I’ve  done a few things in my life that could reasonably be described as “questionable decision-making with a side of adrenaline.”

I’ve jumped out of an aeroplane—perfectly good, fully functioning, mid-flight—on purpose. I’ve run a half marathon, which is essentially paying money to experience prolonged discomfort in public while questioning every life choice that led you to kilometre 18. I’ve also been white water rafting, where I discovered that “paddling in sync” is less about teamwork and more about not falling out while pretending you know what you’re doing.

And then there’s the small matter of completing a degree in English Literature… while being dyslexic.

Yes, really.

That particular adventure involved a lot of reading, a lot of re-reading, and a deep, personal relationship with spellcheck. If determination burned calories, I’d have outrun my half marathon time just by finishing my dissertation. Still, I did it—which either proves I’m resilient, slightly stubborn, or blissfully unaware of when to quit. Possibly all three.

So yes, I’ve had my fair share of “that’s a bit mad” moments.

But strangely, none of those quite compare to the most unexpected journey I’ve ever taken: setting out to figure out whether Jesus is actually who He says He is.

Now, to be clear, this wasn’t a dramatic, lightning-bolt, fall-off-my-chair kind of moment. There were no booming voices or sudden urges to start wearing sandals all year-round. It was more of a slow, curious wandering—like opening a book you didn’t think you’d be interested in, and then realising you can’t quite put it down.

At first, I approached it like I approach most things: cautiously, with a bit of scepticism, and the quiet confidence of someone who assumes they probably won’t be convinced. After all, believing that Jesus is Lord and Saviour is no small claim. It’s not like deciding to try yoga or take up sourdough baking. It’s… bigger.

Much bigger.

And yet, the more I looked into it, the more I found myself surprised. Not necessarily by grand, dramatic revelations, but by small, steady shifts. Questions I hadn’t thought to ask. Answers that didn’t feel forced. A sense that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t as far-fetched as I’d assumed.

Which, if I’m honest, felt slightly more unsettling than jumping out of a plane.

Because at least with skydiving, you know exactly when the scary part is coming. There’s a countdown. There’s a door. There’s a very clear moment where you think, “Right, this is it.”

This journey? No countdown. No dramatic leap. Just a gradual realisation that something significant might actually be true.

And that changes things.

It doesn’t mean I suddenly became someone else overnight, or that I stopped being me—slightly cautious, occasionally sarcastic, and still very much reliant on autocorrect. But it did mean I started to see things differently. To think differently. To consider that faith isn’t about switching your brain off, but perhaps about opening it up in a new way.

Looking back, it’s funny. Of all the things I’ve done that sound impressive on paper—the skydiving, the running, the rafting, the degree—the one that has probably required the most courage hasn’t involved physical risk at all.

It’s been the willingness to explore something deeper. To ask bigger questions. To admit I might not have everything figured out.

So yes, I’ve done some “crazy” things in my time.

But this one?

This might just be the boldest of them all.

Rita

Monday Meet