This morning at the TA in Troutdale, Oregon, I had one of those moments that reminded me why I love this job—and why I carry my faith with me on the road.
I just got back into truck #728. This isn’t just any truck—this was my truck two years ago, brand new with only 3 miles on it. We did over 125,000 miles together before I made the mistake of leaving Knight to try my luck with Marten Transport. That turned out to be a regret—Marten didn’t treat me well, and I came back. Now, two years later, I’m back in 728. It felt like stepping into a familiar pair of boots. Comfortable. Solid. Like coming home to an old friend.
My last truck—#724—was a mess. Cigarette smoke soaked into everything. I constantly felt like I was getting sick—mucousy throat, heavy lungs. The bed was lumpy and tilted, I couldn’t sleep right, and there was no good place for something as simple as a trash can. I was constantly shifting it between the bed and the seat just to make space. Every few weeks the truck was in the shop—tires, alignments, software issues, IdleSmart breakdowns. And when I moved in? I had to clean out the previous driver’s mess—broken gear, used towels, even a busted microwave. I scrubbed it down just to make it livable, but it never felt like mine.
728, though—it’s home. It’s got some battle scars now, sure, but it runs. The inverter works, the air hose setup is perfect for cleaning, and that annoying blue-lit panel in the sleeper? Gone. I even found old suction cup hooks and a dash disc I installed still in place after all this time. My trash can fits behind the seat. I’ve got a new GPS. I can breathe again. I can sleep again. And more than that, I can think clearly again.
And that’s where today’s moment happened—at the fuel pump.
While fueling up, a driver next to me noticed my cross—the Russian three-bar cross I wear around my neck.
“That’s not a cross I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Looks more like a hammer.”
I smiled. “You mean Thor’s hammer?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
I told him, “Funny enough, I used to wear one of those. But I traded it in for this.”
That sparked a whole conversation about Orthodoxy. He had never heard of it. I shared what it is, how it differs from Western Christianity, how we’ve preserved the faith of the early Church without innovation or compromise. We talked theology. Tradition. God.
And as I walked away, it hit me:
I don’t need a pulpit at the altar. I already have one at the fuel pumps.
I used to think I needed to be a priest to fulfill my calling. That I needed seminary, vestments, and a blessing to teach. But today—today I realized I’ve been doing it all along. In the truck stop laundry rooms. In sleeper cabs with students. On late-night walks at rest areas. At fuel pumps. That’s where the conversations happen. That’s where Orthodoxy lives for me. That’s where Christ shows up.
That’s what the Orthodox Trucker is.
These past nine months have taken me on a strange and winding road. In September, I tried launching my own business as a trucking recruiter—working from home, building connections. It failed. In October, I became a driver manager at Knight, running the Portland and Reno terminals alone on the weekends. It nearly broke me. I was overwhelmed, underpaid, and stretched thin. I kept dreaming of seminary, of Kodiak, of something holier. But I had to let that dream go too.
I even wrote about it back in February—about how I gave up my shot at St. Herman’s Seminary in Alaska to support my wife and son. About how my faith had gone quiet. About how burnout nearly stole everything. I ended up deleting that post, not because it wasn’t true, but because some things are too personal and not everything needs to be published.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
The road always leads somewhere.
Even when it detours.
Even when it breaks you a little.
Even when it loops you back to the very truck you started in two years ago.
I don’t need to wear a collar to serve Christ. I don’t need an altar to be His witness. I just need to live it, where life happens. That’s where my ministry is. That’s where God put me.
So here’s to truck 728.
Here’s to old friends, new clarity, and fuel pump pulpits.
Here’s to Orthodoxy, lived honestly in the small, sacred places of everyday life.
And here’s to finally getting my groove back.
Glory to God for all things.
– Orthodox Trucker
Orthodox Trucker 