Lysa TerKeurst

“Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'” John 14:6 (NIV)

I wasn’t in the mood to be messed up.

I put my head against my bedroom wall, closed my eyes, and whispered, “There’s no way.” It was late summer of 2003 when my world collided with what seemed like an impossible invitation from God: adopt two teen boys from war-torn Liberia.

All the reasons why this wasn’t a good idea tumbled before me. Honest reasons. Understandable reasons. Solid reasons.

Missionaries would be much more qualified. Missionaries with grown kids. People much more spiritual than me. People much more gentle and patient enough to do this sort of thing.

Not this disorganized woman who originally thought Liberia was in South America.

Not this mom who already felt overwhelmed with her three kids. How in heaven’s would we add two more?

Not someone who paid so many late fees at the library they should have named a shelf after her. Maybe two.

Definitely not me.

But it was me.

The invitation was mine.

And I knew it.

No matter how many times I whispered over and over, “There’s no way,” this nagging sense of possibility wouldn’t leave me. It wove its way through every fiber of my being until I stood up and shifted everything I thought my family would be with one weak whisper, “Yes.”

I can honestly say there were moments of sheer joy where I felt reassured I’d heard God right.

But there were many other moments where life felt chaotic, messy, and really hard. There were tears. There were moments where I loved my five kids but I didn’t like them very much. There were moments I wondered if I’d heard God wrong.

And there were more times even after we adopted where I said, “There’s no way.”

There was no way we could overcome a medical diagnosis one of my boys received. There was no way two teenage boys who tested at a kindergarten level could catch up in two years and be ready for middle school. There was no way I could be patient enough to educate them at home during those two years.

But every time I said, “There’s no way,” I’d remember Jesus calling Himself, “The way … “ (John 14:6).

John tells us that Jesus is the way to salvation. Through Him we have access to the Holy Spirit (Ephesians 2:18) who gives us patience, guidance, and peace. All of which I needed. Desperately.

Yes, Jesus was the One to follow. He was the One who would guide me each day. He was the One I needed to pour out my heart to in prayer. He was the One to listen to. And He was the One who reassured me with many promises in the Bible.

One of those promises was Isaiah 58:10-11: ” … if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.”

I could be a light rising in the darkness. I could be full of life like a well-watered garden. I could be refreshing like a spring whose waters never fail. Me. Crazy, incapable, crying-in-my-closet me. If I let Jesus be my way and do what He was asking me to do, these things could be true for me.

And they can be true for you as well.

There might not be a way if you look at your situation with only human reasoning and calculation. But if you let Jesus’ truth and promises fill you, you’ll find a different way. A good way. A sure way. His way.


Dear Lord, thank You for reminding me that You are the only true way. Help me to see this every day as the circumstances of life surround and sometimes overwhelm me. I desperately need Your help as I learn to say “yes” to Your calling on my life. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

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“Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long.” — Psalm 25:5 (NIV)

Several years ago when we updated our kitchen, we invited a contractor friend over for his expert opinion. I was so excited to discuss fun details like where to place the appliances, cabinet colors and lighting fixtures. But when he walked in and stared at the ceiling with a look of grave concern, I knew something was wrong.

Because we’d already removed some of the sheetrock, he could see how one of the major beams wasn’t able to provide the necessary amount of support. It wasn’t long enough to extend all the way to the supporting wall. Someone had attempted to fix it by nailing another board into its side, which extended the length of the kitchen. Not only is this not the proper way to fix a supporting beam, but the nails were barely holding things together.

I didn’t understand why this was such a big deal. Plenty of other boards appeared to be doing just fine.

But my friend knew better.

He took me upstairs. In the exact place where the broken boards were in the ceiling below, the second floor dipped and sagged. One good jump or heavy thing dropped, and that supporting board would likely come apart.

I didn’t need any further explanation. I already knew we couldn’t leave this the way it was. I walked back downstairs and stood below the problem spot.

Broken boards can’t provide stability. There’s nothing profound about that from a construction standpoint. Seeing those boards barely hanging on was like looking inside myself.

For years, I’d expected stability from a broken identity. An identity that began splintering the day my dad stopped coming home.

It’s awfully hard to believe you’re a loved daughter of God when you’re the unwanted daughter of a dad who walked away.

After he left our family, I tried to prop up what was left of me, so I wouldn’t collapse into the broken place inside. Good grades. Achievements and accolades. Fun friends and good times. Boys who made me feel special. I tried to steady myself with anything that helped me feel better.

But feelings are fragile props.

Just like the broken beam in my house couldn’t be fixed by simply nailing another board in to prop it up, neither could I. It wasn’t just a better feeling I needed; I needed a completely new way of defining my identity. I needed truth to inform what I believed about myself. Otherwise, what I believed would become a fragile, flimsy, faulty foundation. The beliefs we hold should hold us up even when life feels like it’s falling apart.

At that point, though, I couldn’t say that the beliefs I held could hold me up. For years, I’d heard people talking about putting my identity in Christ. I nodded my head. I memorized by rote Colossians 3:12 which proclaimed I was one of “God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved.” (NIV)

But when life felt threatening, I’d revert right back to the old thought patterns of feeling unloved and unwanted.

Standing underneath those broken boards helped me see why. I couldn’t keep my old broken beliefs, nail a little Jesus truth to the side, and expect stability. I knew I had to stop assessing God’s goodness by how my life felt at any given moment. Feelings are broken boards. Only truth is solid, unchanging, and stable through and through.

This is why we must tear out old thought patterns, then replace them with a new way of looking at the core of who we are. Psalm 25:5 can become our life’s prayer, “Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long.”

Yes. Our identity must be anchored to the truth of who God is and who He is to us. Only then can we find a stability beyond what our feelings will ever allow. The closer we align our truth with His truth, the more closely we identify with God — and the more our identity is found in Him.

Lord, reveal the lies I’ve believed for far too long, and help me replace them with life-giving Truth. I want my identity to be anchored in and built upon You — my unchanging, undeniably good, and unquestionably loving God. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

To the doers, the givers, the helpers, and the responsible ones: are you tired from the way you’re living your life?

I know this so well.

Many days I go through the motions necessary to get me and my people through the day without giving a second thought as to why.

All this work I’m doing, who is it really for?

I push through, drive on, check the boxes, and fall into bed each night utterly exhausted without truly considering my motivation.

It’s easy to say it’s for God. Or for my family’s provision. Or for the people I serve.

It’s easy to think: There are things that have to be done and if I don’t do them, no one will.

But could some part of that “drive” to complete be to impress others? To be more noticed? To push past the crowd and stand in the spotlight of success? To feel like you matter? To prove someone wrong who said you couldn’t?

Maybe not.

But maybe so.

Only that deep down inside of us place where honesty speaks freely and the Holy Spirit is listened to, knows.

Sweet friend, I’ve tasted that bitter aftertaste of trying to impress. And it was the quickest route to feeling completely depressed. If the accolades coming from others are the lifeline to our pursuits, we become enslaved by their compliments and crushed by their criticisms.

So this next week, do something new.

Create something that’s totally you without being held back by the fear that others won’t like it. Dare to be delighted by your work. Dare to remember your work is delightful to the Lord. Then your work will once again delight you. And after you are finished, rest. And smile. And enjoy your life.

“Serve wholeheartedly, as if you were serving the Lord, not people.” — Ephesians 6:7