God Will Make a Way

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Terry Rush writes not as a casual observer but as an active participant with those who have been struck by the hauntings of heartache. In God Will Make a Way, Rush tells his own story and the true stories of others, who were dealt devastating blows but trusted an unseen God to lead them on an unknown road to the comfort and assurance that they so desperately sought.

We all eventually face an event or circumstance that leaves us anxiously looking for a way through. Every human ...

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Terry Rush writes not as a casual observer but as an active participant with those who have been struck by the hauntings of heartache. In God Will Make a Way, Rush tells his own story and the true stories of others, who were dealt devastating blows but trusted an unseen God to lead them on an unknown road to the comfort and assurance that they so desperately sought.

We all eventually face an event or circumstance that leaves us anxiously looking for a way through. Every human plan falls short, every mental search leads nowhere, until finally, all hope is gone. Even when there seems to be no way, the pages of this book reveal that God will make a way. In this book you will discover:

  • How to gain a sense of control in the midst of chaos
  • God's prescription for pain
  • How to view hurt as your energy rather than your enemy
  • How to control the event that has victimized you
  • How God supports you in your pain
  • How to go beyond surviving your pain

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781878990600
  • Publisher: Howard Books
  • Publication date: 4/28/1996
  • Format: VHS - NTSC
  • Product dimensions: 4.23 (w) x 7.49 (h) x 1.16 (d)

Meet the Author

Terry Rush writes with heartfelt enthusiasm and out of years of practical experience as minister to the Memorial Drive church in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Terry has a heart for evangelism that reaches out not only to the person next door and in his television audience but also to those in the celebrity realm.

Twice a year Terry is privileged to play baseball with former St. Louis Cardinals players, and that adventure has resulted in much teaching and counseling and many conversions. He has authored several books — including God Will Make a Way When There Seems to Be No Way, and The Miracle of Mercy — and has produced a video, High Hope for the Human Heart, interviewing celebrities on their faith.

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Read an Excerpt

God Will Make a Way

When there seems to be no way
By Terry Rush

Howard Books

Copyright © 2002 Terry Rush
All right reserved.

Part One


The invisible substance called meaning

had been drained from my life,

and most of what I saw now looked senseless:

the striving, the hopes, the dreams. The struggles.

Life didn't seem worthwhile.

Trying was stupid.

The force we were fighting felt overwhelming,

the odds not in our favor.

-- Melody Beattie


The "Other Person" Turned Out to Be Me

Tough stuff has always happened to the other person--some

stranger in the newspaper or someone who lives two blocks over.

But now it's you. You have felt so badly for others; who would

ever believe this unbelievable event is yours?

Can anyone own anything this big? Does this really belong to you?

Are you stuck with this? You didn't ask for this! Anger. Fear.

Total shock. The unknown. The impossible. Is this a bad dream?

It's much worse.

The hurt is so gigantic that you can't comprehend the depth of

the wound. You need help. You need big help, and you know it. But

how, what, where, when, and who? Un-answers keep trying to pull

you under.

God Will Make a Way  is a book with arms . . . arms

to hold you. Let this book lead you to the arms of God. Let him

caress you entirely. Be still. Let him guide; let him talk; let

him listen; let him cry with you. All of your schemes havebeen

dismantled. There seems to be no way. God will make a way.

I am grateful for my handicap,

for through it I found my world,

my self, and my God.

-- Helen Keller

Chapter One

My Story

The evening of December 7, 1992, best I recall, had a cool crisp

edge in the air. Mary and I returned home from a Christmas play

to find a note from our daughter, Wendy, that was not in the

least bit alarming. "Have gone with Mark McCoy. Will call

you later." Simple enough.

Little did we know that backing those two simple sentences was

the unleashing of hellish terror and pain. Just moments later the

phone rang. Its message, now months later, is still all too


In a very deliberate voice, our dear neighbor, Judy McCoy,

carefully spaced each word.




I thanked her the best I could, and in shock, hung up.

Although I remained standing, I couldn't verify that there was a

floor beneath me. I picked up where Judy's cadence left off and

repeated the message to Mary. This information was too stunning

to be heard, let alone be true.

I just stood. My first thought was, "God, how would you

think I ought to handle this?" It was too hard to hear. I

had to call Judy back and ask her to repeat everything she had

just said to be certain I had heard her right.

Twenty-six year old Bobby Phillips was engaged to Wendy. He had

called from work that evening and was to be at our house by

seven. But first, he had to run home to change clothes.

Although I had heard Judy twice, I still thought she must have

had the story wrong. Most likely the boys had been badly hurt . .

. but not killed. I was pretty sure someone had gotten a little

overanxious and had exaggerated parts of the story.

Mary and I headed immediately for Bobby's house. The night air

had turned soupy with fog. The speedometer read 55 mph. But it

seemed the car was moving so much slower. My hips and legs didn't

have any feeling.

Neither of us said much in the car. One would mumble something

about Wendy. Much later another would ask what the possibility

was that someone had simply misunderstood. Maybe it wasn't a

murder, but rather an accident. Maybe he wasn't dead. Not Bobby.

I didn't think we would ever get to his house. On the other hand,

I didn't want to get there.

We wove through the heavy fog that lulled the streets into quiet

slumber. The closer we got, the more anxious we became. Shock

seemed to make everything too strange. My whole being felt as out

of place as an arm that goes to sleep in the middle of the night.

This was all too wrong.

It was a strain to read the street signs. As we found the

entrance to their housing addition, an ambulance was leaving. We

moaned. Shortly, we came around a corner, and the fog was pierced

by a staggering scene.

Squad cars with their kaleidoscopic flashing lights were

everywhere. Yellow tape rudely barricaded the Phillips' lawn and

house against the rest of the neighborhood. Enormous gigantic

sickness rushed in and drowned my heart. It was true.

Light beamed from every room of the house. The roof line and

shrubbery were dancing with strings of Christmas lights. The

house itself spoke of irony. Something was brightly wrong.

Reporters moved about doing their job. Television crews, along

with trucks and equipment, added to the overwhelming assurance

that Judy's words were, after all, true.

We approached a neighboring house that was being used as

"police headquarters." I really preferred not to step

through the door. We entered into massive heartbreak. Bobby's

parents, Wanda and Bob, sat on a sofa. Wanda sat with her arm

around Bob, who was slumped in tears. His jacket was stained with

Bobby's blood. A police chaplain somewhat anchored the room while

the policemen and policewomen continually moved back and forth

between this house and the Phillips'.

I found Wendy in the next room with Mark McCoy. She was white.

Her countenance was totally blank. Her heart was blown away. Her

fiancé was dead. Words were futile; their combinations did

little to mend the moment. Hugs, tears, broken sentences, and a

lot of coffee filled the hours ahead.

Intermittent sobbing verified that the night was filled with

grievous disorientation. In and out. . . . in and out-the

detectives were hustling. The woman whose home we were using

ministered sweetly to us: "The phone is clear now. Would

anyone care for more coffee?"

Mary stayed with Wendy. I moved from Wendy, to Bob and Wanda, to

the phone, and then circled again . . . and again. I called my

boys and told them what I couldn't bear for them to hear. Mostly,

I sat with Wendy on the floor against an out-of-the-way bare

wall. Maryann and Brad (Bobby's sister and her husband) came in

from an otherwise enjoyable evening to be pelted with the worst.

It was unbearable to watch this evening unfurl its nightmarish


Police worked in overdrive, while the rest of us sat with glazed

eyes and did our best to think of something intelligent to say. I

heard one officer ask Bob and Wanda if they owned an ax. What in

the world had happened to our boy?

The events of the double murder remain sketchy. Bobby's

nineteen-year-old brother, David, had been home alone. David was

mentally handicapped. At approximately 5:00 p.m. someone had

entered the house, had shot David in the head, and had then

strangled him. It is possible that when Bobby came home, he

noticed that something was dangerously wrong.

It appears that he entered from the garage into the kitchen,

picking up an ax along the way. The intruder(s) turned the weapon

on him and also stabbed him. This clean-cut, handsome,

hardworking boy was ruthlessly bludgeoned to his death.

The next few days were treacherous. At night, wails muffled by

her pillow could be heard coming from Wendy's room. Sometimes

there would be a shift into perpetual sobbing. Her terrifying

nightmares would awaken us all.

Our world of friends overwhelmed us with warmth, compassion, and

love. The Phillipses, too, were bombarded with consoling strength

from those who loved them. The grief was suffocating all the

while. It killed me to know why people constantly brought food to

the house. Flowers were everywhere . . . absolutely everywhere.

Television reporters repeatedly came to our home for interviews.

Other media would call wanting to know the floor plans to the

Phillips' house, etc. I believe the worst experience of my life

was when I took Wendy to the funeral home. Due to the blows to

Bobby's head, whether the family should view his body was

undecided. A couple of his cousins and I went in first to

determine if others should follow. Viewing was permitted.

The right side of the skull had received extensive trauma. Wendy

continually patted his face and felt his arms and chest. Suddenly

she said, "Daddy, look at this over here." She was

pointing to the undamaged left side of his head and face.

"Look how smooth it is over here. Could we turn him


It took a lot of explaining to convince her that we could not.

With a certain peace, she sighed, "Oh well, I'm just going

to always remember the good side."

December 11 presented a picture too baffling. The pace of pain

seemed to gain speed and weight. Tom Bedicek, the minister of Bob

and Wanda's church, opened the services of the double funeral.

Mitch Wilburn, David's youth minister, spoke in honor of David. I

was privileged to preach the funeral of Bobby, who had become my

own son.

To look into the eyes of family and friends was incomprehensible.

We three men didn't have the strength to carry this load. There

was an unspoken respect for each other's brokenness. It was only

and literally by the genuine assistance of God that we

functioned. Each was conscious, and that was the extent of our

strength for the moment.

Once again, there was no feeling in my hips or legs. Unsure

whether I was making contact with the floor, I felt a floating

sensation. I kept feeling as if I might collapse and feared that

Tom and Mitch would be forced to hold me up while I addressed

those packed into the church building.

The days following were streams of bewilderment. Numbness

sometimes showed signs of dissipating. I felt extremely close to

God. He was doing the work for I was far too weak to function.

The Lord was always strong; I never was. Sorrow flooded my mind,

heart, and soul.

Chaos ensued. Detectives warned the Phillipses and us that

additional lives might be at risk. Guard dogs were brought into

both homes. For days, the local news interviewed Bobby and

David's family and Wendy and myself. For weeks after the

incident, it was not unusual to hear the radio announcer say:

"The latest on the murder of Bobby and David Phillips . .

." Sometimes I could take it.

When I came home in the evenings, I would often find Mary sitting

in the dark, replaying the events in her mind. Sometimes I would

find Wendy folded in tears on her bed. But even so, only moments

later, Wendy would say something that would let me know she was

going to come through this. We were always aware that Bob, Wanda,

Maryann, and Brad were across town, also feeling stunned and

hurt. Everyday I expected to be done crying. I did well in front

of people . . . sometimes. I cried the hardest and the hottest

and the longest in the shower. I felt like something must be

wrong with me, that I shouldn't be this devastated. I finally had

to quit telling myself that I wouldn't cry anymore. I still cry.

I don't know what others thought of how we were doing. I don't

know how we ought to have done. God was doing good in us, though.

Thirteen days from the funeral, pain increased its pace. Friends

of ours, Chris and Linda Jones had gone with Mary and me to the

Christmas play the night the boys died. Linda's sister, Susan

Martin, was also a dear friend.

During the week before Christmas, Linda commented several times

that Susie was not feeling well. She seemed to have come down

with the flu, which was certainly an inconvenience while trying

to get details for the big holiday in order. She finally became

so ill that she called for her mother, Linda Myers, to come to


Before long, Chris and Linda were called to the city. Susan had

been hospitalized, and it appeared somewhat serious. I called the

Martin's house about five that evening. Chris said that David

(Susan's husband), Linda, and her mother had just been called to

the hospital. I called the waiting room. Linda was crying.

Treatment was ineffective. She asked me to call a Tulsa doctor

friend of David's to see if he had any insight as to what could

be done for her sister. Contact with Dr. Reese was immediate.

Just as quickly (maybe three minutes), I returned a call to the

waiting room to let Linda know of my conversation with Joe Reese.

I asked the woman if I could speak to Linda Jones. The voice on

the other end very carefully said, "I'm sorry, but Susan

didn't make it." It was Christmas Eve.

I put my head on the table and sobbed away what was left of my

heart. This just couldn't be happening. Mary, Wendy, and I cried;

layers of grief were beginning to accumulate. I couldn't accept

that now the Martins, Myerses (Susan's family), and Joneses were

thrust into their own impossible swirling pit of disorientation.

Not this. Not now. Not them.

David, Bobby and, now, Susie. This thirty-five year old wife and

mother of three little boys had died of toxic shock syndrome as a

result of infection in her hand. Susan Martin was perfect; she

just was. And now she has disappeared. We hold her close in the

wonders of memory.

A slight word revision of the late '60s song continually swept

through my mind, "Have you seen Bobby, Martin, and


This just couldn't be true. Mary and I drove immediately to

Oklahoma City to be with this family who hurt beyond measure.

Everything becomes so foreign when we feel we have lost control.

Individually, we find ourselves stripped of meaning.

I had conducted Bobby's funeral on December 11. I did Susie's on

December 28. To watch the family file into the auditorium seemed

all too impossible. Their facial expressions begged for someone

to assure them that this was a mistake. How painful is pain! How

unacceptable is this which we are forced to accept!

Was there a plug we could pull to make all of this stop? Did

anyone know of a rewind button? How could this happen? This stuff

happens to others, not us. None of us received any warning. There

were no yellow lights of caution to prepare us for this

unfathomable intersection.

"So, Terry, where was this God you say loves us? Where was

his compassion? And of what benefit was your faith?" These

haunting questions are the reason I reveal my story to you.

Early in December, a friend asked if I was working on a new book.

I told him I was and that the theme was grief. He asked why I

chose that topic. My only response, with a shrug of my shoulders,

was that I felt from God that he was preparing me to write this

book. Four days later the boys were murdered. Seventeen days

after that, Susan passed away. And, here's the book.

I believe God will make a way. This book is intended to help

individuals who can't do stress another moment. The remaining

chapters will point depressed and discouraged souls to incredible

hope in God. What I have endured, I can't fathom. What I have

experienced has been wonderfully privileged and blessed. I have

tasted ruin. God has hurried to help. He has made a way when

there seemed to be no way.

The events I share with you reveal multiple personal weaknesses

found in me. I share my story that you may know the glory and

beauty and power of God. The radiance of the diamond shows up

best when placed against the darkest cloth.

Grief can't choke out our hope if God has our permission to spend

that hope. Rather, grief gives way to delight and eventual joy.

As Jack Hayford said in Leadership magazine,

Trials cannot be avoided, but they can be navigated. Pain will

come, but it will be healed in the presence of Jesus--maybe

not overnight, but the healing will come.

I can't say that we ever get over significant loss. By his work

in us, though, we do get on. We move forward with great tears,

assured healing, enormous sorrow, comfort from the Spirit,

painful reminders, happy reminders, and hope. He alone will make

a way.

In other words, when I write of the privilege and joys of pain

and the ultimate hope and victory available, you will understand

that I know grief from life--not from a textbook. I have

sampled it firsthand so that I could know how you feel in your

awful pain. I have eaten at the table of spiritual poverty that I

might pass the plate of encouragement.

As you try to pick up the pieces, I give my support. When you

stare off into endless space, I gaze there myself. When you talk

of the deceased as if they were alive (having momentarily

forgotten they are not), I have done the same. When your tears

have nearly drowned you and your mind won't quit rehashing the

series of events, I have communion with your pain.

Therefore, I insist . . . when there seems to be no way, God will

make a way. Hope is on its way . . . from above!


Excerpted from God Will Make a Way by Terry Rush Copyright © 2002 by Terry Rush. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Table of Contents


Heaven Sends Its Love
Part One: Heartbreak


My Story
Part Two: Hope
2 Someday, I Will Be Me Again
3 Spiritual Answers for Spiritual Creatures
4 God Cares
Part Three: Pain's Joy
5 The Privilege of Pain
6 The Lessons of Pain
Part Four: God's Prescription for Pain
7 Be Still and Know
8 Look Heavenward
Part Five: Victory
9 Ultimate Victory
10 The Fog Will Lift


Appendix: Suggested Reading


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