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Mom would hold the spoon right in front of my mouth. I would wrinkle up my face in a look that was some combination of fear, disgust, and anger.
“I don’t want to! It tastes awful!”
Calmly, at first, she’d tell me, “I know it doesn’t taste good, son, but the medicine will help you feel better.”
Then, she’d try making the doctor the authority figure: “Doctor Smith said you have to take it.”
If I still wasn’t persuaded, she’d eventually lose her patience. Mom would tell me sternly, “I’ve had enough of this — open your mouth!”
I always ended up taking the medicine. For a few minutes, I’d be mad at Mom. She’d be mad at me. We’d be mad at each other. Eventually, though, our love would always wash away the anger. Order, and sanity, would return to our lives.
There’s a lesson here, and I want to be sure you understand it. Really, deeply, understand it. Like, body, heart, and soul understand it.
The lesson is this: when you do something out of love, the person you’re loving won’t always be grateful.
Love is hard.
Love goes beyond the shallow activities that bring outward peace.
Love is not always about acquiescence. Sometimes, love demands resistance.