Yeah, I know how it sounds. I believe a man came into our world, died for us, and three days later rose from the dead to save us. If that doesn’t strike you as a wild claim, you might need to reevaluate what you believe.

It has to be wild. If it were ordinary, then why would it require a supernatural power to pull it off? The very impossibility of it points to something beyond us. That’s the whole point. It works outside our natural order. It must, in a sense, be otherworldly. What in my life led me to believe such a wild claim? Something in my story had to be just as wild for this to not only make sense but to feel like the only thing that could make sense. The claim is radical, but so was the way God met me.

Enough

God met me in my “worth.”

I don’t know a single person who doesn’t struggle with worth or identity. When I looked to the world for answers, what I often found was the message: “You are enough.” And while that can bring a measure of comfort or strength, it always felt fragile to me.

I began to realize that the world knows we’re longing to feel “enough.” That longing is studied, discussed, and marketed(Brené Brown, Daring Greatly, 29). And this matters because it points to something real. There’s power in acknowledging this longing, especially when we remove our “worth” from our achievements. However, placing our worth in ourselves is no different; like our achievements, we are ungrounded. How could looking deeper into ourselves be the answer? How could I, who continually fails, be the one I’m supposed to look toward to find restoration? It didn’t quite make sense to me. It felt too hollow.

When God was brought into the mix, the whole balance began to alter. There was a power unlike anything else, the kind that doesn’t just affirm us, but anchors us. As Galatians 2:20 says, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” And 1 John 4:16 says, “So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.”

His gift of “enoughness” or worth is not merely a feeling; it’s a reflection of who he is, showing up in the world through people, through grace, through truth. It’s his sending Jesus in our place that makes us enough. When we center ourselves in him, everything changes. Our failures, our doubts, and our striving are no longer the measure of our worth. And neither are we. That’s true freedom.

Vulnerability

He met me in my vulnerability.

In my life, I’ve encountered fear in many forms and seasons. Often, the response I heard was,“Be brave.” Sometimes I was. Other times, I backed away. There’s something deeply human about bravery, almost as if we instinctively know we were made for it. Across disciplines like entrepreneurship, science, and sociology, a pattern emerges: vulnerability is powerful  (Brown 2006, 43-52). It leads to joy, empathy, and connection. For me, vulnerability became important, even formative. But its weight was heavy. I carried it like something noble but exhausting. It was worth it, yes, but often it felt too heavy to carry, and I found myself trying to avoid it.

Then came a shift. Maybe courage and vulnerability aren’t meant to be faced alone? When I began to understand that there is a God who meets us in our weakness and stands in our place, just as Jesus did on the cross, the weight lifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about what I could carry. Vulnerability wasn’t just risk anymore; it became an invitation. An invitation for God to work.

 In 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, Paul openly shares his “thorn in the flesh,” a struggle he pleads with God to remove. Rather than hide, Paul is vulnerable with the church, inviting them into his pain. And God’s response is powerful: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (v. 9). In Mark 5, a woman suffering from bleeding for twelve years reached out to Jesus in desperation. Choosing courage over fear, she touched him, and he affirmed her as “daughter.” Her vulnerability brought healing, and Jesus met her with grace. I began to see vulnerability not as something to resist, but as a place where God meets us. With him, there was a lightness, still difficult, but no longer heavy to bear.

Those who allow themselves to be vulnerable often perceive a deeper connection, growth, and resilience (Hartling et al. 2000). Yet, it can also feel burdensome and isolating. On its own, this kind of vulnerability is helpful, but not truly transformative. There is, however, a transformative vulnerability. It’s not just being brave on our own. It’s about understanding that in our moments of weakness, God stands in our place, just as Jesus did on the cross.

Despair

God met me in “despair.”

Most of us have visited this part of our mind. Some are there right now, and others have yet to go. I think it’s safe to say we will all eventually pass through it. Despair isn’t just sadness; it’s hopelessness. Some sociological studies indicate hope is the answer to hopelessness (Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart,167). I’ve tried piecing hope together step by step by my own strength. It helped and even lifted me from despair. But for me, it ultimately didn’t hold. Eventually, the idea faltered. Can my hope truly make everything okay? I can only hold up this hope with my bare hands for so long before it collapses under the weight of life’s inevitable pain.

There’s power in hope but only if it reflects something greater. Where do we turn for a hope that truly holds, one that is solid and unshakable? In John 16:33, Jesus says, “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” Psalms 62:5–6 says, “For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him. He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken.”

Hope belongs in this world, but I can’t hold it alone; I will fail. I needed someone to carry it for me, to promise that, despite life’s brokenness and suffering, there is a hope that stands firm beyond this life. Hope rooted in Christ doesn’t pretend things aren’t hard. It looks right at the pain and still stands. Because Jesus doesn’t just give us hope. He is the foundation of hope. And that’s the kind of hope that can hold, no matter what comes.

Worldly answers gave me glimpses but never the full truth. Each pointed me toward something greater: God. Without him, they fall short; with him, they are transformed. The cross restores what is broken and makes everything whole. When I turned to Scripture, I found the complete answer, and it’s the wildest story ever. Inviting God in made everything deeper and better, not because of me, but because Jesus died in my place. He is enough. He carries my vulnerability and upholds my hope. I’ve tried life another way, but the gospel proves powerful every day. These are just a few of the many reasons I believe the wildest story ever told. And it may have to be something you reason with to believe.