I go to church on Sundays with my family, but the place I really talk to God is in a place most people would never look.
There’s a trail I ride often, a patch of woods I cut through on the edge of town. It’s not official, not marked, not manicured. It’s rugged, raw, and overgrown in spots. You’d miss it if you didn’t know where to turn.
But one day, something caught my eye.
It was tucked back between the trees, barely visible from the trail. An old wooden cross, weathered by time, leaning slightly but still standing.
No sign. No plaque.
Just a cross. Alone.
As if it had been waiting for someone to notice.
I unclipped, walked over, and stood there in the quiet. I didn’t say anything the first time. I just looked at it. And then I felt it—
Peace.
The kind of peace I hadn’t felt in weeks.
Since then, I’ve come back to that spot almost every day.
I call it my church.
It’s where I pray.
Where I process.
Where I cry, sometimes.
Where I ask God the same questions over and over and wait for the answer that might never come in words.
There’s no worship band.
No chairs.
No coffee bar in the lobby.
Just trees, dirt, wind, and that cross—fading, but somehow stronger than anything else around it.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with faith these past few years.
I’ve always believed. But I’ve also wrestled.
I’ve wrestled with how things can fall apart when you’re doing everything right.
I’ve wrestled with the silence that follows the prayers you desperately need answered.
I’ve wrestled with being a leader who feels lost and a man of faith who feels forgotten.
But out there, in the woods, with sweat on my back and dirt on my shoes—God feels close again.
Not loud. Not flashy. Just… steady.
Some days I sit.
Some days I stand with my hand on the cross and just breathe.
I talk to God like I would a friend on a long ride.
Sometimes I thank Him.
Sometimes I ask Him what He’s doing.
Sometimes I say nothing at all—because the silence says more than I ever could.
This place, this “church,” has become a sacred part of my rhythm.
I ride for the reset.
I stop for the reminder.
That I’m not forgotten.
That I’m not finished.
That faith still works—even when everything else feels like it doesn’t.
Maybe your church is a pew.
Maybe it’s your kitchen table with an open Bible and a tired heart.
Maybe it’s your car at night after everyone else is asleep.
Or maybe it’s a place no one else knows about—a patch of ground that feels like holy ground because it reminds you of who you are and who He is.
If you’ve got a place like that, go back to it.
If you haven’t found it yet, ask God to show it to you.
It may not look like a sanctuary.
But He’ll meet you there anyway.
That hidden cross in the woods?
It’s not just a symbol.
It’s a lifeline.
Every time I pass it, I remember who I belong to.
Not to a title.
Not to a company.
Not to the people who misunderstood me or the ones who let me go.
I belong to the God who sees in secret.
Who heals in quiet.
Who speaks through trees and trails and tears.
And that’s enough for me.
I don’t know who put that cross there.
I don’t know how long it’s been standing.
But I hope they know—it’s still doing its job.
It’s still calling people back to faith.
It’s still being a church for a guy like me who needed to find God somewhere outside the box.
Next time you’re out—on a walk, a run, a ride—keep your eyes open.
You might pass by your own church without even knowing it.
You don’t need a building to be seen.
You don’t need a stage to worship.
You just need a moment—and maybe a little dirt on your shoes.
I found mine in the woods.
And I’m never letting it go.
—Jason
Want more faith-fueled reflections from the ride?
Subscribe to Gear Shift—monthly stories, trail thoughts, and reset moments straight from the trail.
