Every other Tuesday, my alarm rings way earlier than usual. 4:40am. Mitch’s goes off even earlier as (1) he has further to drive and (2) he makes his kids’ lunches before he leaves.
We alternate who prays in the parking lot at 5:16am, and I should probably change up what I say after removing my hat. “Thank you for access to these trails. Thank you for the gift of Mitch’s friendship. Thank you for the conversation we’re about to have.”
After the benediction, we hike up and over a hill with a mountain’s name. The stat line each time:
- 6.2 miles
- 950 feet of elevation gain
- Countless drags from the CamelBak nozzles hanging over our shoulders
The addictive nature of our conversations arises from the juxtaposition of our past differences and current similarities.
Mitch grew up in a Catholic single-parent home in Miami and got the full college experience at Florida State. I spent my formative years as a preacher’s kid in a sheltered home school family and then at a fundamentalist college that (1) forbade me to be on an elevator with a female and (2) framed Jerry Falwell as liberal. Mitch can’t remember certain details of his beachfront spring breaks. My spring breaks were each filled with a dozen mandatory church services I’ve tried to forget. Mitch played baseball and had girlfriends. I played LEGOs and had a pen pal (who told me my penmanship matched that of a serial killer). His high school friends still text him every week, while not all of my siblings let me know when they’re in town.
But both of us grew up at sea level and have fallen in love with mountains. We’re both students of gentle parenting and avid consumers of nonfiction books. We both found a Jesus worth the sacrifice of our comfort and preferences. We both drive Tacos and struggle with moderation around tacos. We both start our serving shifts at church before sunrise on Sundays—he in the kitchen and me in a parking lot. Super niche: we both think Slovenia is an underrated vacation destination.
We share prayer requests with the same dozen or so guys on Wednesday nights. We share a preference for outdoor faith gatherings over indoor ones. We share a reticence to turn on our headlamps until one or both of us trips in the dark. We share a respect for the woods as a confessional space.
In fact, when my counselor wants me to expand trust or a conversation beyond the walls of her office, she’ll recommend that I talk to Mitch. When I do, he has always honored that confidence. Beyond healthy, I find that space Mitch holds for me to be holy.
I used to think church happened only during service times. Then, I realized spiritual community could be any intentional gathering. Now, a faith space can be anywhere I go with an intentional friend.
I won a middle school math award from the Delaware Association of Christian Schools, but it wasn’t until today that I ran the numbers on Jesus’ promise: “Where TWO or three are gathered in my name, I’m there with them.” By my calculations, Mitch and I have hiked 150 miles a year with the Creator of Hearts. And the greatest evidence I have that Christ’s 2,000-year-old promise is true is how Heaven’s empathy, curiosity, acceptance, and pushback join me before dawn twice a month.
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