That’s What Could Have Been

When I think about what God has done for me, when I really step back and allow myself to consider it honestly and without rushing past it, something happens inside me. I don’t just feel thankful—I start trembling. It’s not fear, and it’s not doubt. It’s the overwhelming realization that grace is far bigger than I am, and mercy reaches far deeper than I deserve. When I truly sit with that truth, I can’t help but feel undone by it. I start to think about where I’ve been, what I’ve thought, what I’ve done, and what I’ve carried, and I honestly can’t believe that God would still choose me.

The words “amazing grace” aren’t just a familiar hymn lyric in those moments. They feel startlingly literal. Amazing grace would save a wretch like me—not a cleaned-up, perfected, well-behaved version of me, but the real one. The flawed one. The one who has wrestled with doubt, fear, pride, and selfishness. The one who has failed more times than I care to count. When I let myself think about it that way, I realize how unqualified I am by every human standard. I am nothing that’s of value to a king. I don’t bring status or power or righteousness of my own. I don’t bring anything impressive to the table. And yet, somehow, I am wanted.

That’s the part that still stops me in my tracks. I can’t believe that He would die for me. Not just in theory, not as a distant theological idea, but personally. For my sins. For my brokenness. For the mess I try to hide even from myself. I can understand sacrifice in abstract terms, but when I place myself at the center of it—when I realize that Jesus chose the cross knowing exactly who I am—it humbles me in a way nothing else ever has. It forces me to confront the depth of love that doesn’t hesitate when faced with human ugliness.

I am so glad He saved my soul, because when I imagine the alternative, it’s terrifyingly clear where my life would have gone without Him. If He hadn’t stepped in, all I would know is darkness. Not always loud, dramatic darkness, but the quiet kind that slowly settles in and becomes normal. The kind that dulls hope and convinces you that emptiness is just part of being alive. Without God, there would be no true source of light—no steady truth to return to when everything else feels uncertain. I would be left navigating life on my own limited understanding, mistaking self-reliance for strength and control for peace.

Without Him, I know I would have built cages throughout my life. Not all at once, and not intentionally. They would have been constructed through small choices, compromises, and coping mechanisms that felt necessary at the time. I would have called them protection. I would have told myself I was just being realistic, just doing what I had to do to survive. But slowly, those choices would have boxed me in. Fear would have become routine. Sin would have felt manageable—until it wasn’t. And one day I would have realized that I was trapped, with no key in sight, wondering how I ended up living so far from freedom.

Chaos would have wrestled my mind constantly. I know that version of myself well enough to recognize it. My thoughts would spiral unchecked, cycling through worry, regret, shame, and what-ifs. Anxiety would dictate my decisions. Fear would shape my expectations. I would be bracing for impact even in moments of calm, unable to rest because there would be nothing solid underneath me. Without God, there would be no peace that passes understanding—only noise, confusion, and the exhausting effort of trying to hold everything together on my own.

Eventually, I know I would have grown tired. Truly tired. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep or distraction. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you question whether the fight is even worth it. Helpless, I would have given up—not in one dramatic moment, but slowly, quietly, over time. I would have stopped believing that change was possible. I would have settled for less than life, calling it acceptance when it was really resignation.

Without Him, I would have been left in my sin. Not just aware of it, but crushed under its weight. I would have carried guilt like a permanent stain, trying to outrun it through busyness or bury it through denial. Shame would have whispered that I was beyond forgiveness, that grace was for better people, more faithful people, people who didn’t struggle the way I do. I would have been paying a debt I could never afford, living under condemnation instead of mercy.

That’s what could have been. That’s the road I was already on before grace intervened. And when I think about it honestly, I know that outcome wasn’t exaggerated—it was inevitable. Because left to myself, I don’t drift toward light. I drift toward control, fear, and self-preservation. I drift toward building walls instead of trust, cages instead of freedom.

And if Jesus had never stepped down from His throne, if heaven had remained distant and untouched by human pain, I would have been left for dead—lost and alone. I would have been drenched in shame, constantly afraid of being exposed for who I really am. Every failure would have confirmed my worst fears about myself. Every mistake would have felt final. Without the blood, without the cross, there would have been no bridge back to God. I would have been forced to pay the cost for my sin myself, a cost I could never fully pay.

But that’s not how the story ends.

Because Jesus did step down. He did choose the cross. He did pay the price I couldn’t. And because of that, my life is not defined by what could have been, but by what He has done. Grace changed the trajectory of my story. Mercy interrupted my destruction. Love met me in my unworthiness and didn’t turn away.

That realization still makes me tremble. And honestly, I hope it always does.