The Beginning

I will never forget the moment I first saw The Global Mercy in all its glory for the first time. The sight of it took my breath away, the sheer size of it, the pristine white exterior gleaming against the backdrop of the endless sea, and the unmistakable air of purpose that surrounded it. It was more than just a ship; it was a beacon of hope, a floating sanctuary that carried the dreams and prayers of so many, patients seeking healing, families longing for miracles, and volunteers answering a call greater than themselves.

As I stood there, gazing up at its towering presence, a lump formed in my throat. I felt something stir deep within me, an unfamiliar yet comforting sensation, a pull, a whisper, a quiet knowing that settled into the very core of my being. It was the same warmth I had felt months ago when I first read about Mercy Ships, sitting alone in my apartment, scrolling through their website with cautious excitement. Back then, it had felt like curiosity, a spark of possibility. But now, standing in its shadow, it felt like something more.

It felt like coming home.

I didn’t recognise it in that moment, but looking back now, I know it was God. He was there, whispering into my heart, gently nudging me toward a path I didn’t yet fully understand. It was as if He had been leading me here all along, through every heartbreak, every moment of doubt, every late-night prayer I wasn’t even sure anyone was listening to. And now, here I was, exactly where He wanted me to be.

There was a quiet awe in the air, a sense that I was stepping into something far greater than myself. The hum of activity around me, the laughter of volunteers, the steady movement of crew members going about their work, the distant sounds of waves lapping against the hull felt almost sacred. This ship wasn’t just a place of healing for those who would come aboard; it was healing for me too. It was the start of something I couldn’t yet put into words, but I could feel it, like the softest of whispers in my soul: You are meant to be here.

The ship at the time was docked in Senegal, a vibrant and bustling country on the coast of West Africa, where the air was thick with life and possibility. From the moment I arrived, I was captivated by the energy that pulsed through the streets, the chaotic yet harmonious rhythm of daily life that seemed to dance in perfect balance. The roads were a whirlwind of movement, filled with the constant hum of motorbikes weaving through cars, the chatter of vendors calling out their wares, and the rich aroma of sizzling street food drifting through the air.

The markets were a sensory explosion, stalls overflowing with bright fabrics in every hue imaginable, shimmering under the relentless African sun. The scent of fresh mangoes, spices, and grilled fish grounding me in the reality that I was truly here. Everywhere I turned, I saw faces full of expression, eyes that held stories of resilience, and smiles that radiated a warmth I had never experienced before. The rhythmic blend of French and local dialects, like Wolof, flowed through the air in a melody that was both foreign and familiar, wrapping around me and making me feel strangely at home.

Africa had drawn me in once before, but this time, it was different. This time, I wasn’t just a traveller passing through, chasing adventure and fleeting experiences. I was here with a purpose. I was here to serve, to heal, to offer my skills as a nurse to people whose lives would intersect with mine in ways I couldn’t yet fathom. The weight of that purpose settled into me in the best possible way, filling a void I had carried for far too long.

The excitement coursing through me was almost overwhelming. It bubbled just beneath the surface, a blend of anticipation and awe that made my heart race. I had spent so much time dreaming of moments like this, but standing here, breathing in the reality of it, felt surreal. I knew that the work ahead would be challenging, emotionally and physically demanding, but for the first time in a long time, I felt completely aligned with something bigger than myself.

And as I stood on the dock, taking it all in, the ship towering behind me, the vibrant city stretching out before me, I realized that this was more than just a new chapter. It was a beginning, a chance to redefine myself not by my past, but by the impact I hoped to make. Africa had welcomed me back, and this time, I was ready.

Life aboard the ship was unlike anything I had ever experienced, a world within a world, floating on the ocean yet brimming with warmth, purpose, and a profound sense of unity. It was more than just a hospital; it was a close-knit community bound together by love, faith, and an unshakable desire to serve. Every person on board, from the highly skilled surgeons and dedicated nurses to the deckhands fixing things and the kitchen staff preparing meals, had willingly left behind their lives, their families, their comforts, their careers, all for a single, unwavering purpose: to serve God through serving others.

It was awe-inspiring. I watched in quiet amazement as they moved through their days with a sense of peace and purpose that I couldn’t quite grasp. There was a lightness in the way they carried themselves, a quiet confidence that came from knowing they were exactly where they were meant to be. It was as if they were fuelled by something deeper than duty or obligation, something I couldn’t yet understand but longed to. Their faith wasn’t just spoken; it was lived out in the smallest of actions, in the way they cared for patients with tenderness, in the way they treated one another with kindness and patience, in the unwavering joy they carried despite the challenges of ship life.

Unlike them, my reasons for being there felt… different. I had come with good intentions, of course. I wanted to help, to make a difference in people’s lives. I craved the adventure, the thrill of immersing myself in something new and meaningful. I saw it as an opportunity to gain invaluable experience, a stepping stone toward bigger dreams. But if I was truly honest with myself, my motives were also tinged with self-interest. A part of me had been running—from heartbreak, from old wounds, from the gnawing fear that I had wasted too many years chasing the wrong things. I was searching for something, though I wasn’t sure what. A fresh start? Redemption? Proof that I was capable of building a life that mattered?

But these people… their motivations came from a place so selfless, so pure, that I couldn’t help but feel humbled in their presence. They weren’t here for accolades or personal gain. They were here because they believed, deeply, unwaveringly, that love was meant to be shared, that their skills and talents were gifts meant to be given freely. It wasn’t just about the work; it was about the why behind it. They didn’t need external validation or recognition. Their reward came in the form of every life touched, every patient healed, every act of service given with love.

Being surrounded by such unwavering faith and dedication made me question myself in ways I hadn’t before. Could I truly give without expecting anything in return? Could I learn to serve with the same open-hearted grace I saw in them? I wasn’t sure yet, but for the first time in a long time, I wanted to try. I wanted to understand what it meant to surrender to something greater than myself, to let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to my own insecurities for so long.

Life aboard The Global Mercy wasn’t just about healing patients, it was about healing hearts. And slowly, I was beginning to realise that maybe, just maybe, I had been brought here for a reason far greater than I had imagined.

The work itself was beyond incredible, unlike anything I had ever experienced in my nursing career. It wasn’t just about the procedures or the technical skills; it was about the atmosphere, the spirit that filled every corner of the hospital deck. There was a tangible sense of joy, an undercurrent of hope that wove itself into every task, every interaction. It was in the way the nurses greeted each patient with a warm smile, in the gentle hands of the surgeons performing life-changing operations, in the soft prayers whispered over the beds of those waiting for a second chance at life. Everyone wanted to be here, and that desire showed in everything they did. There was no burnout, no resentment, no sense of obligation, just a pure, unwavering dedication to serve. It was love in action, and I had never seen anything like it before.

And then there were the patients, oh, the patients. They were nothing short of extraordinary, each one carrying a story that would break and inspire you all at once. They arrived on the ship with a mixture of desperation and quiet resilience, many having travelled for days, sometimes weeks, just for the chance to be seen. They came with conditions that would have been treated long ago in other parts of the world: massive tumours that had overtaken their faces, leaving them unrecognisable; limbs twisted and bent in ways that made walking impossible; scars from burns that stretched across their skin, each one telling a silent story of pain, survival, and endurance.

What humbled me most was their trust, their unwavering belief that we, complete strangers from distant lands, could offer them hope when they had all but given up. They placed their lives in our hands, despite the fears that clung to them, fears born from whispered stories in their villages—stories that spoke of the white people who might steal their organs, who might take more than they gave. Yet, they came. They came because hope, no matter how fragile, was a force greater than fear.

To witness their transformations was nothing short of breathtaking. I watched as once-guarded faces softened into smiles, as hunched shoulders straightened with newfound confidence, as eyes that once held only uncertainty now shone with hope. Healing here went far beyond the physical. Yes, tumours were removed, bones were straightened, scars were treated, but something deeper happened, something I had never witnessed before. The healing touched their hearts, their spirits, restoring not only their bodies but their sense of dignity, their belief that they were worthy of love and care. 

I remember watching the patients after their surgeries, their fingers brushing over once-disfigured faces with cautious wonder, tears pooling in their eyes as they took in their reflection. In those moments, it wasn’t just their face that had been transformed, it was their entire future. They left the ship not only healed but whole, radiating a confidence that had once been buried beneath layers of shame and despair.

Every day on The Global Mercy reminded me that healing is not just about medicine or surgery; it’s about connection, about restoring the soul as much as the body. It was a kind of healing I had never witnessed before, one that rippled far beyond the operating room and into the very essence of a person’s being. And it was here, in the midst of it all, that I began to understand the true depth of what it meant to serve, not just with my hands, but with my heart.

***

When I first arrived on The Global Mercy, I had a plan, volunteer for three months, gain valuable experience, and then move on to my next adventure. It was supposed to be a stepping stone, another chapter in my journey of exploration and self-discovery. I had mapped it out in my mind so neatly, convinced that I was in control of my path, that I knew what was best for me. But God had other plans.

Little did I know, He was already at work, gently, quietly, patiently weaving His way into the deepest corners of my heart. He was softening the barriers I had unknowingly built over the years, barriers formed from past wounds, disappointments, and my relentless pursuit of independence. Looking back now, I can see it so clearly: He had been working in me all along, long before I set foot on that ship, long before I even considered that faith might have a place in my life. I just hadn’t been ready to see it. I was blind, lost in my own way, holding tightly to the illusion of control, believing that I alone could shape my destiny.

At the start of my time on the ship, I approached everything with an open mind, at least, that’s what I told myself. In truth, I was open but guarded, curious but sceptical. I was willing to listen, to observe, but I resisted the idea of God becoming anything more than a distant concept in my life. My understanding of Him was surface-level at best, shaped by half-truths I had picked up along the way, stories told in passing, cultural references, fleeting conversations and misconceptions that had left me more confused than enlightened.

Faith, to me, had always felt like something distant, something reserved for those who were raised in it, who understood it, who had never questioned it the way I did. I believed in kindness, in compassion, in doing good. I had always thought those things were enough, that they made me a good person. But faith? Faith felt like something elusive, something too abstract, too wrapped up in rules and expectations that didn’t quite fit into the world I had built for myself.

I realise now that my scepticism was, in many ways, a defence mechanism, a way to protect myself from the vulnerability that faith required. To truly know God meant surrendering the illusion of control I had clung to for so long. It meant letting go of the idea that I had to figure everything out on my own. And that scared me. Because if I admitted that I wasn’t in control, then I would have to face the reality that perhaps I never had been.

But despite my resistance, God was patient. He met me where I was,through the kindness of those around me, through the unshakable joy I saw in the people I worked with, through the quiet moments of awe as I witnessed healing that couldn’t be explained by medicine alone. Slowly, He was drawing me closer, revealing Himself in ways I couldn’t ignore.

In those first few weeks, I thought I was simply here to help others, to give back, to find meaning in service. But what I didn’t realise was that I was the one being changed, being drawn into something far greater than I could have ever imagined.

But God had placed me here at the right time, with the right people. I truly believe that now. Looking back, I can see His hand in every detail, orchestrating each moment with perfect timing. Had I come even a year earlier, I might not have been ready, my heart too closed, my mind too distracted, my walls too high. I might have missed the quiet lessons He was trying to teach me, too caught up in my own plans to recognise the divine appointments set before me. But God knew. He knew I needed to be here now, at this precise moment, when my soul was finally cracked open enough to receive what was being offered to me.

One of the most significant influences in my journey toward faith is the friendships I have builtfriendships that are unlike any I had experienced before. Shannon, Isi, and Nadine. We arrived on the ship at around the same time, strangers from different corners of the world, each carrying our own stories, our own doubts, our own search for meaning. And yet, somehow, God kept weaving our paths together, entwining our journeys in ways that felt too perfect to be coincidence.

There was something effortless yet profound about our friendships. It wasn’t just the shared laughter during late-night conversations in our tiny cabins or the support we gave each other during tough shifts in the hospital ward. It was something deeper, something that transcended the surface-level friendships I had known before. In them, I found a sense of belonging that went beyond circumstance. I found people who saw me, who challenged me, who held space for both my questions and my growth. Today we pray together, cry together, laugh together and encourage one another in a way that is raw and real. They have become my anchors, grounding me when I feel uncertain and lifting me when I doubted myself.

What amazes me most is how, even after those first three months passed in Senegal, God continued to weave our lives together. Despite the ebb and flow of life aboard The Global Mercy, with each of us coming and going at different times, somehow, we always found our way back, to the ship, to each other, to the calling that had brought us here in the first place. Each reunion felt like a reminder that our friendship was part of something greater, something orchestrated by a God who knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t.

These friendships weren’t just built on shared experiences or mutual interests; they were rooted in something deeper, something eternal. For the first time in my life, I experienced relationships that weren’t based on convenience or circumstance but on faith, on a shared desire to serve, to love, and to grow. They showed me what it meant to walk alongside others in faith, to support each other not just in the good times, but through the struggles, doubts, and uncertainties.

Looking back now, I see it so clearly, God didn’t just bring me here for the work; He brought me here for them. They were the living, breathing evidence of His love in my life, proof that He knew my heart’s deepest needs long before I did. And through them, I learned that faith isn’t just about belief; it’s about connection, about walking this journey hand in hand with those He places in our lives at just the right moment.

At the time, they knew I wasn’t a Christian. I had been upfront about it from the beginning, making it clear that while I respected their faith, I wasn’t ready to adopt it as my own. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I wasn’t, didn’t want to nod along to conversations about God and faith without truly understanding what it all meant. I had spent so much of my life feeling like I had to fit into molds that weren’t meant for me, and I was determined not to do that here.

And yet, they never judged me. They never made me feel like I was less-than, or that I didn’t belong. They didn’t try to convince me with arguments or pressure me into believing what they believed. Instead, they simply loved me, selflessly, unconditionally, and with a kind of grace that I had rarely encountered before. Their love wasn’t transactional; it didn’t come with expectations or ultimatums. It was patient and gentle, allowing me to show up exactly as I was, doubts and all.

It was a love that felt so different from anything I had known before. I had always thought love required something in return, effort, compromise, conditions. But what I experienced on the ship was pure, unfiltered, and unwavering. It was a love that reflected something greater than themselves, something that, even in my scepticism, I couldn’t help but be drawn to.

And it wasn’t just my friends, this love seemed to surround me everywhere I looked. It was in the kindness of the crew, who served tirelessly with a joy that didn’t make sense to me. It was in the local day workers, who radiated hope and resilience despite lives filled with hardships I could barely comprehend. It was in the patients, who trusted us with their lives and somehow, in the midst of their pain, still found ways to smile and show gratitude. It was as if I was witnessing a glimpse of something divine, something I couldn’t quite put into words but could feel stirring inside me.

Slowly, quietly, that love was opening my heart in ways I never could have imagined. It was softening the walls I had built, the ones I had thought were necessary to protect myself from disappointment and hurt. I found myself questioning, not because I was being told to, but because I wanted to. Because if this kind of love could exist in people, if it could be so abundant, so freely given, maybe there was something to it after all.

And in those moments, I started to wonder: maybe faith wasn’t about rules and rituals. Maybe it was simply about love, the kind of love I was experiencing in every corner of that ship.

Over those three months, my curiosity grew in ways I never expected. It wasn’t an overnight revelation, but a slow, steady pull, like a gentle tide drawing me closer to something I couldn’t yet define. At first, I started attending church services more out of intrigue than conviction. I wasn’t seeking God, not really. I was seeking what my friends had, a peace, a certainty, an unwavering assurance that I had never known. They navigated life’s challenges with a quiet strength, an unshakable confidence that seemed to come from somewhere deep within them. I wanted to understand it. What gave them such calm in the face of uncertainty? What made them so sure?

So I did what I always did when something didn’t make sense, I asked questions. Countless questions. Big ones, small ones, the ones that kept me up at night, and the ones that had lingered in the back of my mind for years. Why does suffering exist? How can you believe in something you can’t see? How do you know for sure it’s real? They never shied away from answering. With patience and kindness, they met me where I was, never trying to push, never trying to convince, but gently guiding me toward understanding. They didn’t have all the answers, and they didn’t pretend to. But they shared their experiences, their doubts, their own journeys of faith in ways that made me feel safe to explore without judgment.

One conversation, in particular, stands out in my memory, a day that, in many ways, marked a turning point for me. It was a rare day off the ship, spent exploring N’Gor Island, a slice of paradise just off the coast of Dakar. The sun was warm against my skin, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing soundtrack to our conversations. We lounged on beach beds, the scent of salt and grilled fish lingering in the air, and I found myself, once again, challenging Nadine on her faith.

I remember the way I posed my questions, half-curious, half-defensive, as if I was testing the strength of something I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe in. “But how can you be so sure?” I asked, my voice tinged with scepticism. “How do you know it’s not just something you believe because it makes life easier?” I expected hesitation, maybe even frustration, but Nadine simply smiled, as if she had been where I was once too. She answered with a grace that was both disarming and comforting, not in a way that tried to win me over, but in a way that made me feel understood. She spoke of faith not as something forced or blind, but as a relationship, something that grows, that evolves, that meets you in your doubts rather than silences them.

I left that conversation feeling unsettled in the best possible way. It wasn’t that I suddenly had all the answers, but rather that I was beginning to realise I didn’t need to. Faith wasn’t about having everything figured out, it was about trust, about surrender, about letting go of the need to control every outcome.

As I reflect on that time, I see it so clearly now. God was using every moment, every question, every conversation, every unexpected experience, to gently pull me closer to Him. I didn’t know it then, but those beachside conversations and late-night discussions under the ship’s starlit sky were planting seeds in my heart, ones that would eventually grow into something I could no longer ignore.

But deep down, I knew why I couldn’t fully let God in, why I kept Him at a safe, manageable distance. It wasn’t because I didn’t believe, and it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was because I wasn’t ready to face my past. Letting Him in meant opening doors I had kept locked for years, doors behind which I had buried my brokenness, my shame, and the heavy weight of my regrets. Accepting Him would mean confronting the darkest parts of myself, the choices I had made, the mistakes I had tried so hard to forget, and the pain I had carefully tucked away, hoping it would stay hidden forever.

I had spent so long avoiding those parts of me, building walls of distraction and self-reliance, convincing myself that if I just moved fast enough, travelled far enough, worked hard enough, I could outrun them. But deep down, I knew they were still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to catch up with me. And I was terrified that if I truly let God in, if I surrendered even a little, everything I had buried would come rushing to the surface, too powerful to contain.

So, I kept Him at arm’s length. I went to church, listened to sermons that stirred something in me, and asked questions that hinted at my curiosity. I participated just enough to satisfy the longing within me, the longing for something bigger, something more. But when it came to full surrender, to truly letting go of control and handing it all over to God, I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

I told myself I needed more time, that I wasn’t quite ready, that I had too much to figure out first. I justified my resistance with logic, with doubts, with the lingering fear that maybe I wasn’t good enough, that maybe God’s grace wasn’t meant for people like me, people with pasts too messy, too complicated, too stained with regret.

But the truth was, my heart knew better. My heart knew that God wasn’t waiting for me to clean myself up before coming to Him. He was waiting for me to come as I was, broken, bruised, and burdened. Yet, the idea of surrendering that control, of letting myself be vulnerable in a way I never had before, felt too overwhelming.

So, I stayed on the edges, watching from a distance, dipping my toes into faith but never diving in. And yet, even as I resisted, I could feel Him there, patient, persistent, whispering to me in the quiet moments, through the kindness of friends, through the beauty of the work we were doing. I could feel Him gently knocking on the door I wasn’t ready to open, and deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to stop running and let Him in.

My three months on the ship flew by in a blur of emotions, experiences, and growth. It felt like I had only just begun to find my footing, to truly immerse myself in the rhythms of life aboard The Global Mercy, when suddenly, it was time to leave. I had always known my time here was temporary, that I had plans beyond the ship, to travel, to explore, to continue chasing the adventures that had once defined me. But something inside me couldn’t let go.

There was a pull, a quiet but persistent knowing deep in my soul that whispered, You’re not done here. It wasn’t just a feeling of nostalgia or the natural sadness of leaving behind something meaningful; it was more than that. It was as if every moment on that ship, every conversation, every patient, every tear and triumph, had been leading me to this realisation: my journey here wasn’t finished.

I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t just walk away and pretend it hadn’t changed me. And so, before I left, I did something I hadn’t planned. I sat down with my manager, my heart pounding in my chest, and expressed my desire to return. The words felt both terrifying and freeing as they left my lips, but deep down, I knew they were right. I didn’t have all the answers, and I wasn’t sure what was drawing me back so strongly, but it felt as though it had all been orchestrated from the very beginning, as if God had been leading me here all along, carefully aligning each moment, each person, each experience to bring me to this decision.

To my surprise, and perhaps, in hindsight, not so surprising at all,it all fell into place with ease. Without hesitation, I was signed up for another three months, this time in Sierra Leone. No resistance, no obstacles, just an open door that confirmed what I already felt in my heart: this was exactly where I was meant to be. It was as if God was gently reaffirming, See? I’ve got you. Trust Me.

And so, with tearful goodbyes and a heart full of emotions I couldn’t quite articulate, I left The Global Mercy for a while. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye, to the friendships that had become lifelines, to the patients who had taught me more about resilience and grace than I could ever repay, to the quiet, sacred moments of self-discovery that had marked my time there. But even as I hugged my friends tightly, whispering promises to return, I carried something with me that I hadn’t arrived with.

It was more than just a collection of memories or experiences; it was a seed of faith, a quiet whisper of something greater than myself, and the beginning of a journey I had yet to fully embark on. I wasn’t the same person who had stepped onto that ship months ago, wide-eyed and searching. Something had shifted, and I knew that wherever my travels took me next, I wouldn’t just be wandering, I would be walking with a deeper sense of purpose, with an openness to the unknown, and with the quiet certainty that, eventually, I would find my way back.