Every day, I find myself trying to hold two truths in tension, joy and sorrow, love and loss, each one vast, vivid, and deeply real. At Connaught, my days are steeped in contrast. I see deep love and deep grief, joy and devastation, celebration and mourning, often all within the same hour. It’s a place where a patient willingly gives up their only medical supplies to help someone else in greater need. Where someone’s mother dies because the medicine she needs is unaffordable. It’s where laughter echoes down a hallway just hours after heartbreak filled the same space.
And somehow, I’ve come to see that these contrasts aren’t separate. They aren’t opposite ends of a scale that I need to balance. They are all part of the same whole. I’m beginning to understand that love and suffering are not two different things, but threads of the same fabric. That joy and sorrow walk hand in hand. That’s something I’m learning deeply through God.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Some days, I come back to the ship with a full heart, bursting with gratitude, for the nurses who tried their hardest, for the patient who pulled through, for the quiet moment of grace in the chaos. And other days, I return hollowed out, angry at the world. Angry at God. I slam my journal shut after scrawling the words, Why God? Why? I ask Him to help me make sense of it all. To show me what good could possibly come from a child dying because they didn’t have a simple antibiotic. I wrestle with the injustice. With the brokenness. With the ache of helplessness.
And yet, even in that questioning, even in the anger and confusion and exhaustion, I’m beginning to know something. I’m learning that God doesn’t ask me to pretend the pain isn’t real. He doesn’t ask me to paste a smile over my grief. He asks me to come to Him with it all. To trust that He is big enough to hold both my joy and my sorrow. Because He feels it too. He feels our joy. And He feels our pain.
In my darkest, most disoriented moments, He is there. When I cry out to Him in anger, He doesn’t turn away, He leans in closer. And when I’m overwhelmed by joy, when I feel love so strong it threatens to split my heart open, I believe He is rejoicing with me.
There is a verse that always finds its way to me, Isaiah 43:2-3:
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.”
This is the God I’m learning to trust with all the pieces of my heart, the God who doesn’t promise to shield us from the fire, but who promises to walk through it with us. The God who doesn’t erase pain, but who transforms it into something deeper. More human. More holy.
So I keep walking the line between these emotions; love, pain, joy, suffering, no longer trying to separate them, but allowing them to bleed into one another. Trusting that God is present in all, and that somehow, through Him, they can coexist in grace. Letting the suffering teach me how to love deeper. Letting the joy remind me why it matters. Letting God meet me in both.
Because I’m starting to believe that the most profound transformation doesn’t happen when we escape the hard things, but when we stand in the midst of them and still choose to see beauty, to give thanks, to love wildly.
And in that space, in that sacred, messy, middle ground, I know I am not alone.
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.
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.
AYLA IN AFRICA 