity. Identity became habit. And habit sometimes prevented vulnerability.
I learned to be self-sufficient early.
But Gethsemane teaches me something different. Even Jesus, the Son of God said: “Stay here and keep watch with me.”
He did not pretend He did not need companionship. He did not spiritualize isolation. He invited presence into pain.
That is maturity.
So my prayer now is not, “Lord, remove my giving heart.” It is, “Lord, teach me to build mutual strength.”
I know how to run to God. But I am learning that God also desires me to have people I can run with. Not people who need me. Not people who admire me. Not people who access me.
But people who can sit in Gethsemane and stay awake.
And I believe that kind of relationship is not found accidentally. It is built with wisdom, boundaries, discernment, and courage.
Jesus chose His inner circle carefully.
Perhaps I must do the same.
Wells of Wonder 