It’s not about what you do—it’s about who I AM!

Those words stopped me in my tracks. The spoon in my hand stopped stirring and hovered over the pot, and for a moment, the clatter of dinner prep faded away.

I had been pouring my heart out to God for weeks, asking how I could serve Him in this new season. Praying incessantly. I was in my early thirties, and my entire adult life up until that point had been wrapped in how I could serve God and His church. I went to Bible college and had been in ministry on church staffs since I was nineteen. I loved every minute. But now, we had left California for Texas. My husband, our young kids, and I were in a new place, convinced we were following God’s lead. But for the first time in over a decade, I wasn’t plugged in anywhere. Nobody outside the walls of my home needed me. I was lonely and looking for somewhere to serve but couldn’t find my place.

I couldn’t shake the feeling of being utterly alone. Even in a room filled with people, I felt invisible. My life, up until that point, had been defined by what I did and what I produced. While I never considered myself someone who sought accolades, apparently, I did. When I was complimented, “Thank you for what you do,” I wore that badge with pride. That’s how I brought value to people (and received it myself). So, who was I going to be when nobody relied on me for anything? With nowhere and no one else to turn to, I finally cried out to God.

Silence.

Sure, I gained some peace through prayer, but it wasn’t enough. There was no joy. And I began to wonder, God, what am I missing? Silence.

What did I do wrong?

Silence.

I thought You were leading us here for a great adventure, and we were taking a step of faith.

Silence.

Are You there, God?

God, why aren’t You speaking to me?

Silence.

So, I made dinner.

And there, in my mundane, ordinary life, I heard in my innermost being, It is not about what you do, it is about who I AM!

God had spoken to me. Not at church. Not in a prayer session or worship service, and not immediately. How did I know it was God? Because something shifted deep within my soul. My spirit leapt. Over the years since this conversation with God, I’ve been reminded of those words many times. Deep transformation does not occur based on our actions, productivity, performance, or abilities; it occurs by God gifting us our being by inviting us to know His. That is how He invites us into His narrative.

Where did I come to believe that my value arose from what I did for God or other people? Rationally, I already had answers to that question. What I did not know at that time was that these patterns of false narratives—lies I was believing about God, myself, and others—were ingrained in my autobiographical memory. A false narrative is a perpetuated lie that we begin to accept as reality. Living in a false narrative is like wearing sunglasses in a dark room—it’s impossible to tell what the world really looks like. And when we don’t see the world or ourselves clearly, the actions that follow are also out of sync with what is good and true.

Discerning truth is an interesting puzzle. Two siblings can grow up in the same home, with the same parents and rules, yet have entirely different perceptions of their childhood—one positive, the other negative. And their parents might hold an altogether different perspective themselves. One sibling might follow their parents’ religion; another wants nothing to do with it. This raises an important question: If our unique perceptions of reality can differ so widely from others’, how do we determine what is true? Which interpretation of events is the true narrative?

The struggle exists because we can’t help but perceive our reality through our own worldview. Our worldview is our narrative. In life, our narrative is the lens through which we interpret our story. This does not mean that our perception is reality—but it is what we perceive as truth. If I center my life around my narrative and you center your life around yours, then our disagreements will inevitably end in conflict. We don’t know how to get to a shared sense of reality. Who is right and who is wrong? Whose perception holds the truth? It is not a question two people in conflict are able to answer.

Truth must exist outside of our perception. Without a shared reality, even in part, reconciliation in relationships is impossible. When two people disagree, there must be a third lens, one that interprets fairly and faithfully. Only God’s reality can be that true reality that unites us.

In a story, the author provides a narrator to give that outside perspective throughout the character’s journey. The author has an intention in telling that particular story, and the narrator helps frame it for the audience. They use pacing, voice, and perspective to communicate what they want to. Have you ever considered who your narrator is? Is your narrator encouraging or condemning? Whose voice does it sound like?

When you are authoring your own story, you serve as your own narrator. You are listening to a soundtrack on repeat with all the justifications of your personal inner dialogue. It is the story you know. Until it is disrupted.

When our lives are troubled, when confusion clouds our minds or pain silences our hope, it’s not the end. It’s an invitation to lay down anyone or anything we have placed at the center of our lives other than the one true God. It’s an opportunity for light to shine in and for truth to set us free (John 8:32). Truth and lies cannot coexist any more than darkness and light can.

The truth is that we are the ones who pull away from God. Yet God allows the fatal flaw to remain, not because He is cruel or uncompassionate but because the separation creates an insatiable void in us that ultimately forces us to recognize our need for a Savior. Jesus doesn’t just speak the truth or ask us to quote the truth—He is Truth. Jesus overcomes our separation, and the Holy Spirit is the One retelling the story and leading us into truth. Only Christ can interpret the true narrative of who God created us to be and the story He wants to tell through our lives.