by Shawna Gordon

I resigned from my job as a pastor to youth and families on a Friday in the middle January. My students were still on break, with little knowledge of what had happened in between the weeks of their Christmas vacation. As I pulled up to the church that morning to tell my head pastor of my resignation, a student texted me, “Can’t wait for youth group to start back up! Can we sing Oceans more?” My eyes filled with hot tears as I texted back, “I’ll see what I can do.” My heart was too weak to say anything else. 

I didn’t choose to leave. My students taught me to love and to be loved in ways that were hard but beautiful to learn with middle school and high school students. They were my people and they gave me hope -  I didn’t choose to leave. 

Sunday came around, and for the first time in years, I didn’t know where to go. The Quaker church that I’d called home, locked their doors and threw the keys away.  

I felt lost in ways that feel scary and lonely; my resignation claimed another casualty as my community was stripped from me as well. 

I didn’t know where to go, so I went to the one place that didn’t have any doors. 

I took to the mountains, in the middle of January, wanting to feel the cold air burning my lungs to let me know I was still alive. I wanted to feel myself gasp for breath in familiar ways; I wanted my body to feel physically tired. The scary part was that I was unafraid of what would happen if I slipped on the summit from ice or rain; my weary heart welcomed that idea and didn’t hide from it. 

I packed my backpack with what I usually take with me on hikes like these: my water bottle, journal, a sweater, and two glaze twist donuts. 

I picked one of my favorite mountains to climb; it was difficult, and steep, but it had a gorgeous view of a sea of green trees and the Oregon coast in the distance.  

The parking lot was empty, except for my car and one other. Not surprising as it was the middle of January, and the busy season for this trail is in July. 

But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.  

I don’t like hiking with music. I like listening to the things around me; to my breath, heaving and panting. I like hearing the silence. 

As I reached the top of the mountain, the wind had picked up significantly. I mildly regretted my decision to wear shorts and caught myself from slipping over the edge many times before I stopped and let out a holler, “I don’t have anywhere else to go!” I was angry at the Wind and my hot tears burned my face as I reached my destination. 

It was a small space on top of that mountain. It was grey and cloudy, which is to be expected in the middle of January. But this meant that all that I could see from the top were silhouettes of trees and if I closed my eyes, I could faintly hear the waves of the coast. 

I found a spot, not far from the only other two people at the top of this mountain, digging out my spare sweater to put over my legs as I shivered through silent tears. 

“HEY!” Somebody yelled, breaking my bitter silence. 

Surely, they couldn’t be talking to me. 

“I was angry at the Wind and my hot tears burned my face”

“HEY!” They said again. 

I turned, a woman waving me over. Making sure they were talking to me, I turned, knowing damn well I was the only other one on this mountain. 

I stood up, making my way over to them. 

“The wind is harsh over there, and this rock blocks most of it. Come sit with us, there’s more than enough room.” They were my age, maybe a few years older, wearing jeans and winter coats. 

“Nice weather we’re having,  huh?” I joke. 

“Not our best idea; what brings you out here in January?” They ask. 

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go this morning.” I don’t know if I said it grimly, but they smiled nonetheless. 

“Do you want some wine?” One of them asks, pulling up their backpack. 

It was 10 in the morning. I wasn’t sure if I heard them right. 

“What?” 

“Wine? Do you want some of our wine?” They smile at me. 

I thought about politely declining but resisted and instead responded, “Sure. But only if you’ll have some of my donuts.” 

We huddled together, dividing our elements between the three of us. We laughed, talking about where we’re from, the two of them talking to each other, and me chewing on my donut, washing it down with wine that burned my throat. 

They left not long after they’d finished their wine and donut, bidding me farewell and hoping I stay warm. I said I’d be fine and told them to take care. 

It wasn’t until they were out of sight, that I let hot tears pour out of my eyes again.  

On top of a mountain. I broke bread with strangers, with donuts and cheap wine.  

I didn’t have anywhere else to go, but it would seem as though belonging found me anyways.  

“What you are seeking is seeking you.” -Rumi