Alpha Course

Something that truly helped me in my new faith was doing the Alpha Course. At the time (and probably still now), I was still navigating the overwhelming reality of what it meant to believe, to surrender, to call myself a Christian. I had stepped into this new world, this new identity, with trembling hands and an unsteady heart, feeling both exhilarated and utterly unqualified. I believed in God, I knew that much, but there was still so much I didn’t understand. So many questions tangled inside me, too many to ask all at once. 

What does it really mean to follow Jesus? How do I pray? How do I know if I’m doing this right? What if I still have doubts? What if I never feel like I know enough? 

I was surrounded by people who had been walking this path for years, people who seemed so confident in their faith, so unwavering in their trust. And then there was me, brand new to all of this, feeling like I was playing catch-up in a race I didn’t even know I had entered. Then someone told me about Alpha. If you’re reading this as a new Christian, as someone who isn’t a Christian but is starting to ask questions, or even as someone who has been a Christian for many years, I highly recommend Alpha. It’s an 11-week course designed to create a space for open and honest conversations about faith, life, and God. Not a lecture. Not a Bible study where you’re expected to have all the answers. But a space. A space where doubts are welcomed. Where questions aren’t just tolerated, they’re encouraged. And for me, as a baby Christian, a phrase I had fully embraced, because that’s exactly what I was, Alpha was exactly what I needed.

I remember walking into my first session, heart pounding, that familiar nervousness creeping in. Would I say something wrong? Would my questions sound ridiculous? Would everyone else know things I didn’t? But from the very first meeting, I realized something: I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one wrestling with doubts, the only one who didn’t have it all figured out. I wasn’t the only one who had questions that felt too big to answer. Sitting in that Cabin, listening to others share their thoughts and struggles, I felt something shift inside me. For the first time, I truly understood that faith isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about being willing, willing to seek, to listen, to ask, to trust.

Week by week, Alpha became a safe haven for me. A place where I could bring my uncertainties, lay them bare, and not feel ashamed. Where I could wrestle with the hardest questions about God, suffering, purpose, and salvation without feeling like I was failing at faith. I learned that Christianity isn’t about blind acceptance, it’s about exploration, about stepping into a relationship with God and growing in it, even when you don’t have all the answers. I learned that faith isn’t about perfection, it’s about persistence. And most of all, I learned that God wasn’t waiting for me to become some well-informed, theologically polished believer before He accepted me. He had already accepted me. He had already loved me. Questions and all.

So if you are someone who is just beginning this journey, if you feel overwhelmed by all there is to learn, if you are carrying questions you’re afraid to ask, Alpha is for you. Because faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being brave enough to ask the questions. Alpha provided the foundation I so desperately needed. Before, my faith had felt like stepping onto shifting sand, uncertain, unsteady, like I could lose my footing at any moment. But Alpha changed that. Each week, the sessions tackled the questions that had been swirling in my mind:

Is there more to life than this? Who is Jesus? Why did He die? How can I have faith? How do I pray? How do I read the Bible? Who is the Holy Spirit? Why do bad things happen? Why do we suffer?

These weren’t just intellectual questions; they were the very core of everything I was wrestling with. And with each session, I felt something shifting inside me. It was like puzzle pieces slowly falling into place, like a light being turned on in a once-dark room. I wasn’t just learning facts, I was understanding. I wasn’t just absorbing information, I was building belief. Each discussion, each video, each conversation with my group deepened my understanding and strengthened my faith. There was something powerful about knowing that I wasn’t the only one asking these questions, that faith wasn’t about having all the answers but about being willing to seek them. Alpha gave me a place to start.A solid ground to stand on when everything still felt so unfamiliar and uncertain. It was the bridge between the person I had been, the sceptic, the wanderer, the one who had spent years keeping God at a distance without even knowing it, and the person I was becoming. And for that, I will always be grateful.

One of the greatest gifts during this course was having one of my beautiful best friends, Shannon, walk through it with me. There was something about her presence that made everything feel a little less overwhelming. She had been a Christian her whole life,she knew the language of faith, the rhythm of prayer, the stories of the Bible like second nature. And while that could have easily made me feel even more out of place, it didn’t. Instead, she became an anchor, a steady and unwavering presence in a season where everything felt new, unknown, and at times, intimidating. With Shannon by my side, I felt safer, braver, more willing to engage. There were moments during group discussions when my insecurities would rise up, when I would second-guess whether my questions were too basic, too naïve, too revealing of how little I actually knew. But then I would glance at her, and there she was, smiling, encouraging, gently nudging me to speak, reminding me in that quiet, unspoken way that I belonged here.  I was incredibly grateful for her support. Because while faith is deeply personal, it is also meant to be shared. God never intended for us to walk this path alone. And Shannon, with her kindness, her patience, and her willingness to sit with me through every doubt and every discovery, was a reminder of that truth.

Beyond the knowledge, beyond the lessons that filled my notebook and the questions that kept me up at night, Alpha gifted me something even greater, friendships and connections that became the heartbeat of my faith journey. The course was led by a couple who lived onboard the ship, Lindsay and Stefan. I still remember the first time I met them, how their presence immediately put me at ease, how their warmth and kindness radiated something I couldn’t quite put into words at the time. Looking back now, I realize it was God’s love shining through them. It wasn’t just in their words, but in the way they lived, the way they welcomed people with open hearts, the way they created a space where questions weren’t just tolerated but celebrated. 

They quickly became significant figures in my life, mentors, friends, examples of what it truly meant to follow Jesus. But Lindsay, in particular, became someone irreplaceable. She wasn’t just a leader; she became a friend, a mentor, a steady presence in a season of constant change. She was someone I looked up to, not because she had all the answers, but because she carried a quiet confidence in her faith, a faith that wasn’t rigid or performative but deeply personal, deeply rooted. She had a way of speaking truth with such gentleness that it didn’t feel like correction, it felt like an invitation. An invitation to think, to wrestle, to lean in closer to God rather than pull away in doubt.

Whenever my questions felt too big, too heavy, too overwhelming to process on my own, I knew I could turn to her. And I did, again and again. There were moments when I felt lost, when the old fears crept back in, whispering that maybe I still didn’t belong, that maybe I would never be “Christian enough” to truly claim this faith as my own. And every time, Lindsay was there. With a quiet reassurance, a gentle nudge toward truth, a reminder that faith was never about knowing all the answers, it was about trusting the One who does. Her wisdom and encouragement have been a lifeline in my faith, a steady guide through the moments when I wasn’t sure I could take the next step. And in the most profound, most symbolic way possible, she quite literally walked beside me through one of the most important moments of my journey, because Lindsay was the one who baptized me. But that’s a story for another time

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned, one that has reshaped the very core of my faith, is the importance of community and the power of finding your people. In a world that so often glorifies independence, self-sufficiency, and the idea that we should navigate life on our own, faith calls us into something entirely different. Something countercultural. Something holy.

Because God never designed us to walk this journey alone. He created us for connection, for fellowship, for shared burdens, for rejoicing in one another’s victories and carrying one another’s pain. He designed us to need one another, not as a sign of weakness, but as a reflection of His very nature. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, eternally in relationship, and we, made in His image, are meant to live the same way.

There was a time when I thought faith was purely individual. That my relationship with God was just that, mine, personal, private, something I had to figure out on my own. I believed that my struggles were for me to deal with, my questions for me to wrestle through, my faith for me to build in solitude.

But I was wrong. Because time and time again, God has met me through people. Through the kindness of friends who sat with me in my questions instead of rushing to give answers. Through the wisdom of mentors who spoke truth when I doubted my place in His story. Through the embrace of a community that reminded me I was never meant to do this alone.

1 Corinthians 12:25-27 speaks to this so beautifully:

“So that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honoured, every part rejoices with it. Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.”

The body of Christ, not a metaphor to be taken lightly, but a divine truth woven into the very essence of what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

The way God designed our physical bodies, with every part interconnected, dependent on one another, working in unity, mirrors how we are meant to function as the church. Each of us uniquely created, uniquely called, uniquely essential to the whole.

And the beauty of it? When one of us struggles, we all feel it. When one of us flourishes, we all celebrate it.

There is no competition in the Kingdom, no striving to outdo one another. Instead, we are called to lift each other up, to share in one another’s burdens, to walk through seasons of suffering and rejoicing hand in hand.

I have seen this truth come to life in the most unexpected, most sacred ways. In the late-night conversations where my doubts were met with grace instead of judgment. In the hands that have reached out to steady me when I felt like I was losing my footing. In the voices that have spoken encouragement over me when I struggled to believe it for myself.

This is what it means to be the body of Christ. This is what it means to belong. And in finding my people, I have found more than just friendship, I have found the tangible love of God, woven into community, just as He intended it to be.

Community on the ship is like nothing I have ever experienced. It is more than just shared meals and friendly conversations. More than just working and living side by side. It is something deeper, something sacred. Here, conversations about God don’t feel forced or reserved for Sunday mornings; they unfold naturally, effortlessly, as if woven into the very air we breathe. Faith is not compartmentalized, it is lived, saturating every moment, every interaction. One minute, we’re washing dishes or folding laundry, and the next, we’re talking about what God is revealing to us, about struggles we’re facing, about prayers we’re too afraid to pray aloud. There is no pretence, no pressure to appear perfect. Just realness. Just hearts laid bare, seeking, questioning, growing, together.

Prayer is not a ritual here, it is a way of life. It happens in the hallways, in the dining room, in the quiet spaces of the ship where two or three gather. It happens before meals, before meetings, before someone steps into a difficult situation. It is whispered over coffee, spoken in unison in the warmth of candlelit worship, or simply lifted in silence as we walk through our days.

I have had deeper, more meaningful conversations with friends here than I ever thought possible. We talk about things that matter, not just the surface-level details of our lives, but the things that sit heavy in our hearts. The things that shape us, define us. We ask the hard questions, wrestle with doubts, celebrate victories, and hold each other up when faith feels fragile. This is a special place. A place that has taught me the true meaning of community, not just in theory, but in experience. But I know that this season will not last forever. One day, I will leave the ship. One day, I will step off this floating home and into the unknown. And that thought terrifies me.

I have never had a Christian community outside of this place. Never belonged to a church beyond these walls, beyond these friendships that have held me through my first years of faith. This is all I have ever known. What if I never find this again? What if I struggle to fit in? What if I walk into a church and feel like an outsider all over again? The thought sometimes lingers in the back of my mind, a whisper of uncertainty that tugs at the edges of my faith. Because here, I belong. Here, I am known. Here, I am surrounded by people who speak the same language of belief that I am just beginning to understand. And yet… even in my fear, I find comfort.

Because I know that when I leave this place, I will not leave God. He will not stay behind when I step onto solid ground. He will not disappear when the familiarity of this community fades. He will go before me, preparing a new place, a new home, a new people to walk this journey with me. The same God who brought me here will lead me forward. And when the time comes to leave, to begin again, I will hold onto the truth that I have learned here, that community is not about a place, but about a people. And God will always provide His people.

Psalm 139:7-10 reminds me of this truth:

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

These words settle deep in my soul, wrapping around me like a whispered promise, you are never alone. There have been moments in my life when I have felt irredeemable, when I have questioned whether God could love someone like me. Moments when my doubts were louder than my faith, when my fear of the unknown threatened to pull me under. But this passage reminds me that there is no place I can go where He is not already there. Not in the highest mountaintop moments of joy and certainty. Not in the lowest valleys of doubt and confusion. Not in the middle of the ocean, floating between one chapter and the next.

There is no place too distant, no decision too difficult, no transition too uncertain where God will not be present. That truth should bring instant comfort, but I won’t lie, sometimes I still wrestle with it. Because knowing God is with me doesn’t mean I don’t feel afraid. It doesn’t mean I don’t struggle with change. It doesn’t mean I don’t wonder if I will truly find a place to belong once I step off this ship. I think about the day I will leave, the moment I will step onto land and say goodbye to this season of my life. I think about walking into an unfamiliar church, surrounded by people I don’t know, feeling like an outsider again. I think about what it will mean to rebuild, to start over, to find a new community that understands me the way these people do.

And yet, even there, His hand will guide me. Even there, His right hand will hold me fast. God’s presence is not limited by geography, circumstances, or even my own doubts. He goes before me, preparing the way. He walks beside me, comforting me, strengthening me, reminding me that I am never as lost as I feel. And when the fear creeps in, when the uncertainties loom too large, when I wonder if I will ever feel at home again, He will hold me steady, anchoring me in His love.

This has always been true. It was true before I knew Him. It was true when I first set foot on this ship, unsure of what I would find. And it will be true when I take my next step, wherever that may be. Because there is nowhere I can go that He is not already there.

Alpha was more than just a course. It was more than just a weekly gathering, more than just a program designed to answer questions about faith. It was a launching point, the place where my fragmented understanding of God began to take shape, where belief transformed from something I admired in others to something I could claim as my own. It was a foundation, solid ground beneath my feet after years of searching, wandering, and wondering if faith was something I could ever truly grasp. It was where I learned that faith wasn’t about perfect knowledge but about trusting the One who knows all things. It was where I began to build something real, something lasting, something I could carry with me long after the course ended.

It was a safe place, a place where I could ask the hard questions without fear of judgment, where I could admit when I didn’t understand, where I could be a beginner in a room full of believers and still feel like I belonged. And it was a turning point, because somewhere in the middle of it all, somewhere between the conversations that stretched long into the night and the prayers whispered over my doubts, something shifted inside me.

I stopped just believing in the idea of God and started believing in Him. I stopped thinking of faith as something that belonged to other people and began to understand that it was for me, too. And now, as I continue this journey, wherever it may lead, whether on this ship or beyond, whether in the comfort of community or in the uncertainty of new beginnings, there is one truth I hold onto with unwavering certainty:

God is with me. Always.

Not just in the moments when faith feels easy, when worship songs bring tears to my eyes and prayers flow effortlessly from my lips. Not just in the warmth of community, where I am surrounded by people who lift me up and remind me that I am not alone. But also in the moments of fear, when doubt creeps in and whispers that I am not enough. In the moments of transition, when I step into the unknown and wonder if I will ever feel this kind of belonging again. In the moments of silence, when I don’t feel His presence as strongly as before, and I have to trust that He is still there.

Mercy Ships may have been the beginning, but God’s presence is the constant, the thread that will weave through every chapter of my life, the anchor that will hold me steady when the waters rise, the voice that will call me forward when I am afraid to take the next step. And so I walk forward, not with all the answers, not with certainty about what comes next, but with faith.

Because I know, now more than ever, that I do not walk alone.