She sat up in bed long after the lights were out, the glow of her phone dim against the darkness. Another sermon clip had just rolled through her feed—this one asking a question she hadn’t dared say out loud, even to herself: Are you really saved?
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe. She did. She remembered the moment in high school, hands open, heart wide, whispering yes to Jesus. But now, years later, the certainty was quieter. Worn thinner by days of doubt, struggles with sin, and the strange silence that sometimes followed her prayers.
Maybe you’ve felt that, too—the ache of wondering if you missed something. If faith should feel stronger, cleaner, more obvious.
The apostle John wrote with precisely that burden in mind. In 1 John 5:13, he says, “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life.”
Did you catch that? So that you may know. Not wonder. Not guess. Not wait until judgment day to find out. God wanted certainty stamped on the deepest places of your heart.
So why does it feel elusive?
Salvation isn’t a feeling. It’s a foundation—a Person, in fact. Romans 10:9 tells us, “If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” Not might be, not if you feel spiritual enough, but you will be.
But Paul also says in 2 Corinthians 13:5, “Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith; test yourselves.” There’s a beautiful tension there: God gives us assurance, and He invites us to reflect. Not to earn our salvation, but to confirm it.
That’s where the woman in the dark room comes back in. The quiet fear that maybe she—and maybe you—are just going through the motions, hoping it's enough.
Here’s the pivot: the assurance of salvation doesn’t come from our record, but from His. And yet, a heart changed by Jesus will not remain unchanged.
So how do we see the signs? Not in perfection. But in progress.
When the Spirit lives in us, something shifts. Our affections. What we once dismissed as normal—gossip, envy, anger—now leaves a different taste in our mouths. Not because we’re suddenly saints, but because we’re suddenly aware. There’s a war inside us now, but it’s a holy war—proof that something has taken root.
We know we're saved not because we never struggle, but because sin starts to grieve us rather than please us.
Love shows up strangely too. We begin to care—really care—about people we once avoided, about burdens that once seemed distant. The thread of Christian love is not a personality type, but a Spirit-born compassion that flickers into life. You don’t always notice its arrival, but you can’t mistake its presence.
And we keep returning to Jesus. That might be the clearest sign of all. In failure, in fear, in dry seasons of the soul—we still pivot back to Him. That instinct doesn’t come from the flesh. It’s the mark of His Spirit keeping us.
When I doubted my own salvation years ago, a pastor told me gently, “Jen, your concern is not a sign of distance from God. It’s a sign you care about what He thinks. That’s the work of grace.” That line still rests in my heart like a hand on my shoulder.
So if you’re up late wondering if you’re really saved, listen to this: If you’ve trusted Jesus, believed on His finished work, and your heart is being stirred—even in small, stumbling ways—then yes. You are His.
Not because you always feel it.
But because He always keeps His promises.
She sat up in bed long after the lights were out, the glow of her phone dim against the darkness. Another sermon clip had just rolled through her feed—this one asking a question she hadn’t dared say out loud, even to herself: Are you really saved?
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe. She did. She remembered the moment in high school, hands open, heart wide, whispering yes to Jesus. But now, years later, the certainty was quieter. Worn thinner by days of doubt, struggles with sin, and the strange silence that sometimes followed her prayers.
Maybe you’ve felt that, too—the ache of wondering if you missed something. If faith should feel stronger, cleaner, more obvious.
The apostle John wrote with precisely that burden in mind. In 1 John 5:13, he says, “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life.”
Did you catch that? So that you may know. Not wonder. Not guess. Not wait until judgment day to find out. God wanted certainty stamped on the deepest places of your heart.
So why does it feel elusive?
Salvation isn’t a feeling. It’s a foundation—a Person, in fact. Romans 10:9 tells us, “If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” Not might be, not if you feel spiritual enough, but you will be.
But Paul also says in 2 Corinthians 13:5, “Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith; test yourselves.” There’s a beautiful tension there: God gives us assurance, and He invites us to reflect. Not to earn our salvation, but to confirm it.
That’s where the woman in the dark room comes back in. The quiet fear that maybe she—and maybe you—are just going through the motions, hoping it's enough.
Here’s the pivot: the assurance of salvation doesn’t come from our record, but from His. And yet, a heart changed by Jesus will not remain unchanged.
So how do we see the signs? Not in perfection. But in progress.
When the Spirit lives in us, something shifts. Our affections. What we once dismissed as normal—gossip, envy, anger—now leaves a different taste in our mouths. Not because we’re suddenly saints, but because we’re suddenly aware. There’s a war inside us now, but it’s a holy war—proof that something has taken root.
We know we're saved not because we never struggle, but because sin starts to grieve us rather than please us.
Love shows up strangely too. We begin to care—really care—about people we once avoided, about burdens that once seemed distant. The thread of Christian love is not a personality type, but a Spirit-born compassion that flickers into life. You don’t always notice its arrival, but you can’t mistake its presence.
And we keep returning to Jesus. That might be the clearest sign of all. In failure, in fear, in dry seasons of the soul—we still pivot back to Him. That instinct doesn’t come from the flesh. It’s the mark of His Spirit keeping us.
When I doubted my own salvation years ago, a pastor told me gently, “Jen, your concern is not a sign of distance from God. It’s a sign you care about what He thinks. That’s the work of grace.” That line still rests in my heart like a hand on my shoulder.
So if you’re up late wondering if you’re really saved, listen to this: If you’ve trusted Jesus, believed on His finished work, and your heart is being stirred—even in small, stumbling ways—then yes. You are His.
Not because you always feel it.
But because He always keeps His promises.
