Jesus, Shall It Be Nigeria or Bulgaria?

Today might have looked ordinary to the world just another walk, another chat—but to me, it was a bold step with Jesus. One of our church leaders had planned an outreach the night before. The time and place were set, and when I prayed, I knew Jesus was saying, “Go.”

I’m naturally shy, and anxiety often lurks in the corners of social settings. But I refused to let fear drown out the voice of Jesus. Obedience meant more than comfort. My flesh may falter, but the Holy Spirit within me doesn’t. Real victory isn’t found in how strong we feel—it’s found when we surrender and let Jesus take the lead.
Most mornings, I wake up not just because the alarm rings but because I’m excited about what Jesus might do through one simple conversation. One moment of kindness, one honest exchange, could open someone’s heart to Him. That thought lights a fire in my chest before I’ve even touched the floor.

There I was, standing in the mirror, grinning like a nervous actor rehearsing for a divine performance. But this wasn’t for a crowd it was for Jesus. While others sip their morning coffee, I begin my day in deep prayer, inviting the Holy Spirit to guide my every step. He’s not my backup plan—He’s my first move, my best outreach strategy, my reason for going.

After wrestling my hair into submission with shampoo and product, I stood by the window. Sunshine poured in as if heaven was saying, “This is a good day.” The clouds floated off like they were late for something. Spring had kissed the UK again.

Then came the sacred t-shirt choice, mission wear, if you will. The options? The classic 1994 Bulgaria shirt or the iconic 1996 Nigeria kit. I chose Nigeria—not just because it looks great, but because we were heading into a Nigerian community. It’s Jesus-meets-street-style: culturally aware, respectfully bold.
The door swung behind me like it had something to say, and I felt that holy momentum of stepping into purpose. Every outreach day carries that electric feeling: not pressure, but promise. I wasn’t just walking; I was walking with Jesus.

I love that walk to the train station. It’s where I do two of my favourite things: talk to Jesus and hope the Wi-Fi holds long enough to read something random, maybe about why pigeons bob their heads or how Jesus moved during the Welsh revival in 1904. Balance, right?

After some time praying in tongues, I switched gears and hopped on Shopify, not to buy anything (yet) but to hunt for the perfect playlist. It’s usually a toss-up between my 1960s soul or 1980s joy anthems. Either way, I want music that makes my spirit dance, even if my feet are stuck on a train platform.

Now, my brain? It’s a constant carnival. Thanks to ADHD, my thoughts can feel like a million tabs open with someone randomly blasting 3 of them on full volume. So, to help manage the “more,” I focus on less, one step at a time. Sometimes, that means counting red cars in the car park, and sometimes, it means watching birds zip between buildings like tiny, winged prophets.

I kept turning my face to the sun like a sunflower with a purpose, soaking in the moment, being present. I do not dwell on the past unless it is to share a testimony, and I do not obsess over the future unless we are talking about the second coming (which could be any moment now).

As Scripture says, I take no thought for tomorrow; it has enough drama. Today is the day the Lord has made, and I’m rejoicing, red cars and all.

I hopped onto the train, which was neither too crowded nor too empty, just that sweet middle ground where you can breathe but still feel like you’re in a movie scene. Of course, my eyes immediately went hunting for a sacred relic: a seat with a table. It’s a seven-minute journey, but a table gives the impression of productivity… or at least the illusion of it.

I genuinely love trains. They are like a mobile prayer room. They give me a few quiet minutes with the Lord, and sometimes a golden opportunity to share the Gospel. I have had more than a few conversations about eternal life alongside train tickets.

It was only two stops until my destination, so it was not exactly a cross-country pilgrimage. I was not thinking much about the outreach ahead or the people I would be meeting. I was just present, coasting, spiritually and literally.

I arrived at the coffee shop an hour before anyone else, classic me. But hey, I’m a writer, so early arrivals are just a bonus for my writing time. I ordered my usual: a large latte. Caffeine, I understand; it keeps me relaxed and powers my brain like rocket fuel (do not fact-check that).

I settled in, my fingers dancing across my laptop like I was playing an invisible grand piano, mostly making spelling mistakes and creative grammatical errors, but hey, it’s art. Then I looked up and saw a familiar, warm smile. One of the sisters from the church had arrived.

It’s time to pause the masterpiece. The fellowship begins.

People started pouring into the coffee shop as if it were a surprise birthday party for Jesus, with laughter, smiles, and warm greetings. We were taking over the place, one joyful church member at a time. Honestly, there’s no better social event than fellowship. Move over weddings and birthdays; the kingdom community wins every time.

Since we had recently moved into a new hall, we had a glamorous job: putting new stickers with our updated time and location onto every outreach leaflet. Ministry meets arts and crafts! Okay, I will be real, sticking labels onto cards does not exactly scream “Book of Acts,” but it matters. It is not flashy, but it is kingdom work.

I could not help but laugh, imagining Peter and Paul in 2000 AD, sitting in a coffee shop somewhere in Rome, sipping lattes and peeling stickers:

“Brother Paul, did you remember to align the label properly?”

“Brother Peter and I wrote a letter to the Ephesians while I waited for my flat white.”

Anyway, it was time to pause the coffee chat, set down the stickers, and step into purpose, fully suited up in my iconic Nigerian football shirt. Nervousness? Oh, for sure. It buzzed quietly in the background like bad elevator music. But I walked forward in faith, reminding myself that courage isn’t the absence of nerves; it’s obedience despite them.

There I was, stepping onto a bustling high street with sticky leaflets in my hand; prayers tucked deep in my heart and wearing, of all things, the wrong football shirt. The very first person I met? A Bulgarian gentleman. Yep. Bulgaria. And me? Rocking the rival Nigerian kit. Brilliant start.

But when Jesus calls, nothing else matters, not even fashion faux pas. I had prepared myself by reading about Bulgaria, recalling my banitsa from visits to Plovdiv, and cherishing the rich culture that shapes their people, as well as the bravery of Botev. I love sharing the gospel, but I’ve learned that it’s not about dropping scripture like confetti at a parade. Jesus didn’t come to bash people over the head with the Bible; He came to walk beside them gently and patiently. So, I try to follow His example like a shepherd guiding rather than a sledgehammer smashing.

We started chatting about Bulgarian traditions, thanks to some late-night Wikipedia binges that, by God’s grace, turned out to be perfect conversation starters. It amazed me how these small cultural connections could open the door to deeper talks about church, baptism, and the Holy Spirit’s work in our lives. His English was limited, but that didn’t stop Jesus from moving. I offered to continue the conversation over text, hopeful that the Spirit would break down language barriers. I even thought about calling in my Bulgarian friend for backup because when the gospel calls, we tag-team it like spiritual Avengers, each playing our part in this divine mission.

The day was slow in terms of outreach—quiet moments mixed with bursts of activity—but the church family showed up strong. Leaflets fluttered like doves of hope into the hands of passersby, and I was reminded again that this work wasn’t about me. It never has been. The church isn’t a solo act; it’s a grace-fueled, people-powered, Jesus-led movement lighting up the world, one street, one heart at a time.

Then, out of nowhere, the day took a surprising turn. A man approached me, a street photographer working on his Instagram project. By then, I had switched my shirt to the Nigerian kit (outreach wardrobe changes are a real thing). The sweater caught his eye, and he asked if he could snap a photo for his account. Of course, I said yes! How often do you get the chance to be someone’s content?

We began discussing social media, algorithms, and building an Instagram presence. Our conversation flowed naturally, and before I knew it, it turned to Jesus—not as a sermon or lecture but as a relaxed, heartfelt chat between two people. I’ve discovered that when you engage with people’s passions, their eyes light up, and that’s when genuine conversations begin. It’s in those moments that Jesus gently nudges the door open, allowing truth to enter organically. You learn to read the room, knowing when to open the Bible and when to let the Spirit speak first.

Before parting, he handed me his business card. To me, that wasn’t an ending. It was Jesus saying, “This is just the beginning.”
The rest of the day was filled with more conversations, handing out leaflets (still sticky from the morning’s dew), and countless quiet thank-yous whispered to Jesus. There were no dramatic moments, no crowds cheering, just faithful steps—small acts of obedience. And that’s exactly where Jesus does His best work in the unnoticed, the overlooked, the seemingly ordinary. No reps, no growth. It’s spiritual gym time, steady, consistent, and surrendered.

When I finally got home, I sat down for my usual post-outreach debrief with Jesus. I gave Him all the glory—every smile shared, every awkward pause, every scripture verse exchanged. Being naturally shy and socially anxious, I usually find myself crashing after outreach. I plug in my playlist, gaze at the clouds, and tell my racing mind, “Don’t overthink it.” But Jesus gently reminds me to be present to reflect, not regret, to learn, not withdraw.
And tomorrow? I’ll do it all over again, maybe with better shirt choices, but always with Jesus leading the way.

Thank you for reading. Whether you’re stepping out onto your high street, engaging in conversations, or cheering us on from afar, I see you—and Jesus sees you. So, let’s keep showing up. Keep shining. Keep planting seeds.

Because with Jesus, every awkward hello, every damp leaflet, every whispered prayer, it’s all worth it. He’s the reason we go, the strength when we’re weak, and the hope for every soul.