AYLA IN AFRICA

Tag: christianity

  • My Baptism

    The day I was baptised is etched into my soul with a kind of permanence that words can barely capture. It isn’t just my favourite day from last field service; but it’s the most sacred, soul-stirring, and transformational day of my entire life. There are rare, moments that reach deep into the core of who you are and realign everything. You feel your heart shift, your spirit awaken, your identity begin to take shape in a new and profound way.

    June 8th, 2024, was one of those moments.

    I went into my baptism with an open heart. I hadn’t grown up in the Church. I didn’t know the rituals, the “right” things to say, or what it was supposed to feel like. I had never even witnessed a baptism before. And yet, despite all that I didn’t know, there was one thing I felt more clearly than anything else, this was right. This was exactly where I was meant to be. I carried a quiet certainty in my bones that day, a peace that settled over me. I wasn’t being swept along by emotion or pressure or anyone else’s expectations. I was saying yes to something eternal. Yes to God. Yes to grace. Yes to a love that had been patiently pursuing me my whole life, even when I didn’t know it.

    That morning, myself and about twenty-five of my closest friends from the ship piled into vans and made our way to Tokeh Beach. The drive itself was filled with a quiet, buzzing anticipation, laughter, music, a few people lost in thought, all of us carrying something tender in our hearts. Tokeh had always been a kind of refuge for me. A sanctuary. Just an hour outside the noisy heartbeat of Freetown, it felt like another world, untouched and peaceful. The soft, white sand hugged the shoreline like a gentle promise. Towering palms danced in the breeze, and lush green mountains watched over us like guardians. The ocean, vast and alive, seemed to breathe in rhythm with my soul. Over the past year, I’d spent so many weekends there, laughing until my stomach hurt, swimming in the warm waters, watching beautiful sunsets and sharing long conversations that nourished something deep in me. Tokeh had already cradled so many of my memories, but that day was different.

    Because on that day, it became sacred ground. There was something almost otherworldly in the air, a stillness beneath the breeze, a hush beneath the joy. It was as if heaven had leaned in a little closer. The beach that had always been my place of rest was about to become the place of my rebirth. I wasn’t just returning to a familiar coastline, I was walking toward holy ground, surrounded by people who had loved me, shaped me, and pointed me to the One who had called me by name. And as I stood on that sand, heart pounding and soul wide open, I knew I would never see this place the same again.

    When we arrived, that familiar hum of joy filled the air, bright laughter, warm hugs, the comforting buzz of community that made this place feel like home. Everyone began settling in, spreading out towels and finding shade beneath the palms, the ocean’s rhythm steady in the background. But even amidst the celebration, I could feel the moment approaching, the moment I would share my testimony. I remember my heart thundered in my chest, each beat loud and heavy with anticipation. Public speaking has never come easily to me. Just the thought of standing up and having all eyes on me usually sent my hands trembling and my voice retreating. But this… this was different. This wasn’t a presentation. This wasn’t about performance. This was my truth. I wasn’t just speaking, I was opening up my soul. I was laying bare the long, winding road that had brought me to this exact moment.

    I spoke through trembling lips about the years of silence and sorrow I had carried like a second skin. A trauma I had buried that left me feeling broken and hollow. The ache of a complicated relationship with my father, how his absence had shaped me, and how his presence, when it came, had often confused or wounded more than it healed. I spoke of the wandering, of years spent searching for love in all the wrong places, of feeling lost, unworthy, like a ghost moving through her own life. I had believed, for far too long, that I could never be truly loved. That if anyone saw the real me, they would turn away. I confessed the mistakes I had made. The pain I had caused. The choices born from desperation, from loneliness, from deep wounds I hadn’t known how to name. And as the words left my mouth, shaky and raw, I felt a trembling in my spirit, but not of fear. It was release.

    There were moments when my voice cracked, when I had to stop and breathe through the tears pressing against the back of my eyes. But even in those silences, there was a Presence. A quiet, steady warmth wrapped around me, like a hand resting gently on my shoulder, grounding me. I knew, I knew, God was right there. Not distant, not judging. Just with me. Steadying me. Holding me. And as I kept speaking, the weight I had carried for so many years began to lift. Not all at once, but layer by layer, like peeling back the heavy curtains of shame that had covered my heart. With each word spoken in honesty, light began to pour in. By the end, I wasn’t just standing on a beach in Sierra Leone. I was standing in freedom. For the first time in my life, I felt truly seen. Truly known. And, perhaps most astonishing of all, truly loved.

    I felt free. Not in a fleeting, surface-level way, but in the depths of my soul. The kind of freedom that only comes when you’ve met grace face-to-face, and let it hold you.

    When I finished speaking, there was a silence. Not silence born of awkwardness, but the kind of reverent quiet that settles in when something sacred has just taken place. And then, slowly, gently, everyone began to gather around me. I sat on the warm sand, its heat grounding me, reminding me that I was fully here, fully present, fully alive. And then twenty-five sets of hands reached out, surrounding me in the most tender embrace. Some rested lightly on my shoulders, others on my back, my arms, my hands, each one like an anchor, a reminder that I wasn’t alone, that I was being held by community, by love, by the very body of Christ. 

    They began to pray. One by one, voices rose in harmony, soft, powerful, full of love and fierce compassion. They prayed over me words I didn’t even know my heart had been aching to hear. Words of restoration, of strength, of joy. Of new beginnings. They spoke life over my past, hope into my present, and blessing over my future. Each sentence wove its way into the fabric of my spirit like thread repairing a tattered garment. I could feel the tears falling freely down my cheeks, but this time, they weren’t heavy. They didn’t sting like they had in the past. These tears were different, they were pure. Cleansing. Holy.

    It wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed me, but love. A love so vast and deep and undeniable that it broke something open inside me. I had never in my life felt so seen, so deeply known. Every broken part of me that I had tried to hide or fix or carry alone was now surrounded by grace, by hands, by prayers, by people who reflected the heart of a God who had never stopped loving me. In that circle, I felt something shift in my soul. I felt cherished. Not because I had finally “gotten it all together,” but because I had allowed myself to be fully real, fully vulnerable, and still, I was embraced. My heart felt like it might burst from the sheer beauty of it all. This was belonging. This was healing. This was the love of God made tangible, wrapped around me like a blanket of light. And I knew, in that sacred moment, that I would carry those prayers, the hands, the voices, the presence, with me forever.

    And then it was time. The moment my heart had been beating toward for months. With the sun high above us and the ocean stretched out like an endless promise, we began walking toward the water. Shannon was on one side of me, Lindsay on the other, two women who had become more than just friends; they had become sisters, mentors, mirrors of God’s love in my life. With each step, the warm sand gave way to the cool kiss of the ocean. The waves curled gently around our ankles, playful and welcoming, as if creation itself was rejoicing with us. We waded in slowly, the water rising around our waists, the salty breeze wrapping around us like a whisper of grace.

    I remember pausing for a moment and looking back toward the shore. There they were, my people. My ship family. The faces of those who had held me in my darkest moments, who had spoken truth when I couldn’t find it on my own, who had shown me again and again what the love of Christ looks like in the flesh. Some of them had cried with me. Some had prayed over me when I couldn’t find the words. Some had simply been there, faithfully, quietly, lovingly. Their smiles, their presence, their unwavering support, it was all a living, breathing testimony to God’s goodness. They didn’t just walk alongside me; they helped carry me. I don’t think they’ll ever truly know how deeply they impacted me. How their kindness, their grace, and their faith lit a path back to the Father I had wandered so long to find.

    I turned back to face Lindsay, and in that moment, time seemed to slow. Her eyes met mine, shining, steady, full of love. She placed a hand gently on my back, and with a voice both tender and strong, she spoke the words that will forever be carved into the deepest part of me: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” And just like that, the world stood still. Heaven opened. And I surrendered to the waters that would carry me into new life. Submerged in the ocean that had witnessed so many fragments of my journey, the tears I had shed in solitude, the prayers whispered into waves, the laughter shared with friends, the silent conversations between my soul and God. That sea had seen it all. And now, it held me in a holy pause. For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. Time stopped. Sound faded. All that existed was the stillness of water and the overwhelming nearness of God. 

    I could feel Him. Not in an abstract or distant way, but as real and close as breath. His presence rushed over me, not like a roaring wave, but like a deep, undeniable current moving through every part of me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was sure. Constant. Loving. Pure. In that sacred second beneath the surface, I felt the weight of my old self fall away, the shame, the fear, the lies I had believed for too long. They were washed off me like dirt in the tide. When I rose from the water, it was like gasping into new life. My arms shot into the air without thinking, as if my body couldn’t contain the joy erupting inside me. I cried out, not with words, but with a sound of raw, pure celebration. Tears poured from my eyes and blended with the saltwater already on my cheeks. Around me, the sound of clapping, cheering, and laughter broke like sunlight on the waves. It was peace. It was joy. It was love, full, unfiltered, unconditional. Love like I had never known before. Not love I had to earn or perform for, but love that had found me, claimed me, and called me His.

    My friends rushed toward me, splashing through the surf, arms open, hearts wide. They wrapped me in wet, salty hugs, their laughter mixing with tears, their joy mirroring mine. We cried, we laughed, we clung to each other as if the holiness of the moment could somehow be held in our embrace. I was completely overwhelmed, but not by fear, not by uncertainty. I was overwhelmed by goodness. By grace. By the sheer wonder of being known, loved, and made new. It was the most holy kind of flood. A flood of freedom. A flood of belonging. A flood of home.

    The rest of the day unfolded like a dream, one soaked in golden light, laughter, and the kind of joy that bubbles up when heaven feels especially close. It was a celebration in every sense of the word. We played beach frisbee, barefoot and free, our shouts echoing across the sand as the sun warmed our skin and the breeze tangled in our hair. We dove into the warm waters, splashing, floating, and letting the waves carry us like children unburdened by the weight of the world. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and sometimes we paused, eyes brimming with the ache of knowing the end of this chapter was near. 

    That day we reminisced about the ten incredible months we had spent together, months marked by service, sacrifice, growth, and more grace than we could count. We had cried together, prayed together, worked side by side through impossible challenges. And somehow, through it all, we had become more than just a crew. We had become a community of faith, of love, of purpose. 

    That day was more than a celebration of my baptism, it was a celebration of the miraculous, undeserved, extravagant love of God. A love that had found us from every corner of the world and knit our lives together in this time, in this place. I felt it in the way the waves kissed the shore. I saw it in every smile around the circle. I heard it in the laughter and the silence alike. And I carried it with me, deep in my bones. That day was a gift I will carry for the rest of my life. 

    And I will never, ever forget it.

  • First Time Home

    The week after that Easter, I flew home for some PTO, carrying with me something far greater than just my luggage, I carried my newfound faith, a transformation so profound that I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself. Before I was baptized, I wanted to share this part of me with my mum. Not because I expected her to understand or even accept it, but because my faith was now woven into the very fabric of who I was. Keeping it from her would have felt like hiding a part of myself. And I didn’t want to hide anymore.

    Still, I was nervous. My mum had always been supportive, but faith had never been a part of our relationship. She used to joke that it would be funny if I ever came back from the ship believing in God. And now, here I was, coming home to tell her that I did. That I loved Jesus. That everything in my life had shifted because of it. Would she laugh? Would she brush it off as just another phase? Would she see how deeply this had changed me?

    I knew that nothing she said could shake what I had found, my love for Jesus was unwavering, but there was something vulnerable about saying it out loud to someone who had known me my whole life. I wasn’t the same person who had left. I had been found, redeemed, made new. And this was my first step in sharing that truth with the people I loved most. As the plane touched down, my heart pounded with anticipation. No matter how the conversation went, I knew one thing for certain: I wasn’t just coming home, I was stepping into my faith, fully and fearlessly, for the first time.

    It’s amazing how much I had changed in barely a year. At first, the change felt internal, subtle, like a quiet shift in the foundation of my soul. But I don’t think I fully grasped just how profound it was until I went home. There, in the familiarity of my childhood surroundings, among the people who had known me my whole life, I saw it reflected back at me. 

    After just a couple of days, my mum noticed something different. She watched me the way only a mother can, with an intuition that saw beyond my words. I hadn’t even told her about my faith yet, but she could see it. She told me I seemed different, lighter, like for the first time in my life, I was truly content. Not just happy in the fleeting way I had been before, but something deeper. She saw the joy in me, a kind of joy that didn’t waver, that didn’t come and go with circumstances. But most of all, she saw the healing. She saw that I was healing from my past traumas, from the restless searching that had defined so much of my life.

    When she said those words, my heart clenched. I had prayed for this moment, to have the courage to tell her, to share what had changed me. And yet, hearing her acknowledge it before I even spoke made my eyes well up with tears. It was as if God was already softening the path ahead, showing me that my faith was not just a hidden, private thing, it was visible. Tangible. I finally shared my faith with her, despite the fears that had gripped me for weeks. I had worried she wouldn’t understand, that she would dismiss it or see it as something foreign to who I was. But as I spoke, I saw something unexpected in her eyes, not confusion, not scepticism, but warmth. And then, she cried.

    Not because she was sad, but because she was happy for me. She saw that I had found my purpose. She asked questions. Real, thoughtful questions, not just to be polite, but because she was curious. She wanted to understand what had changed me so completely. Since then, we have had some incredible conversations, conversations I never thought we would have.

    The rest of my time at home was filled with catching up with friends and family, and while it was fulfilling, it was also strange. Familiar places, familiar faces, yet something felt different. Or maybe it was me. I had stepped back into a world that once felt like home, but now, it felt slightly out of focus, as if I were looking at it through a pane of glass. Close enough to touch, yet separate somehow.

    I realised that I didn’t quite belong in Australia anymore. Maybe I had never really belonged. Life had moved on in my absence, just as I had moved on in my own way. My friends were getting married, buying houses, having children. Their lives were mapped out in milestones that made sense, steps that society expected. I was doing the complete opposite, volunteering on a Hospital Ship in Africa, serving in ways I had never imagined, walking a path that, to many, seemed unconventional. But I had found something greater than any dream I had once held for myself. I had found purpose. A purpose that had changed everything.

    I’d be lying if I said my friendships hadn’t changed. Distance does that, it shifts things in quiet, unspoken ways. My friends back home will always be my best friends, especially Britt, she is my sister, my family, my anchor in so many ways. But after being overseas for five years, the space between us was undeniable. Not because we had stopped loving each other, but because life had simply taken us down different roads.

    There were moments of disconnect, moments where I felt like a visitor in a life I had once been so immersed in. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just the reality of growing up, of choosing different paths, of stepping into callings that sometimes led us in opposite directions. There were times when the conversations felt different, moments of silence where I wondered if my family and friends saw me as I was now or only as the person I used to be.

    And yet, love remained. Even in the awkward moments of not fully understanding one another’s lives, even in the quiet realization that we were no longer the same people we had once been, the love between us never faded. It simply took on a new form, one that stretched across oceans, across time zones, across the different rhythms of our lives. And that was enough. Because true friendship, true love, isn’t about always walking the same road. It’s about always finding your way back to each other, no matter how far you’ve travelled.

    Being home gave me the chance to say goodbye, to my old life, my old self, to the person I barely recognized anymore. As I walked familiar streets and sat in familiar places, I saw echoes of who I used to be. The restless girl who was always searching, always longing for something more. The girl who had carried an ache she couldn’t name, who had tried to fill the void with unhealthy relationships and habits, with movement, with anything that might quiet the gnawing feeling inside her.

    But now, that ache was beginning to fade. That restless feeling, the urge to run, to escape, to search, it had been replaced with something entirely new. Something steady. Something certain. It was in those quiet moments, in the in-between spaces of my trip home, that I realized Australia, for now, wasn’t my home anymore. It would always be a part of me, but I no longer belonged there in the same way I once had. My heart had been called elsewhere. I was meant to be where I was, on a hospital ship in Sierra Leone, serving, growing, surrendering daily to God’s plan for me.

    For the first time in my life, I wasn’t searching. I wasn’t running. I wasn’t chasing after something just out of reach. Instead, I felt a deep, steady hum of knowing. A peace that surpassed all understanding. I would come to know that feeling as Shalom, not just peace, but wholeness. The kind of peace that settles into your soul and stays. The kind of peace that tells you: You are exactly where you are meant to be.

    When I finally returned to the ship, I knew. Knew with every fibre of my being that it was time. The field service was coming to an end, and the old me was being laid to rest. Now, it was time to step fully into the life God had given me. To declare, in front of the world, the love that had transformed me.

    I had found my home. Not in a country. Not in a place.

    But in Jesus.

  • Embracing my Faith

    Throughout my first ten months in Sierra Leone, my faith became more than just something I was learning about, it became something I was living. I had stepped onto the ship as someone still unsure, still holding onto pieces of my old identity, still battling the lies that had shaped me for so long. But as the months passed, something inside me began to shift. For the first time in my life, I could feel the weight of my past beginning to lift.

    It had been there for as long as I could remember, an invisible burden pressing down on my chest, woven into my thoughts, influencing my choices, convincing me that I was unworthy of love, of grace, of belonging. I had carried it for so long that I had stopped noticing its weight, until I felt it start to lighten. I wasn’t just hearing the truth of God’s love anymore, I was beginning to know it. Not just in my mind, but in my soul. 

    That I was loved. That I had always been loved. That even in my worst moments, my most broken decisions, my most painful regrets, His love had never wavered. And as that truth settled into the deepest parts of me, I found myself stepping into a new kind of honesty. For the first time, I began to open up about my past, not just to God, but to my friends. We would sit together, in the quiet hum of the ship and I would speak words I rarely spoke aloud. I would tell them about the choices I had made, the things I had done, the pain I had carried. I would let them see the parts of me I had spent so long trying to hide. And the most incredible thing? They listened. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t turn away. They didn’t look at me differently. Instead, they met my brokenness with grace, reminding me, over and over, that I was forgiven. But even more importantly, I was finally being honest with myself. That kind of honesty was terrifying.

    It was painful. It felt like exposing wounds that had long been buried, wounds I had pretended didn’t exist. But as much as it hurt, it was also freeing. Because healing doesn’t happen in the dark. And the more I brought those wounds into the light, the more I allowed God to step into those broken places, the less power they had over me. And something else began to happen, something I never expected. The joy I had started to feel? The gratitude? They weren’t just things I was trying to force. They weren’t just a mask I was wearing to convince myself that I was okay. They were real. They were radiating from me in a way I couldn’t explain.

    I wasn’t just acting joyful, I was joyful.
    I wasn’t just saying I was grateful, I felt it in my bones.
    I wasn’t just trying to believe in Jesus, I knew Him now.

    Somewhere along the way, faith had stopped being something I was reaching for, and it had become a part of who I was. I was no longer just a woman searching for God. I was His daughter. And for the first time in my life, I truly believed it.

    I will never forget Easter on the ship that year (2024), it was my first time celebrating Easter as someone who truly believed in Jesus, and the weight of that was overwhelming. Before, Easter had been just another holiday, marked by chocolate eggs, family gatherings, and a vague awareness of its religious significance. But this time, it was different. This time, I understood. The entire ship came together to worship Him, to reflect on what He had done for us, not just as a distant historical event, but as a deeply personal act of love and redemption. God had sacrificed His Son so that we may be forgiven, always, for all sin. I had heard those words before, but I had never truly felt them. That Easter, for the first time, I felt it.

    The ship’s international lounge had been transformed into the Garden of Gethsemane for the weekend, and as I stepped inside, it was as if I had been transported to another world. The air was thick with reverence. Everywhere I looked, there were plants, vines, and soft, flickering lights casting golden hues across the space. Cozy pillows and beanbags created small sanctuaries for prayer and reflection. It was peaceful. It was holy. And at the front of the room stood a giant cross, silent, towering, unshakable. A reminder of His suffering, His love, His victory.

    I remember my hands trembling as I touched the floor, my fingers pressing into the cool surface as if grounding myself in something real, something holy. I lay down, my body sinking into the space, surrendering. Above me, the dim light flickered softly, casting a glow that felt almost otherworldly. It was as if I were being held in the quiet presence of something far greater than myself. The weight of it all, His sacrifice, His mercy, His love, pressed into my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart, which had spent years guarded, restless, searching, cracked open in a way I had never known before.

    I cried that night. Not just soft tears, not just quiet weeping, but tears that shook my entire being. I cried because, for the first time, I truly understood the depth of His sacrifice, not as a story I had heard, not as words spoken in a sermon, but as a love so vast, so undeserved, and yet so freely given. I cried because I finally understood how much God loved me, not in spite of my flaws, my brokenness, my past, but because He had known me all along. Every thought I had ever had. Every mistake I had ever made. Every wound I had carried in silence. And still, He had loved me. Not from a distance, but intimately, deeply, unconditionally. The love I had spent my entire life searching for, the love I had tried to earn, the love I had longed for in people, in places, in fleeting moments, had been right there, waiting for me all along. It had never wavered, never withdrawn, never ceased to pursue me. And now, finally, I saw it. I felt it. I knew it.

    Something inside me shifted in that moment, an unshakable knowing, a certainty I had never felt before. My life would never be the same. Because now, I would always know Him. I would always belong to Him. Forever and always. And as I lay there, tears streaming, heart laid bare, I knew with absolute certainty that He had always known me too. And that was enough. That was everything.

    As my faith deepened, as I continued to walk this path of discovery and surrender, a new question began to rise in my heart, one I couldn’t ignore.

    Baptism.

    It wasn’t just a word anymore. It wasn’t just something I had heard about or something I had read about in Scripture. It became a pull, a stirring deep within me, a longing I couldn’t quite explain but felt with every part of my soul. I started asking my friends about it, hesitantly at first.

    What does baptism really mean?
    How do you know when you’re ready?
    What would it look like for me?

    I listened as they shared their stories, their experiences, their own moments of stepping into the water. Each story was different, some had been baptized as children, others as adults, some had felt an instant transformation, others had experienced a quiet, steady confirmation of their faith. But at the heart of it, they all said the same thing: Baptism is an outward declaration of an inward transformation. A symbol of dying to the old self and rising again in Christ. A surrender. A choice. A public step of faith. And the more I learned, the more I prayed, the more I sat with the idea, the more certain I became. I wanted this.

    Not because I felt pressured. Not because it was the next “logical step” in my faith journey. Not because it would make me more of a Christian. I wanted it because I loved Jesus. I wanted the world to know that I loved Him. I wanted to give everything to follow Him, not just in words, not just in private prayers, but in action, in commitment, in a moment that would mark my life forever. And yet, as much as my heart longed for it, there was still a quiet whisper of hesitation inside me.

    Am I really worthy of this?
    What if I’m not “good enough” yet?
    What if I don’t fully understand everything about faith?

    The enemy tried to plant seeds of doubt, to convince me that I wasn’t ready, that I needed to be more, more knowledgeable, more holy, more put together. But deep down, I knew the truth. I would never be ready in the way I thought I needed to be. I would never have all the answers. I would never reach a place where I felt like I had “earned” this. And that was the point.

    Baptism wasn’t about arriving at some place of perfection, it was about stepping forward as I was, in faith, in surrender, trusting that God would continue the work He had already begun in me. So I let go of my fear. I let go of the doubts. And I made the decision. I would be baptized. I would stand before my friends, before my community, before God Himself, and declare that my life belonged to Jesus. I didn’t know what that moment would feel like. I didn’t know what it would change in me. All I knew was this: I was His. And I wanted the world to know.

  • 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.

  • What is Nursing like on Mercy Ships?

    The hum of Africana music drifts through the air, a rhythmic melody that seems to pulse with the very heartbeat of the ship. It fills every corner of the ward, blending seamlessly with the laughter, the clapping, the joyful shouts of patients and caregivers alike. Their voices rise above the beeping monitors and the rustle of nurses moving through the room, a harmony of hope, resilience, and celebration.

    Patients are dancing, singing, and laughing, their joy spilling over like sunlight after a long storm. Their energy defies the usual image of a hospital, there are no hushed whispers of sickness, no sterile silence, no weight of despair hanging in the air. Instead, there is life. There is movement. There is joy, in its purest form.

    I stand in the middle of it all, watching, smiling, taking it in, because nursing on The Global Mercy is like nothing I have ever experienced before.

    Here, healing is not just found in IV drips and sutures, in medication rounds and post-op care. It is found in veranda time with patients, where we sit in the warm embrace of the African sun, swapping stories and watching the ocean stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s railing. It is found in dance parties in the ward, where patients who once arrived weighed down by suffering now twirl with uncontained joy, their hands reaching toward the sky, their feet moving in rhythms passed down through generations.

    Healing is found in spirited games of Uno and Connect Four, where competition is fierce and laughter is louder than any medical alarm. It’s in the conversations that unfold naturally between shifts, with patients, with caregivers, with the local day crew, each story a glimpse into the beautiful, complicated, resilient lives lived in Sierra Leone.

    It is in the friendships formed among nurses, the ones that feel like family by the end of it all. We bond over the long shifts, the unexpected challenges, the moments that leave us breathless with laughter, and the ones that bring us to tears. We share the weight of this work, the heartbreak, the triumph, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming beauty of what it means to serve here, in this sacred space, on this floating hospital of hope.

    This is not just another hospital. This is not just another shift. This is a calling. A privilege. A front-row seat to hope being restored, to lives being changed, to miracles unfolding in real-time.

    Imagine a hospital where nurses only stay for a couple of months. An operating room where the surgeons change every week. A surgical team made up of nurses and doctors from six different countries. A ward filled with volunteer nurses, each speaking a different language, each with a different scope of practice. Patients who speak at least five different dialects, their voices carrying the weight of stories untold. You would think I was crazy. You would say, “No way. That could never work.” And yet, it does. It works in a way that no other hospital I have ever worked in does.

    Why? How? Because we are all volunteers. We are not here for money, or promotions, or because we have to be. We are here because we want to be. Every single person I have worked with, from the surgeons to the nurses to the cleaning staff, has been overflowing with kindness, love, and compassion. The teamwork here is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Despite our different languages, our different countries, our different ways of doing things, we come together with one mission, one purpose: to bring hope and healing. And that kind of unity? That kind of selfless care? It changes everything.

    But if I could tell you about the heart of Mercy Ships, I wouldn’t start with the nurses, or the surgeons, or even the ship itself. I would tell you about the patients. I can’t explain to you what it’s like to work with them, their stories, both heartbreaking and inspiring, their courage in the face of unimaginable suffering. They travel from faraway villages carrying nothing but hope. They come with conditions that should have been treated long ago, conditions that in other parts of the world would have been caught in infancy, fixed before they ever became life-altering. They come with massive tumors, ones that have grown so large they have overtaken their faces, making them unrecognizable even to themselves. They come with twisted limbs, their bones bent in ways that have made walking impossible. They come with scars from burns, skin fused together in painful reminders of accidents that could not be treated in time.

    And yet, they come. They come despite the whispered fears in their villages, fears that tell that they might leave worse than when they arrived. They come because hope is a force greater than fear. And when they step aboard this ship, when they are greeted not just with medicine, but with love, something shifts.

    I have watched transformations unfold that cannot be put into words. I have watched once-guarded faces soften into smiles. I have watched hunched shoulders straighten with newfound confidence. I have watched eyes that once held only uncertainty now shine with hope. Because healing here goes far beyond the physical.

    Yes, we remove tumors. Yes, we straighten bones. Yes, we treat scars. But the real healing, the one that leaves me speechless, is the healing of the heart, the spirit, the dignity of the people we serve. I have held the hands of patients who have been shunned by their communities, only to see those same people welcomed back home after surgery. I have heard the laughter of a child who had never walked on straight legs before take their first steps. I have wept as a young woman, once afraid to even meet my eyes, looked at herself in a mirror for the first time in years, and smiled.

    This is not just nursing. This is a life-changing, soul-shaping, faith-deepening kind of nursing. The kind that reminds you why you started. The kind that breaks your heart and rebuilds it stronger. The kind that teaches you that healing is so much more than medicine.

    So if you read this and feel a calling in your heart, a desire to try a different kind of nursing take a leap of faith and come volunteer with me onboard Mercy Ships.

  • My First Bible

    I will never forget the moment I got my first Bible, the excitement, the joy, the overwhelming sense that I was holding something sacred and life-changing in my hands. It felt heavy, not just in weight but in significance, as if the very pages contained something I had been searching for my entire life.


    It was late at night in the dining room, long after most people had gone to bed. The air was still thick with the echoes of laughter, of conversations that had stretched for hours, unravelling thoughts and questions about God, about faith, about this strange and beautiful new path I was on. My heart was still buzzing from it all, from the kind of deep, soul-searching talks that leave you feeling both lighter and more awake than ever before. And then, in the midst of it, Shannon bought me a Bible. Not just any Bible, my first real Bible.

    “My Big Girl Bible,” I had joked, a phrase we laughed about. It had started as a running joke because, up until that point, I had been reading The Jesus Storybook Bible, a children’s Bible. It was all I had known, and in some ways, it felt like the right place to start. No upbringing in the church, no background in Scripture, how else was I supposed to begin if not with something that broke it down in its simplest form? I would listen to children’s Bible stories on Spotify as well, sitting cross-legged on my bed or curled up in a quiet corner, notebook in hand, scribbling down a million and one questions as they flooded my mind. I wanted to understand everything. The stories, the meaning, the history, the why behind it all. I was hungry for knowledge in a way I had never been before, as if each verse, each parable, each passage held a key to something I had been searching for my whole life. 

    I remember when my Bible finally arrived in the mail running my fingers over the cover, feeling the weight of it, knowing it was more than just a book, it was a doorway. A new beginning. A tangible piece of the faith I was stepping into. Holding it, I felt like a child taking their first unsteady steps into something vast and unknown. But instead of feeling lost, I felt found.

    I soaked up every story, every lesson, every word. It was like discovering a whole new world, one that had always existed, yet somehow felt as though it had been waiting for me all along. I couldn’t get enough. I had so much to learn. And I wanted to learn. I would sit in the dining room late at night, curled up in a lounge chair or tucked into bed, bombarding my friends with question after question. I wasn’t afraid to ask, wasn’t embarrassed by what I didn’t know, I was desperate to understand. And the beauty of it all? They didn’t always have the answers.

    At first, that surprised me. Weren’t they supposed to know? Weren’t they the ones who had grown up in the faith, who had spent years reading the Bible, who should be able to explain everything with certainty? But instead of frustration, I found comfort in their honesty. They didn’t pretend to have it all figured out. They pondered, they debated, they admitted when they were unsure. And somehow, that made it all feel more real. Maybe we weren’t supposed to have all the answers. Maybe faith wasn’t about certainty, it was about trust. Maybe some things were meant to remain mysteries, known only to God. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

    But it wasn’t always easy. In fact, some days, it felt nearly impossible. One of the hardest challenges I faced in the beginning was the sheer weight of how much I didn’t know. It was as if I had stepped into a world where everyone else spoke the language fluently, while I struggled just to understand the basics. I was surrounded by people who had been Christians their entire lives, people who could cite scripture effortlessly, who spoke in a rhythm of faith that felt foreign to me. They referenced Bible stories with ease, weaving verses into conversations as naturally as breathing. I, on the other hand, barely knew where Genesis ended and Exodus began. It was intimidating. Overwhelming.

    I had never felt that gap more than I did at my first Bible study. I remember walking in, my heart pounding, my hands gripping the edges of my Bible as if it were an anchor. I sat down among them, my stomach twisting in knots, praying, begging, that no one would ask me a question. What if they expected me to contribute? What if they realized I had no idea what I was doing? I felt like an imposter, like at any moment someone would turn to me and ask, What do you think, Ayla? and I would have nothing to say.

    The enemy saw my fear and seized it. The lies crept in, subtle at first, then deafening: You will never know enough. You don’t belong here. You are too far behind to ever catch up. They will see right through you. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to shrink into my chair and fade into the background, to find a way out before anyone could realize just how lost I felt. But I stayed. I swallowed my fear, fought back the doubts, and stayed. Because somewhere, buried beneath the fear, was the smallest flicker of hope, hope that maybe I did belong, even if I didn’t know all the answers. Hope that faith wasn’t about knowledge or expertise, but about the willingness to seek, to learn, to trust. I just didn’t know it yet.

    Ironically, my first Bible study ended up being about the devil himself. It felt almost too fitting, given the battle raging inside of me, the lies whispering that I didn’t belong, the fear that I would never know enough, the overwhelming sense that I was in over my head. I sat there, barely breathing, listening as the group discussed spiritual warfare, the ways the enemy works to deceive, to discourage, to keep people from drawing closer to God. Well, that explains a lot, I thought to myself. 

    Looking back, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend diving into a discussion about the forces of darkness on day one. I mean, of all the topics in the Bible, we could have started with something comforting, grace, love, forgiveness. But no, I walked straight into a conversation about the reality of the enemy, about the ways he twists truth, sows doubt, and keeps people trapped in fear. And yet, somehow, I didn’t let it deter me. Something in me refused to give up, to let doubt take hold. I pushed through, even as the lies clawed at me, even as the fear tried to drown me out. Because deep down, beyond the intimidation, beyond the feeling of being unqualified and unworthy, I was beginning to know something. This journey wasn’t about having all the answers. It wasn’t about being able to quote scripture effortlessly or understanding every theological debate. It wasn’t about earning a place at the table or proving that I belonged. It was about knowing Him. And that was enough.

    There have been many times over the past two years when I have felt like I would never know enough. Never be a good enough Christian. Never know enough Scripture to speak with confidence. Never pray the right way, with the right words, in the right rhythm that seemed to come so effortlessly to others. The doubt still creeps in sometimes, whispering that I am lacking, that I will never measure up. That I am still too new to this, too inexperienced, too far behind to ever catch up. I have sat with my Bible open in front of me, staring at the words, wondering how I would ever understand them fully. I have listened to others pray with such ease, while my own prayers felt clumsy, broken, incomplete.

    But in the midst of it all, I have learned something invaluable. God does not love me for my knowledge. He does not measure my worth by how much Scripture I have memorized or how eloquently I can pray. He does not require perfection. He does not love me more when I understand and love me less when I struggle. I have learned that no one will ever know enough. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been a Christian for one day, two years, or your entire life, there will always be questions. There will always be moments of uncertainty, moments where faith feels like standing in the dark and choosing to trust anyway. We are all still learning. Every single one of us. And maybe we will never have all the answers. Maybe we were never meant to. Maybe faith was never about certainty, but about surrender.

    And that’s okay. Because God knows. And in the end, that is enough.

    Some people find that frustrating, the idea of surrendering control, of trusting without knowing every detail. They want certainty, a roadmap, a guarantee that every step they take will lead exactly where they intend to go. The thought of not knowing makes them uneasy, like walking a path shrouded in fog, unable to see more than a few steps ahead. They crave answers, structure, and assurances before they are willing to trust. And I understood that, because for so long, I had been the same way. But for me, surrender wasn’t frustration, it was freedom. For the first time in my life, I could finally breathe. I could finally let go. The weight I had been carrying, the pressure to figure it all out, to make sense of my past, to control my future, began to lift. I realized I didn’t need to know everything. I didn’t have to have all the answers. 

    Because God had a plan for me. A plan bigger, greater, and more beautiful than anything I could ever construct on my own. A plan I didn’t need to see in full to trust. And as long as I kept pursuing Him, seeking His wisdom, walking in faith, and surrendering my fears, then I would be okay. Maybe I wouldn’t always understand the why or the how. Maybe the road ahead wouldn’t always be clear. Maybe life would still bring unexpected storms. But I didn’t have to have it all figured out. Because He did

    Proverbs 3:5-6 always comes to mind.

    “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”

    These words have become more than just a verse to me, they are a gentle yet firm reminder to surrender my heart at the Lord’s feet. To truly trust Him, not just in the easy moments, but in the ones where fear grips me, where uncertainty clouds my mind, where I feel like I need to take control. It’s a call to release, To let go of my worries, my anxieties, my need to have all the answers. To rest in His sovereignty, knowing that even when I can’t see the full picture, He is still at work. To lean into the strong, unwavering arms of a God who never wavers, never fails, never loses sight of me. Because how many times have I tried to rely on my own understanding, only to find myself lost, anxious, or exhausted? How many times have I thought I knew best, only to realize now that God’s plan was far greater than anything I could have orchestrated?

    This verse is a reminder to me that faith isn’t about holding on, it’s about letting go. It tells me to stop gripping so tightly to my own wisdom, to stop striving in my own strength, and instead, allow Him to take the helm. To trust that when I submit to Him, not just in some ways, not just on some days, but always and in always, He will lead me exactly where I need to be. Even if I don’t understand it at the time.

    And in that, I find peace. Not the kind of peace the world gives, fleeting and fragile, dependent on circumstances. But a deeper peace. A peace that comes from knowing that I am held, that I am led, that I am loved.