A reflection on salvation, surrender, and the mercy of being rescued

It’s been quiet on here lately. Not because I haven’t had anything to say, but because life has been loud. And hard. And full of God’s pursuit. I’ve been rescued. I’ve been rerouted. And now I’m sitting in the ache of what it means to be forgiven — not just by God, but by myself.

When Everything Changed

When I first came to Christ on July 19, 2009, I was 19 years old and exhausted. I didn’t know much, except that I was tired; tired of the weight I carried, the life I lived, and the silence in my soul. And somehow, by His mercy, God met me. He brought me to the feet of Jesus through the power of the Holy Spirit, and I encountered true freedom. It felt like my sins— heavy, loud, and familiar—were stripped from me in one breath. I was free, and I felt it.

That was my introduction to Jesus as Savior.

The First Confession

When we first hear the gospel, the good news of Jesus Christ — it often comes wrapped in mercy.
We feel the weight of our sin.
We feel conviction.
And by some miracle, we’re able to say it out loud:
“I am a sinner. I need a Savior.”

In the Pentecostal tradition I come from, we often confess it like this:
“I accept You, Jesus Christ, as my Lord and Savior. I believe You are the Son of God. Write my name in the Book of Life, and let it not be erased etc.” This is somewhat paraphrased

But we say this, and we say it with sincerity, with tears in our eyes and trembling in our voices. At least that was the case for me.

Unfolding Lordship

But learning Him as Lord? That took time.

As Dr. Charles Stanley often said,

“We come to Christ needing a Savior, but we grow to know Him as Lord.”

It’s slow, layered, and deeply personal.

That part, the Lordship, is something we often say without understanding.
Not because we’re being dishonest, but because Lordship can’t be fully grasped at the altar.

It’s something we grow into.
It unfolds over time, through obedience, surrender, and trust.

In the beginning, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to submit my life, not just my past sins, but my present desires and future decisions—under His authority.

To live under Lordship is not a metaphor, it’s a surrender. A placement. A yielded posture.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies [dedicating all of yourselves], as a living sacrifice, holy and well-pleasing to God — which is your rational (logical, intelligent) act of worship.”
— Romans 12:1 (AMP)

“Why do you call Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ and do not do what I say?”
— Luke 6:46 (AMP)

We don’t just acknowledge Him as Lord with our mouths, we follow with our lives. But sometimes, even after years of walking with Him, we still reach for control. We still try to carry what was never ours. And when we do, we end up learning Lordship again, not because He stopped being Lord, but because we stopped living like He was.

Years later

Just days before my July 19 anniversary, I found myself being rescued again

Not from unbelief, but from strongholds.
Not from the world I knew in 2009, but from a choice made; a door opened.

A door opened during a time of weariness, of waiting and silent transitions laced with unspoken social milestones, I had yet accomplished.

A decision made while waiting, one I thought would make sense.
It felt like a step toward something good, maybe even something right, at the time.

But like Sarah in Genesis 16, I took the delay of the promise as an invitation to intervene.
To help. To “move things along.”
She didn’t disbelieve entirely, she just didn’t see how it could happen in her current condition.

So she acted. And so did I.

Or maybe I was more like Saul in 1 Samuel 13, weary from waiting, desperate to hold onto order, and instead of trusting the timing of the Lord, I stepped out of it.

And like Sarah and Saul, I found that when we take matters into our own hands, even with good intentions, we often birth outcomes we weren’t ready for.

But God, in mercy, still comes.

This time, He didn’t whisper.
He came in like a SWAT team.

It was as if, in the spiritual realm, He broke the door down and said, “That’s enough. You’re coming out of this now.”

I didn’t feel awe. I didn’t fall to my knees in gratitude.
I just stood there, bewildered. Detached.
It didn’t feel like a holy moment, except it was.

It felt like loss.

It felt like being ripped away from something I had grown used to, not because it was good, but because I didn’t know how to leave it on my own.

That’s the difference between salvation and rescue:

Salvation is the conscious, open-hearted yes, often spoken in tears, clarity, or desperation.

“For with the heart a person believes [in Christ as Savior], resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he acknowledges and confesses [his faith openly], resulting in salvation.”
— Romans 10:10 (AMP)

Rescue is the divine intervention when your mouth is silent, your heart is tired, and your will is tangled, but God moves anyway.

“He sent from on high, He took me; He drew me out of many waters. He rescued me from my strong enemy… for they were too mighty for me.”
— Psalm 18:16–17 (ESV)

Salvation happens when we say yes.
Rescue happens when we don’t even know how to say yes anymore.

After the Rescue

“For I do not understand what I am doing; for I am not practicing what I want to do, but I do the very thing I hate.”
— Romans 7:15 (AMP)

What’s the aftermath of rescue?

It’s quieter than I expected. He didn’t force me. He didn’t drive me.
He made a way.
And I had just enough breath left to step into it.

I didn’t feel spiritual. I didn’t feel strong.
I wasn’t overwhelmed by the power of the Holy Spirit tugging at my heart.
Everything in me was leaning in the opposite direction.

But He brought back the memory of His Word.
And I remembered His mercy.
And by grace, Oh, just grace, I said the words:

“Lord Jesus, please help me. I can’t do this by myself.”

Wretched and miserable man that I am! Who will rescue me and set me free from this body of death?
Thanks be to God for my deliverance through Jesus Christ our Lord!”
— Romans 7:24–25 (AMP)

And somehow, that was enough.

He met me in that sentence.
In the gap between knowledge and emotion.
In the quiet space where memory clung to Truth, His Word, His authority, His power —
just long enough for my mouth to confess
what my spirit barely had strength to believe and say.

That’s the thing about rescue.

Sometimes, it doesn’t look like worship.
Sometimes, it looks like collapse.

He still hears it, and He still comes.

I think that’s one of the first things I’m recognizing on this side of rescue:

I could never do it on my own.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.

I will always need the Father.
I will always need the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
And I will always, always, need Jesus Christ.

It was His sacrifice that made this rescue possible.
Without Him, there would be no access to the Father.
No salvation.
No redemption.
No rescue.

Even the desire to cry out to God — He gave me that.
He knew what was coming.
He knew what I couldn’t handle.
And in His mercy, He placed the cry in me, so that He could come for me.

Just like David said:

“He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the mud and mire;
He set my feet on a rock, making my footsteps firm.”
— Psalm 40:2 (AMP)

That’s what He did for me. Not because I was strong.
But because He is.

And all along, He knew.
He was coming.
He always was.

And so now I sit here, free, but still healing. Surrendered, but still aching.
This part of the journey is heavier. Not because God is cruel, but because He is holy.
And when holiness meets what was never meant for us, something has to break.
I’m learning that being forgiven doesn’t erase the grief. But it does bring peace.

“You will keep in perfect and constant peace the one whose mind is steadfast [that is, committed and focused on You—in both inclination and character], because he trusts and takes refuge in You [with hope and confident expectation].”
— Isaiah 26:3 (AMP)

I understand now that God is faithful, just, and holy. He has rescued me, and He is keeping me. He is leading me to stand firm in truth and to walk in accountability, not shame.

And as Paul reminds us:

”Finally, believers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable and worthy of respect, whatever is right and confirmed by God’s word, whatever is pure and wholesome, whatever is lovely and brings peace, whatever is admirable and of good repute; if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think continually on these things [center your mind on them, and implant them in your heart].”
— Philippians 4:8 (AMP)

And so, I’m learning to center my thoughts there, not on what was lost, but on what is still true. I leave you with this quote from John Piper.

“Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses.
Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”
— John Piper

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