Part 2: God Doesn’t Steer a Parked Car — Morgan Jackson
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By the time I reached my teenage years, the bus had shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand. I had seen God provide. I had watched Him speak. I had learned that obedience wasn’t optional — it was life. But knowing those things and living them as a young man were two different battles. I wasn’t the loud kid. I wasn’t the natural leader. I wasn’t the one to which people looked. I was quiet, small, and observant — the kind of kid who worked hard because he didn’t know what else to do. While other boys were chasing popularity, I was chasing responsibility. I didn’t have many friends, but I had a growing sense that God was watching me, shaping me, preparing me. I just didn’t know for what.
When we finally settled in Albuquerque after years on the road, I felt like a stranger in my own country. I had lived among the Navajo, where respect was quiet and strength was measured in endurance. Now I was in a world of lockers, football games, and teenage bravado. I didn’t fit. But I worked. That was the one thing I knew how to do. I took any job I could find — mowing lawns, hauling trash, cleaning, fixing things. I wasn’t trying to build a résumé. I was trying to build a life. And somewhere in the middle of all that work, God was building something in me: perseverance, humility, and a willingness to do whatever was in front of me with all my heart.
My father used to say, “God doesn’t steer a parked car.” So, I kept moving.
After high school, I went to Flagstaff to help with a small church. I didn’t go because I had a grand vision. I went because someone asked, and I had learned that when God opens a door, you walk through it. I became a youth leader — not because I was charismatic, but because I cared. I listened. I showed up. And teenagers, more than anything, need someone who shows up.
Those years in Flagstaff were my wilderness school. I worked full‑time jobs during the day — construction, landscaping, anything that paid — and spent my nights with teenagers who were trying to figure out life. I wasn’t much older than they were, but God gave me a heart for them. I found myself praying with kids who were hurting, counseling kids who were lost, and teaching Scripture with a trembling voice that somehow carried weight. I didn’t feel like a pastor. I felt like a laborer. But God was shaping a shepherd.
At the same time, something else was happening. I discovered I had a knack for business. I could see opportunities. I could solve problems. I could work harder and longer than most people. Before long, I had started a small business — then another. Money wasn’t the goal, but it came. And with it came a sense of independence that felt good. After years of living by faith in a bus, it felt nice to have a little control. But control is a dangerous illusion. The more successful I became, the more I felt a quiet tension inside me — a tug I didn’t want to acknowledge. I loved ministry. I loved the kids. I loved seeing God move. But business was easier. Predictable. Rewarding. And if I’m honest, it made me feel like I was finally becoming someone. But God wasn’t after my success. He was after my heart.
One night, after a long day of work and a youth meeting that left me exhausted, I sat alone in my little apartment and felt the weight of something I couldn’t name. It wasn’t depression. It wasn’t fear. It was a question — a question I didn’t want God to ask. “Are you willing to give Me everything?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to.
I had watched my father give everything. I had watched him live with nothing. I had watched him trust God for milk and gas and groceries. I admired him, but I didn’t want his life. I wanted stability. I wanted a home. I wanted a future that didn’t depend on miracles. But God doesn’t call us to comfort. He calls us to Himself.
The tension grew. I would be working on a business deal and feel a nudge: “This isn’t your future”. I would be teaching the youth and feel a whisper: “This is where your heart comes alive”. I tried to ignore it. I tried to bury myself in work. But the whisper kept coming. Then came the moment that changed everything. I was driving alone on a long stretch of highway outside Flagstaff, thinking about nothing in particular, when I sensed the Lord speak — not audibly, but unmistakably. “You can take the easy way or the hard way. But either way, you’re Mine”. I gripped the steering wheel. I knew exactly what He meant. The easy way was staying in business, building a life on my terms, and letting ministry be something I did on the side. The hard way was surrender — full surrender — to whatever God wanted. I didn’t answer Him that day. But the question followed me everywhere.
Around that time, my father called. The ministry in Albuquerque — the one he had poured his life into — was struggling. They needed help. They needed leadership. They needed someone who could work, organize, build, and believe. I didn’t want to go. I had a life in Flagstaff. I had businesses. I had a ministry I loved. And I had no desire to return to the place where I had felt so out of place as a teenager. But God was moving the pieces.
Mary — the woman God would soon call me to marry — sensed it before I did. She told me she felt something shifting. Something coming. Something that would require obedience. I resisted. I argued. I wrestled. But the whisper kept coming. “You can take the easy way or the hard way. But either way, you’re Mine.” Eventually, I surrendered — not because I was brave, but because I was tired of running. I sold the businesses. I packed my things. And I drove back to Albuquerque, not knowing what waited for me, only knowing that God had spoken.
Looking back, I see it clearly: God was stripping away my self‑reliance, my ambition, my desire for control. He was teaching me that calling isn’t about talent or success. It’s about obedience. It’s about hearing His voice in the wilderness and saying yes, even when the path ahead is unclear. I didn’t know then that this surrender would lead to a global ministry. I didn’t know it would lead to audio Bibles, listening groups, and millions of people hearing God’s Word. I didn’t know it would lead to a life far bigger than anything I could have built on my own.
All I knew was that God had spoken. And when God speaks, you obey.
-Morgan Jackson
