Category: My Faith Journey

Thoughts on my Spiritual Journey

Leading from the Pew: What It Takes to Guide a Church as a Layperson

“Guiding with Grace, Not a Title”

By Alexander Atkinson Jr.

Leadership in the church isn’t reserved for those with a title or theological degree. Throughout Scripture and history, God has consistently raised up faithful men and women—shepherds, tentmakers, fishermen, and elders—to lead His people. In many small or rural communities, especially, the church is often led not by a full-time pastor, but by lay leaders—faithful elders who carry the burden and blessing of guiding the body of Christ.

So what does it take to lead a church as a layperson?

Let’s explore some key elements:

1. A Life Anchored in Prayer and the Word

You can’t lead spiritually if you’re not being led spiritually.

An elder doesn’t need to preach every Sunday, but they do need to be immersed in the Scriptures and sensitive to the voice of God. Leading others begins with your own walk. This includes a disciplined life of prayer—not just for yourself, but for the church, its future, and each member. Leading without the Holy Spirit is like steering a ship without a compass.

“Spiritual authority flows from spiritual intimacy.”

2. Servant Leadership over Position

Jesus made it clear: “The greatest among you will be your servant.” (Matthew 23:11)

As a lay leader, you’re not above anyone else. You’re called to model humility, to serve with open hands and a willing heart. Leadership in the church looks like listening more than speaking, stepping in when things need to be done, and mentoring the next generation of believers with grace and patience.

3. Unity and Vision

One of the main roles of an elder or lay leader is to help preserve unity and direction.

Without a clear sense of purpose, a church can become divided or stagnant. Lay leaders often serve as bridge-builders—bringing people together, resolving tensions, and reminding the body of its mission. Whether it’s organizing outreach, fostering discipleship, or planning services, the goal is always the same: to keep the church aligned with God’s heart and Word.

4. Spiritual Maturity and Accountability

A lay leader should be someone others look to—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re growing.

Paul’s instructions to Timothy about elders include being “above reproach,” self-controlled, hospitable, and not a lover of money. These qualities matter. Lay leaders must be willing to be accountable, to correct in love, and to accept correction themselves. The weight of leadership is not light—but it is rewarding when handled with integrity.

5. Relational Strength and Emotional Availability

Pastoral care isn’t just for pastors.

People in the church need to be seen, heard, and loved. Lay leaders often fill in the gaps—visiting the sick, counseling the struggling, checking in on the hurting. It’s less about having all the answers and more about being present, being real, and being consistent.

6. Faithfulness in the Small Things

Much of church leadership happens behind the scenes.

Setting up chairs. Opening the doors. Preparing communion. Calling someone who’s been absent. These aren’t glamorous tasks, but they matter deeply. Faithfulness in the small builds credibility in the big. Elders who are steady and dependable—even when no one is watching—create a culture of service and trust.

Final Thoughts

To lead a church as a layperson is no small calling. It demands prayerfulness, humility, vision, maturity, and love. It’s not about having a pulpit, but about carrying a cross. Not about titles, but about testimony. And the beauty is—God honors it. He uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things in His name.

If you’re a lay leader, or stepping into that role, take heart. You don’t have to do it perfectly—just faithfully. And remember: you’re not leading alone. Christ is the true Shepherd. You’re simply walking in step with Him, helping others do the same.

“Shepherd the flock of God that is among you… not domineering over those in your charge, but being examples to the flock.” — 1 Peter 5:2-3

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“The Night I Discovered What My Heart Had Been Searching For”

What the Gospel Means to Me
By Alexander Atkinson Jr.

I’ve been sitting with this thought for quite some time: What does the Gospel mean to you?

For me, the Gospel isn’t just a message—it’s a journey. A love story, really. One that started way back when I was just a child attending Sunday school at the William Duncan Memorial Church, back when it was still a Methodist church. That’s where I first heard the name Jesus. There were good lessons—stories about kindness, miracles, and this man who loved people deeply. But as a kid, I didn’t fully grasp it. I heard the stories, but I didn’t feel them yet.

Years passed, and when I was 18, my family—Mom, Dad, and my sister—started attending the same church again. Only now, it had become an Assembly of God church. And wow… it was different. The place felt alive. I mean really alive. The music, the energy, the joy—it was contagious. I remember seeing the youth group around town, and something inside me stirred. I couldn’t explain it then, but it was like my heart whispered, They’ve got something I need.

I felt the same thing watching my parents. A kind of peace. A light. A quiet strength. I wanted that.

Then one cold October evening, everything changed.

My cousin, best friend, and I were walking near the Duncan Church when we heard music spilling out the front doors. Guitars, singing, voices full of life. The church was packed. I felt this strong pull, like something—or Someone—was calling me in. I said, “Hey, let’s go inside. It might be warm in there.” (That was the excuse I gave, anyway.)

So we walked in and found a seat near the back. I felt a little awkward but strangely at home. The singing was electric. The preacher was full of fire and joy. I don’t remember the message or what he preached that night—but I do remember the moment that came next.

He gave what’s called an altar call, an invitation for anyone who wanted prayer or to make a decision to follow Jesus. And in that moment, I knew: This is it. This is what I’ve been searching for.
My hand went up. I thought I’d just get prayed for from afar.

But then came the challenge: “If you raised your hand, come forward.”

My heart was racing. My palms were sweaty. But I went.

I knelt down at the front pew, completely unsure of what to do. I didn’t know how to pray. I didn’t even have the words. And then—tap on my shoulder. A man with a big smile knelt next to me. He was the youth pastor. “Can I pray with you?” he asked. I nodded, a bit nervous. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.

He just smiled and said, “That’s okay. I’ll help.” And he led me through a simple, honest prayer.

That night, something changed in me. It wasn’t about religion. It wasn’t about tradition. It was about love. Real, overwhelming, unconditional love. A kind of love I didn’t earn—but was offered freely.

That’s what the Gospel means to me.

It’s the kindness of a youth pastor.
The warmth of a crowded church on a cold night.
The way music can stir something deep in your soul.
It’s hope when you feel lost.
It’s grace when you feel unsure.
It’s a fresh start when you didn’t know you needed one.

The Gospel isn’t just something I believe—it’s something I experienced. A love that found me, called me in, and changed everything.

And I’m still on that journey.

“The Gospel is not just good news—it’s the greatest invitation ever given, whispered straight to the heart.”

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“The Potholes of Life and the Tune-Ups We Need”

Freeswrite Thoughts and reflections:

“When life knocks you out of alignment, visit your Spiritual Mechanic.”
by Alexander Atkinson

We live in a world where many of us love to drive—getting from point A to point B, always on a mission of some sort. Our vehicle is simply a means to move us forward, much like our own lives. We’re all on a mission, striving to reach the next destination on this journey we call life.

But every now and then, as we drive, we hit a pothole. They’re out there—waiting—and when we hit one hard enough, it can throw our vehicle out of alignment. After a few thousand miles, our car needs an oil change, maybe even a tune-up.

Life is no different. Along the way, we take hits, we get out of alignment, and our spiritual “engine” starts to run rough. Every now and then, we need to visit our Spiritual Mechanic—to realign, refresh, and recharge. Sometimes that means prayer, reflection, rest, or simply letting God work on the parts of our heart that have grown weary.

Because just like a car, we can’t keep running on fumes. We need those tune-ups if we want to keep moving forward—strong, steady, and aligned with the road ahead.

“When life knocks you out of alignment, visit your Spiritual Mechanic.”

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What Does It Mean to “REST”?

Notes by Alex – by Alex Atkinson

“The Quiet Invitation to Rest”
Finding Soul-Deep Renewal in the Midst of Life’s Burdens

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. this morning with this thought on my heart: What does it really mean to “REST”?

The phrase “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” is a well-known verse from the Bible, specifically Matthew 11:28. It’s an invitation from Jesus to those who are feeling overwhelmed, burdened, or exhausted—offering them a kind of rest that goes beyond simply stopping and sleeping.

This verse is part of a larger passage where Jesus contrasts his gentle and humble approach with the heavy, often exhausting burdens of religious legalism of his time. He invites us to find solace, renewal, and true rest in him, suggesting that his teachings and way of life are far lighter and more freeing than the weight of expectations and struggles we often carry.

The phrase “weary and burdened” resonates deeply because it can speak to so many forms of suffering we face in life:

  • Physical toil: The exhaustion from endless work and effort.
  • Spiritual burdens: The guilt, anxiety, or shame that weighs heavy on the soul.
  • The burden of law and expectation: The crushing feeling of never measuring up to rules or standards.
  • Emotional exhaustion: The heaviness that comes from life’s constant challenges.

Jesus’s invitation is simple yet profound. It’s not only about finding physical rest but about experiencing a deeper, spiritual renewal—a rest for the soul. It’s an open invitation to anyone who feels the weight of life pressing down, reminding us that rest is not always about stopping—it’s about surrendering.

Moving to Tennessee, and now Alaska…
Small-town life has been healing to my heart. I’ve thought a lot about how stepping away from the busyness of city life, into the quiet rhythm of the country, has given me room to slow down, reflect, and let God work on the wounds I once carried. Alaska, with its wide-open spaces and wild beauty, has been a teacher of rest—reminding me that sometimes God calls us away so He can restore what was broken.

“Rest is not found in running from the storm but in trusting the One who calms it.”

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“Finding Light in the Dark Night”

Notes by Alex – By Alexander Atkinson

Through the Dark Night of the Soul

Today, I found myself slowing down—taking a real, honest look inward. It’s been a season of self-evaluation, reflection, and growth. But let me tell you, growth isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes, it feels like a storm, like wandering through a tunnel with no light in sight. I’ve come to call that time in my life “the dark night of the soul.”

It was rough—probably one of the hardest things I’ve walked through. But the biggest takeaway I have from it is this: YOU CAN GET THROUGH IT.

When you’re in the thick of mental and emotional struggle, it’s easy to believe it will last forever. But growth often begins in the moments when we choose to take one small step forward, even when it’s hard. For me, that has meant actively working on my mental well-being, choosing not to sit in the darkness but to walk toward the light.

Growing through mental health isn’t just about surviving—it’s about actively nurturing ourselves, seeking connection, and using the resources available to us. Here’s what I’ve been learning:

1. Self-Care and Well-being

  • Mindfulness and Meditation:
    Even a few minutes a day of slowing down and just being present can make a difference. Mindfulness has helped me quiet the chaos inside and tune in to what’s real and true.
  • Physical Activity:
    A simple walk, moving my body, getting outside—it’s surprising how much it shifts my perspective and mood.
  • Sleep Hygiene:
    I’ve learned to value rest. Without it, the mind struggles to heal and reset.
  • Healthy Diet:
    Eating well isn’t just for the body—it impacts the mind. Balanced meals, less processed junk, and being intentional with what I put into my body have helped me feel more stable and energized.
  • Limit Substance Use:
    Letting go of things that numb me has allowed me to feel again—and feeling, though hard at times, is part of true healing.
  • Practice Gratitude:
    Gratitude has been my anchor. Some days it’s as simple as saying, “I’m thankful I woke up today,” and other days it’s a long list of blessings.

2. Building Connections and Support

  • Social Connections:
    We are not meant to walk this life alone. Spending time with friends, family, or just being around people who bring light helps chip away at the loneliness.
  • Support Groups:
    Finding people who understand—who get the struggle—has been powerful. There’s strength in knowing you’re not the only one fighting this battle.
  • Volunteering:
    Helping others, even in small ways, shifts my focus outward. It gives me purpose, and purpose is a powerful antidote to darkness.

The truth is, mental health isn’t just something we “fix” once. It’s something we cultivate—through small, daily practices, through seeking help when we need it, and through being gentle with ourselves in the process.

If you’re in that dark night of the soul, I want you to know that you are not alone. The road through it may not be easy, but there is a way through. And on the other side? Growth, resilience, and a deeper understanding of who you are.

“Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise. Healing begins the moment you believe you are worth the light.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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“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

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“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.

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