Free Of It
John 8:32 is one of those Bible verses that has transcended religious boundaries:
Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
But these weren't John's words. Jesus spoke them. And He said them to anyone who'd listen. What did He mean by it? What is this truth? And how does it set me free? What am I free from?
I can tell you one thing: The freedom I found didn't come through striving. It came through light: God's light. The kind that reveals the truth and holds you steady in it. The light didn't shame me for believing the lie. It didn't rush the healing. It simply reminded me:
I see you.
I have you.
You are mine.
That's what this light does. It names things truthfully. It cuts through the silence. And when you see it again — and I mean really see it — you start to remember who you are.
Please hear me: This isn't just about feeling better about yourself. When you live under the pull of these lies, you don't just suffer. You also miss your calling. The unique work God designed specifically for you remains undone. This matters for all of us. It matters for me. It matters for my husband, Zac, and our four kids — Kate, Conner, Caroline, and Cooper. It matters for the work God has called me to through IF:Gathering. When I'm living under the pull of lies, I don't just miss peace. I miss the life God designed specifically for me.
When Jesus said the truth will set you free, He was saying you can be free from darkness. Not the darkness of night but the Darkness — with a capital D — that controls this world. That Darkness fights hard to keep you believing the lie because your freedom matters, not just for your peace but for your purpose — how your life affects the world.
It's ironic that You're worthless is my core lie. If you follow me, you might think, But she helps people. She teaches the Bible. She leads movements.
And yet the ache remained.
I told Lauren, "Sometimes, when I'm in the thick of things with family, work, and ministry, it feels like... what's the point?"
How many times have you said that?
She could see I wasn't being dramatic. I was being honest.
She prayed. Asked God to pull back the layers of lies and illuminate the truth of who I was. And what we found underneath the ache was a deeper longing: to be known — to matter. Not because of what I do. But because of who I am.
And isn't that what truth really is? Not performance. Not productivity. Just being.
Being seen. Being loved. Being remembered by God.
We all feel our lies in different ways.
A friend with an eating disorder who punishes herself with impossible standards.
A man stuck in a job he hates because he thinks his past abuse defines his future.
A woman who avoids love because she's sure it won't last.
A high achiever who works herself sick trying to prove her worth.
A young man who never risks anything because he's afraid to fail.
A mom who's convinced she's not enough — no matter how hard she tries.
We all carry something. And most of the time we don't even know what it is. But the symptoms of the lies pop up and derail us. Sometimes when I feel anxious — not every time, but sometimes — my chest gets tight. I remember on this one particular day, it wasn't just tight. It hurt. It felt like my heart was aching, physically.
We happened to be with a friend who's a cardiologist. I told him what I was feeling — part of me bracing, wondering if he was going to tell me to get to the hospital. But instead he smiled gently and said, "You might want to try some Pepcid AC."
That was his kind, clinical way of saying, "This isn't your heart. It's your stress, kiddo." Anxiety seems to find all of us eventually. And I'm weary — not just from the racing thoughts or the chest pain but from always treating symptoms while ignoring the deeper problems underneath.
That's why we're here, right?
We've gotten really good at blaming our symptoms on physical causes, and sure, sometimes that's true. But it certainly doesn't stop there. There's often a soul beneath the surface begging to be seen, asking to be healed from the heavy darkness of our core lie.
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