Ride Now, Ride Now: The Call to Courage

When darkness gathers, it’s not the time to retreat—it’s the time to rise.

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

There’s something in the human spirit that stirs when we hear a battle cry—not one born of violence, but of resolve. Tolkien’s words don’t just belong in the realm of fantasy. They live in us. They echo in our quiet moments of doubt, in the face of rising storms, in the still morning when the world hasn’t yet caught fire—but you know it’s coming.

We all face our own “sword-days.”
Moments where everything is on the line.
Where darkness tries to crowd in.
Where you feel the pull to sit it out, to stay hidden, to let someone else ride.

But we weren’t made for retreat.

We were made to rise.

Like the Riders of Rohan, sometimes we are called to charge—not because the odds are good, but because the cause is just. Not because it’s safe, but because someone must stand. Because honor, truth, and courage still matter. Because deep in our souls, there’s a warrior cry waiting to be released.

And here’s the thing: it’s not about war. It’s about courage.
It’s about how you face your battles—your setbacks, your disappointments, your losses, your doubts.

Maybe today your battlefield is a broken dream.
Maybe it’s a silent struggle no one else sees.
Maybe it’s leadership under pressure, or being a light in a weary family, a divided community, or a hurting world.

But no matter the shape of your battle, the call is the same: Arise.

Arise with love.
Arise with faith.
Arise with vision.
Arise not because you’re fearless, but because you’ve chosen to move forward anyway.

We may not ride horses to Gondor.
But we do ride into each new day—often with splintered shields and trembling hands.
And still we ride.

Because someone’s waiting on the other side of your courage.
Because your rising may awaken another.
Because light is stronger than darkness—and it travels fastest through the willing.

So whatever today holds, ride boldly into it.

Ride now. Ride now.

– Notes by Alex
A place for reflections, reminders, and the quiet roar of courage.

July 21, 2025 0

In God’s World, Transitions Are Invitations

“Moving Beyond the Unknown into God’s Designed Destiny”
By Alex Atkinson Jr.

Transitions can feel like endings. Like we’re leaving behind a chapter we weren’t quite ready to close. Whether it’s a job change, a move, a relationship shift, or even just growing older—these moments can bring uncertainty. But in God’s world, transitions are never just about what’s ending. They’re invitations.

They invite us into purpose. Into maturity. Into greater impact.

I’ve seen this firsthand in my own journey—from growing up in the village of Metlakatla, to flying seaplanes across the wilderness of Southeast Alaska, to stepping into the world of private aviation and beyond. Each shift, whether welcome or not, pulled me into something deeper. Sometimes, I didn’t even realize it until I was on the other side.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe:

God doesn’t waste transitions.

He uses them to prepare us for what’s next.
He uses them to grow us up.
He uses them to position us for more influence—not just for our sake, but for the people we’re meant to serve, love, and lead.

And that means when things start shifting—when doors close or opportunities seem to dry up—it’s not the time to panic. It’s the time to pay attention.

Because maybe that closed door isn’t rejection.
Maybe it’s redirection.
Maybe it’s your invitation.

I’m learning to lean in more during these moments. To ask: What is God inviting me into here? What needs to grow in me? What old thing must fall away to make space for the new?

If you’re in a season of transition right now—take heart. You’re not lost. You’re being led.

And in God’s world, where every detail carries purpose, even the waiting, the stretching, and the unknown are part of the story. His story. Your story.

So today, I leave you with this:

Transitions aren’t just detours.
They’re divine invitations.
Into more. Into deeper.
Into Him.

Excerpt for social media:
“In God’s world, transitions aren’t detours—they’re divine invitations into deeper purpose, greater impact, and stronger faith.” – Alex Atkinson Jr.

July 20, 2025 0

Unity in the Village: Why Love Still Matters in Small Town Life

“Choosing Unity Over Division in the Place We All Call Home”
By Alex Atkinson Jr.

I’ve lived in a small town most of my life. Metlakatla, Alaska, is home—and like many small towns across the country, we carry both the beauty and the burden of close-knit living. We know one another. We share history, hardship, and hope. But like any community, we also face our fair share of challenges.

Not all small towns are the same, of course—but many of us experience familiar themes. Tensions rise, misunderstandings brew, and sometimes, unfortunately, divisions set in. And to be honest, that’s the part of small-town life I find hardest to watch.

“We don’t have to believe the same to love the same.”

Division can come from anywhere—a disagreement, a difference in how we do things, or a clash of beliefs. Maybe we see the world through different lenses. Maybe our upbringings or faith journeys aren’t identical. But in the end, none of that should keep us from being united.

I’m not here to say we all have to agree on everything. That’s not unity—that’s uniformity. What I long to see is something deeper: honor and respect. Even when we do things differently. Even when we believe differently. A place where you can be you, and I can be me—and we still choose to love each other anyway.

No jealousy. No hidden agendas. Just a genuine attitude of care and kinship.

That’s what family is. That’s what community should be. Not perfect. Not always peaceful. But deeply rooted in love—the kind that ties us together in the storms, not just the celebrations.

In a time when the world feels more divided than ever, maybe our little town can stand out—not for how we argue, but for how we stay connected through it all. Love still matters here. And maybe if we choose it, again and again, we’ll help write a better story for the next generation watching us.

July 18, 2025 0

“The Blanket, The Dream, and the Song”

By Alex Atkinson Jr.

There are moments in life that are too exact, too timely, too profound to be coincidence. I want to share one of those moments with you—an experience that has stayed with me for years and still stirs something deep in my spirit.

I was living in California at the time. One night, before our regular home group meeting, I had a vivid dream—so vivid it woke me up and lingered in my thoughts the next morning. In the dream, a man stood before our group, speaking. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I saw him clearly. He called me forward and “protocoled” me—something I wasn’t raised with or fully understood at the time. In the dream, he draped a large wool blanket over my shoulders, one with Native designs, vibrant and heavy with meaning. As he placed it on me, he spoke of how the Creator had called me to lead our people. Then, just like that, the dream faded.

I woke up thinking, What was that?

The next morning, I arrived at the house for our meeting. People were getting the coffee and donuts ready—everything smelled like breakfast and fellowship. As I walked in, I noticed a man behind the counter. I’d never met him before. But when our eyes met, we both froze for a second.

“I know you,” he said.

“I know you too,” I replied. “You were in my dream last night.”

We both laughed, a little startled, a little amazed. His name was Reesey. We sat down, and he began sharing about his journey—how he had been learning about Native American culture, about honor, land, music, and story. And just like in my dream, he stood up, spoke to the group, called me forward, and protocoled me. He reached into his bag, pulled out a Native American wool blanket, and draped it over my shoulders.

He spoke about the calling our Creator had placed on my life, calling forth things that had been buried, dormant—things that were waiting to awaken.

I was wrecked. In the best way. It was one of those moments you don’t forget, that marks you for life.

Then Reesey shared another story—one that shook me even more.

He told us about a group of First Nations people from the Pacific Northwest who had traveled with a woman named Linda Prince to British Columbia, and then all the way to Jerusalem. They sought permission to sing and honor the land and its leaders at the Western Wall. With permission granted, they approached the wall in full regalia, singing the songs of our people—the drum echoing through the holy site.

As they sang, the rabbis came out, visibly moved.

“Why are you singing the songs of our people?” they asked.

“These are the songs of our people,” the leaders replied. “Songs buried for generations. We believe now is the time to bring them back.”

The rabbis, stunned, responded, “You don’t understand. You’re singing in ancient high Hebrew. These are songs of worship given by the Creator.”

Let that sink in.

The rabbis told them: You might be the lost tribe of Israel.

How do you explain that?

You don’t. Not with logic, anyway. Only the Creator could orchestrate something so layered, mysterious, and beautiful.

That story has stayed with me just as much as my dream about Reesey. It awakened something in me—something ancestral, something holy, something deeply tied to identity, purpose, and land.

I believe these songs, these stories, these blankets of calling are rising again. And I believe our Creator is on the move.

“The songs of our people are being awakened again.”
—Alex Atkinson Jr.

July 18, 2025 0

From the Docks to the Sky: How I Became a Seaplane Pilot from a Tiny Native Village in Alaska

Notes from Alex
By Alex Atkinson Jr.

I grew up in a small Native American village tucked away in the breathtaking wilderness of Southeast Alaska. Metlakatla—our only Native American reserve in the state—is a close-knit fishing and lumber town on Annette Island. That’s home.

In Metlakatla, the rhythm of life follows the tides. Fishing isn’t just a job—it’s a legacy. Many of my family members made their living on the water, and when the lumber mill was running full steam, others worked there too. As for me, I spent time working with my parents and family at the fish processing plant—Annette Island Packing Co. That was my world growing up. The salt air, the sound of boats returning from the sea, the bustle of the dock—that was normal.

But even then, something in me stirred for something… different. Bigger. Higher.

You see, in our village, there were only two ways to leave: by boat or by seaplane. And those seaplanes—they captured my imagination from a young age. Every time I saw one skim across the water and lift into the air, my heart lifted with it. Fishing might have been in my blood, but my mind? It was always in the clouds.

When I got to high school and we took the SATs, I struggled. Sitting in a classroom, grinding through test prep—that just wasn’t me. The advice I got wasn’t surprising: “Stick with what you know. Maybe go into fishing or lumber.” That’s what people expected. Based on my test scores, they said becoming a pilot might not be in the cards for me.

But you know what? I didn’t care.

I knew what I wanted.

I was going to become a pilot. A seaplane pilot.

So after high school, I took a year to regroup, then enrolled in flight school. Seven months later, I had earned my Private Pilot Certificate, my Commercial Pilot License, my Instrument Rating, and my Seaplane Rating. I didn’t stop. A little over a year after that, I was flying online—earning a paycheck—as a commercial seaplane pilot.

And you know what? I did it. No matter what anyone else said, I made it.

I’ve now spent the majority of my career in aviation, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Aviation gave me a life that started in a small Native village and took me to the skies above the Tongass National Forest, the Inside Passage, and beyond.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Don’t let someone else’s opinion of your potential define your path.

I’m living proof that ambition and persistence can overcome low test scores, limited opportunity, and even small-town expectations.

Aviation isn’t just my career—it’s my life. And it all started in a little fishing village called Metlakatla.

July 17, 2025 0

“When Nature Speaks, What Is Heaven Saying?”

🌍 Notes from Alex: When the Earth Groans — Is Something Being Born?

Lately, I’ve found myself paying closer attention — not just to headlines, but to the earth itself.

The rain falls heavier. The floods come faster. The fires burn hotter. Earthquakes, storms, strange weather patterns. It’s easy to dismiss them as just part of the natural order — but more and more, people are sensing something deeper. Almost spiritual. As if the earth isn’t just reacting to nature… but to the heavens.

Many believe that what we’re seeing in the physical world mirrors what’s happening in the spiritual realm. That there’s activity in the heavens — a shift, a stirring, a divine movement — and the earth is responding. Contracting. Shaking. Groaning. Almost like something is about to be born.

The Bible speaks of this in Romans 8:22 — “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.” That verse hits differently these days. Because when I look around, it really does feel like the world is in labor. Not dying — but birthing.

So the question becomes: What is being born?

Is it judgment? Is it revival?
A new era? A course correction?
Or is it something even more personal — a transformation within us, preparing us to carry something sacred into a broken world?

I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: when something is about to be born, the pain intensifies. The pressure increases. But it’s not in vain — it’s with purpose. It’s because something is coming. Something bigger than us.

So maybe, instead of fearing the shaking, we should ask what it’s trying to wake up in us.

Maybe this isn’t the end.
Maybe it’s just the beginning.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to prepare ourselves — not just for what’s happening, but for what’s emerging.

Because something is.

And it’s going to change everything.

— Alex

July 17, 2025 0

Honoring Our Guests, Honoring Our Ancestors

“A Night of Song, Dance, and Ancestral Pride in Metlakatla”
Notes from Alex – July 16, 2025

I wanted to take a moment to share something deeply personal and powerful that I experienced yesterday here in my hometown, Metlakatla.

NOTE: This is the song(s) sang last night, but the recording is from a few years ago I love love love this song series:

A local dance group performed at the Longhouse—an evening of dance and song offered in honor of the guests who are visiting and helping our community. What struck me most wasn’t just the performance, but the spirit behind it. The conviction in the voices, the rhythm of the drums, the movement of the dancers—it brought tears to my eyes.

As I sat there watching, I felt something I can only describe as sacred. The songs carried a weight, a history. In that moment, I imagined our ancestors standing with us, watching with pride. It was more than a performance—it was a living memory. A connection between past and present, carried in each step and every note.

To the dance group who performed last night: thank you. Your passion and dedication to keeping our traditions alive stirred something deep in me. And to others in our community who do the same—your work matters. It uplifts us. It reminds us of who we are and where we come from.

I’m so proud to see our people embracing our culture—our songs, our stories, our history. These traditions aren’t relics. They are alive—and they are powerful.

Amazing things are happening here in Metlakatla. I’m grateful to witness them.

—Alex

July 16, 2025 0

Mornings on the Water: Life as a Seaplane Pilot in 1980s Southeast Alaska

“From Metlakatla to the Misty Fjords — A Day in the Life of an Alaskan Bush Pilot”

By Alex Atkinson Jr.

Back in the 1980s, I had the honor—and I do mean honor—of flying as a commercial seaplane pilot in Southeast Alaska. I was based out of Metlakatla and kept my aircraft docked there five days a week.

My days started early. Real early. I’d be up at 5:00 a.m., and head down to the dock where the airplane—usually a DeHavilland Beaver or sometimes a 185—had spent the night tied up, resting after a long day before. The quiet of those early mornings, the dock creaking softly, the scent of saltwater and spruce in the air—it was something special. I’d perform my preflight check while the world was still half-asleep.

Once ready, I’d fire up the engine while still tied to the dock, letting her warm up for that first flight of the day. By 6:30 a.m., I’d taxi the aircraft out into the open bay, perform my pre-takeoff checks, and begin my takeoff run. Within moments, I’d lift off the water, leaving Metlakatla behind and heading for Ketchikan—a short 12-minute hop over some of the most stunning terrain on the planet.

Ketchikan’s harbor would already be humming by the time I landed and taxied in. I’d tie up, refuel, and prepare for the first tour flight of the day. On busy mornings, our operation was a well-oiled machine: up to 10 planes heading out in the first rotation to the Misty Fjords National Monument.

We had a fleet that could move people. The DeHavilland Beavers carried five passengers. The Otters took ten. The Cessna 185s held three. Each flight lasted about 75 minutes, and we’d brief our passengers before departure—headsets on, smiles wide, cameras ready.

Then came the show.

One by one, aircraft would taxi out and line up, ready to depart for the Fjords. It was a ballet of sorts—15 planes moving in rhythm over the water, headed into what we all knew was God’s country.

As we climbed to cruising altitude—anywhere from 1,500 to 4,000 feet—we’d begin our narration, chatting with our guests over the intercom. We’d round Mountain Point, heading toward Rudyard Bay, the entryway into the Misty Fjords.

Flying beside towering cliffs and deep green valleys, we’d point out waterfalls, ridgelines, glaciers, and wildlife. Eagles. Bears. Maybe even a whale breaching in the distance.

The highlight? Landing on a secluded bay or alpine lake, shutting the engine down, and letting the passengers step out onto the pontoons. The looks on their faces—pure wonder. They’d take photos, videos, breathe in the stillness. Ask questions. Soak it all in.

After 5 to 10 minutes, we’d load everyone back up, take off once again, and make the return trip to Ketchikan.

When we landed, there were always smiles. Always thank-yous. They had just experienced something few people in the world ever will—Alaska, seen from the sky, felt on the water.

It’s hard to describe the feeling you get flying seaplanes in Southeast Alaska. The scenery never gets old. The job, though demanding, was more like a calling. A life of adventure, of responsibility, of deep connection to this place.

Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was. The life of an Alaskan Seaplane Pilot was more than a career—it was a front-row seat to something truly magnificent. And I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

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July 14, 2025 0

“Fading Light, Rising Words: How the Wilderness Inspires the Page”

“How the Evening Wilderness Awakens the Writer Within”

It’s late evening now. The kind of late that’s still not quite dark, not in Southeast Alaska. The light recedes slowly here, like a shy guest at the end of a long gathering, lingering near the doorway before slipping out unnoticed. Above the forested slopes and jagged ridgelines of the Prince of Wales-Hyder region, the sky burns with soft fire—rose golds and dusky lavenders blending into a cobalt sea overhead. The sun has dipped, but its memory lingers, casting long blue shadows across the spruce trees, across the tidepools, across me.

This is the hour that often sparks something in me—the quiet ignition of an idea, a phrase, a scene I didn’t know was waiting. It’s as if the land itself is whispering: Are you ready to write now?

And it begins with sound. The world hushes in the absence of engines and voices. A raven croaks from somewhere unseen, its echo bouncing off the cliffs like an old drum. The breeze carries the faintest tremble of the ocean—distant, steady, like breath. And then there’s the intimate rustling of leaves, the kind that almost sounds like a conversation between the trees. The wind moves through alder and cedar, stirring branches like fingers running over old piano keys. Nature, at this hour, becomes composer and orchestra both.

The air—what a strange, wonderful thing it is. Sometimes in July, it holds a ghost of warmth, especially inland. But more often, as night sets in, it breathes cool across your skin, reminding you that summer here is always borrowed time. It smells like salt and sap and earth—like wet moss, like a tide gone out, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I close my eyes, and it feels like a sigh against my face, a promise of another morning just beyond the trees.

My boots press into a forest trail damp with dew, the ground soft but solid beneath me. I run a hand across the rough, flaking bark of a cedar tree—the kind of tree that has seen more sunsets than I’ve seen seasons. The moss at its base is thick and bright, spongy like it was made to remember the shape of your step. Stones along the trail are slick and smooth, worn down from years of storms and glacier-fed runoff. Everything out here holds history, even if it doesn’t tell it outright.

And then, there’s this one small thing.

A single wildflower—monkshood, I think—growing from the edge of a rock. Its hooded purple bloom glows like a secret in the fading light. Most would walk by without noticing. But something about it stops me. The way it leans just slightly toward the west, catching the last amber sliver of sunlight. The way it holds its space—fragile, maybe, but not weak. That’s a story, I think. Not the flower itself, maybe. But the way it stands alone, defiant and delicate, in the dying light. The way it refuses to be swallowed by shadow.

This is how inspiration works for me. It starts outside. It starts with watching and waiting and listening. It starts in the fading light.

What about you?

What places stir your thoughts into motion? What time of day helps you find your voice? Do you wait for silence, or do you write amid the noise of life?

Here in Southeast Alaska, in the stillness between the tides, I find mine.

And if you’re ever searching for yours, maybe come stand in the hush of this wilderness. The story might already be waiting for you.

July 13, 2025 0

What It Means to Be Connected

Why Belonging, Support, and Shared Purpose Matter More Than Ever

In a world that often pulls us in different directions, the power of connection has never been more important. Whether you’re in a tight-knit village like Metlakatla, a family business, a church group, or a professional team, the strength of any group lies in its ability to connect on a human level. But what does it really mean to be connected?

Belonging: The Heart of Connection

At the core of every thriving community is a sense of belonging. It’s more than just being present—it’s being seen, heard, and valued. When people feel accepted and understood, they naturally show up more fully. It’s the invisible thread that makes someone say, “These are my people.”

Shared Identity: Our Common Ground

Communities with strong connections often share more than just physical space. They share stories, values, and a collective history. Whether it’s a cultural tradition, a shared vision for the future, or simply growing up in the same place, shared identity is what gives a group its soul.

Mutual Support: Leaning on Each Other

True connection means knowing you can count on others—and they can count on you. It’s the neighbor who shows up when your generator goes out. The friend who listens without judgment. The coworker who steps in when you’re overwhelmed. Mutual support transforms groups into families.

Meaningful Relationships: Depth Over Surface

Surface-level connection isn’t enough. We thrive when we build meaningful relationships—when we know people’s stories, their struggles, their dreams. Authentic connection requires vulnerability, trust, and a commitment to showing up for one another in real ways.

Shared Experiences: The Glue of Community

From potlucks to fishing trips, community cleanups to youth basketball leagues—shared experiences create memories that bind us together. These moments deepen our bonds and remind us that we’re in this life together.

Active Participation: You Get Out What You Put In

Connection is a two-way street. It doesn’t happen by accident—it happens when people actively engage. Show up. Contribute. Help set up the chairs, lead the project, share your voice. Your presence matters more than you realize.

When Connection is Missing: What Can Be Done?

Disconnected communities don’t just feel lonely—they become ineffective. But we can bridge the gap:

Start with Communication: Honest, respectful conversations lay the groundwork for trust.
Create Opportunities to Gather: Don’t underestimate the power of a meal, a story circle, or a volunteer project to bring people together.
Encourage Collaboration: Shared work builds shared purpose.
Practice Empathy: Listen deeply. Be willing to see the world through someone else’s eyes.
Celebrate Diversity: Unity doesn’t mean uniformity. Our differences are strengths, not weaknesses.
Support Inclusive Leadership: Leaders who prioritize people over power are the ones who build lasting communities.
Address the Hard Stuff: Conflict, fear, or mistrust can block connection. Face it head-on, with grace and honesty.
Keep Showing Up: Relationships take time. Don’t give up when things get tough. Be patient. Be consistent.

Final Thoughts: Building Connection is the Work of a Lifetime

To be connected is to be human. It’s how we thrive. It’s how we heal. It’s how we build communities that last.

If you’re part of a group that feels disconnected right now—don’t wait. Start with one conversation, one shared meal, one small act of care. That’s how we begin again.

Let’s talk:
How do you build connection in your own community? What’s worked—and what hasn’t? Drop your thoughts in the comments or share this with someone who could use a reminder that connection is possible, even now.

July 11, 2025 0