When I try to put into words how I became a Christian, I always come back to this: there was a moment, and then there was a long becoming.

The moment was small, almost ordinary. I was five years old, in a quiet room, when my mother, Naomi Ayis, knelt beside me and gently led me in prayer. I don’t remember all the words I said, but I remember the feeling: a child’s simple yes. It wasn’t fireworks or visions of heaven opening — it was more like a seed pressed into the soil of my soul. Small, almost hidden. But real.

That seed took root, and over the years it has grown — not always straight, not always tall, sometimes battered by winds and storms, but still alive. My story is not one of a single moment of dazzling faith; it is one of return. Again and again, I have found myself drawn back to God — through joy, through pain, through questions I cannot answer, through losses that cut me in two.

“Being confident of this very thing,” Paul writes in Philippians 1:6, “that He who began a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” That verse has become a banner over my life. What God planted in me as a child, He has never abandoned. He has carried it through seasons of doubt, of grief, of busy striving and quiet surrender.

Growing Up in Northern Nigeria

I grew up in Northern Nigeria, a place of contrasts — beautiful landscapes, vibrant cultures, resilient communities, and yet also a land where faith has sometimes come at the highest price. In my part of the country, being a Christian wasn’t just about Sunday worship or family prayers. It was a decision that could set you apart, even make you a target. I remember hearing stories, sometimes seeing with my own eyes, of people killed simply for confessing Christ. Churches burned. Families displaced. Communities torn apart.

Faith, for us, was not a cultural accessory — it was survival. And it was defiance. It was choosing to believe in hope when fear stalked our neighborhoods. It was choosing to pray when others mocked. It was lifting our voices in thanksgiving, even when the ground beneath us trembled.

I think often of Psalm 91, a psalm many Christians in Nigeria cling to:

“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress;
My God, in Him I will trust.’” (vv. 1–2)

That promise became our prayer and our defense. We knew that human walls could fall, governments could fail, but the shadow of the Almighty was strong enough to cover us.

Lessons in Faith and Fragility

Even as a child, I carried questions. Why did some live and others die? Why did God allow His people to suffer? My young faith was mixed with fear, and sometimes I tried to bury my doubts in hard work and striving. I believed if I just worked hard enough, did enough, achieved enough, I could hold my world together.

But I discovered — again and again — that I was not enough. That even when my heart was “in the right place,” I could not save myself. Faith meant learning to unclench my fists, to stop trying to engineer my own safety and success, and to lean instead on the One who held my life.

In my YMI.today article, Africa: The Secret Behind Faith and Hope, I wrote of witnessing miracles of provision — echoes of the Bible itself — born from faith in a God whose power knows no end. I have seen Him move for brothers and sisters who, with open hands, gave their all — even their very last coin — for the sake of the gospel.

Prayer and thanksgiving became the steady practices that carried me. Not mountaintop miracles, but daily, ordinary rhythms: bowing my head, lifting my heart, naming my gratitude, voicing my fears. I discovered that prayer was less about eloquent words and more about honesty. That thanksgiving was not about ignoring pain, but about choosing to see God’s hand even in small mercies.

As Paul says in 1 Thessalonians 5:16–18:

“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

That command has never felt easy, but it has always been necessary.

The Valley of Loss

The deepest valley of my life came in May 2020. My mother — my mentor, my anchor, the one who had first led me to Christ — died after a long battle with cancer.

She died still believing. Even in her pain, even as her body grew frail, her faith did not falter. She trusted God’s goodness all the way to the end.

Watching her suffer shook me. Losing her broke me. Currently, half of my family is gone, and grief has become a companion I did not choose. There are mornings I wake up with questions burning: Why her? Why them? Why so soon? Why so much loss?

The psalmist’s cry has become mine:

“How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?
How long will You hide Your face from me?
How long shall I take counsel in my soul,
Having sorrow in my heart daily?” (Psalm 13:1–2)

And yet, like the psalmist, I return to the only place I can:

“But I have trusted in Your mercy;
My heart shall rejoice in Your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
Because He has dealt bountifully with me.” (Psalm 13:5–6)

Even in sorrow, God has met me. Not always with answers. Sometimes with silence. But even in the silence, He has not let me go.

Returning, Again and Again

If there is a pattern to my walk with Christ, it is the rhythm of returning. I gave my life to Him at five, but I have had to give it back countless times. When doubts swelled. When temptations lured. When grief crushed me. When anger burned. Again and again, I found myself back at His feet, whispering the same words: “Lord, I need You.”

Each return revealed something new about Him — His patience, His kindness, His refusal to let me slip away. He has been faithful when I was faithless, steady when I wavered, near when I felt abandoned.

I once wrote to my future self, asking her to: “remember to stay focused on Jesus, the author and finisher of your faith, who willingly went to the cross to secure your salvation. Remember you have been bought with a price. Continue to live a life that aims to glorify God.”

I cling to that hope. That the story of my life is not about my strength, but about His.

Out of Grief, a Calling

From the ashes of loss, something new was born. In 2019, even before my mother passed, I founded Valiant Scribe (valiantscribe.com), a Christian literary nonprofit. Its mission is to explore the intersection of the Christian faith and social issues. A platform that features work that speaks to human rights and social justice issues from perspectives of hope and truth.

Through stories, essays, poetry, and art, Valiant Scribe creates space for dialogue between faith and the world. It is a place where testimonies breathe, where art becomes prayer, where truth is spoken into brokenness.

After my mother’s death, Valiant Scribe took on even deeper meaning. To honor her and my brother, we established the Valiant Scribe Scholarship, which supports young people in Nigeria with access to education. My mother had always believed in the power of education to transform lives, and this scholarship became a way of turning grief into legacy, sorrow into seed.

Isaiah 61:3 promises that God will give His people “beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” That promise has become real to me — not in a way that erases loss, but in a way that redeems it.

Still Becoming

My testimony is not neat. It is not a straight line of victory after victory. It is a messy story of stumbling and standing, of doubting and believing, of weeping and still singing.

I still have questions. I still face days when faith feels fragile. But I know this: the God who met me as a five-year-old girl in Northern Nigeria has never stopped meeting me. The same Jesus who held my hand then holds me now.

Romans 8:38–39 declares:

“For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor
things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be
able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

That is my story. That is my testimony. That is the truth I will carry until the end: He has never let go of me.

And that is enough.

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Debra Ayis is a Canadian-Nigerian, award-winning writer and poet published in over 100
anthologies, reviews, magazines, journals, and devotionals such as the City University of New York (CUNY) Killens Review of Arts & Letters; Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, the Hopkinsville Community College’s Round Table Literary Journal, Agape Review, ForwardPress, Triumph House, Forward Poetry, YouVersion, YMI Blogging — Our Daily Bread, and others. She has read poetry in venues such as The Players NYC, the Annual New York Poetry Festival (2018-2019), Queens Library-Forest Hills, and many other festivals and venues.

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