Being an Orthodox Christian in 2025 often feels like walking a narrow road between two cliffs—one side is compromise, the other is cruelty. And somewhere in the middle, we’re asked to walk with mercy, conviction, and an open hand.
A few weeks ago, I had a student assigned to my truck—M.
M. is a transgender driver who wears women’s clothing, identifies as female, and still has a full beard. It was… a lot. I’m not here to mock, sensationalize, or attack. I’m here to tell the truth. I don’t support transgender ideology. I believe that God made us male and female, and that our identity isn’t something we invent or redefine. But I also believe that every person—every person—is made in the image of God. And when someone ends up in your truck, in your space, under your care, you have a choice: you can be a wall… or a window.
I chose to be a window. Even when it wasn’t easy.
M. had already been through two trainers. Neither worked out. The training scores were low. There were gaps in understanding, mistakes being made, and confidence was low. When M. was assigned to me, I was told it might be a challenge. And yes, at first, it was. The fishnets. The mini skirt. The beard. I had to mentally compartmentalize a lot just to stay focused on the task. Some days I imagined M. was just wearing a kilt. Other days, I kept my eyes forward and just focused on the training.
But here’s the thing: M. worked hard. M. listened. M. showed up ready to learn every single day. And that made a difference. I began to see past the discomfort and into the determination. And over two weeks, we pulled it off. We hit our benchmarks. We overcame the bad habits. M. passed the drive test and got their own truck. The other trainers gave up. I didn’t. Because underneath all the complexity, I saw a person who needed someone to believe they could make it.
That doesn’t mean I affirmed M.’s worldview or identity. I didn’t. I can’t. My Orthodox Christian faith teaches me that we are created male and female by God. It teaches me that our calling isn’t to rewrite our bodies, but to grow into who we truly are through humility, prayer, and grace. I believe this with all my heart.
But Orthodoxy also teaches me to hate the sin and love the sinner. To pray for those who are lost. To never mock or tear down someone who is struggling. So I did what I could: I helped M. succeed in trucking—and I prayed for him every single day.
We also talked a lot during our time together. About life. About God. About where we came from. I told M. about the Orthodox Faith—about the ancient Church, the fullness of tradition, and how Orthodoxy isn’t about showmanship or pressure, but about stepping deeper into the mystery of Christ. About healing and wholeness.
We spent Easter Sunday together on the road, sharing the cab and the quiet of the highway. It was Pascha for me-another one spent away from home, away from church, away from the midnight light of the Resurrection. But even in the truck, the feast of feasts still echoed. We talked about Easter, what it meant, and M. even called his parents that day to wish them a happy Easter. It was a small, unexpected grace-a moment of human connection on the road, and maybe, a reminder that the light of Christ reaches even into the sleeper cab of a semi-truck rolling down I-5.
M. shared that he had tried church before—but felt judged and rejected, especially by his parents. He told me they asked him, “Who brainwashed you?” when he came out as trans. He felt like their church pushed him away, like there was no room for someone who was struggling or questioning. That broke my heart—not because I agreed with everything he believed, but because I could see how deep the wound was. He wasn’t rejecting Christ. He was rejecting a version of Christianity that had rejected him first.
He said things are getting a little better with his parents now. The strain is still there, but there’s effort. And as we talked, I did my best to show him what I believe Orthodoxy offers—not a license to live however we want, but an invitation to become who we truly are, in Christ. Not softening truth, but surrounding it with love.
I didn’t pray that he would make my life easier. I didn’t pray for a quick fix. I prayed that God would watch over him, protect him, and help him see the truth of who he really is. I asked that God would guide him back to the man he was created to be. And I left it in God’s hands.
Last night, after M. got assigned to his own truck, he asked me for help. His inverter wasn’t working. I climbed into the cab, knowing it would likely be uncomfortable—and it was. There were things I didn’t want to see, clothes I didn’t want to look at. But I focused on the task. I checked the wiring, confirmed the issue, and told him to bring it back to the shop.
And then, on the dashboard, I saw it: a Bible. Old and New Testaments. Psalms. It was new, clean, ready to be explored.
And something stirred in me.
I don’t know what M. believes deep down. I don’t know what path he’ll take from here. But seeing that Bible reminded me that God is always working—sometimes quietly, sometimes slowly. Maybe my prayers mattered. Maybe our conversations mattered. Maybe M. just needed someone to treat him like a person and not a punchline.
The world we live in now offers a million easy answers—on Reddit, TikTok, anywhere you look. Easy answers that always come with a hidden cost. But the hard truths of life—the ones that require sacrifice, humility, obedience—those are the ones that lead to peace.
I believe that the path Christ calls us to is the hard one. It’s narrow. It costs more up front. But it leads to truth, and in truth, there is life.
And if we want to call people back to that road—especially young men and women who are confused by the world’s noise—we have to walk it ourselves first. With patience. With mercy. With love.
I didn’t agree with M. on a lot of things. But I liked him. I was proud of him. And I believe that God hasn’t let go of him.
And that, to me, is what it means to be the Orthodox Trucker.
Glory to God for all things.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Orthodox Trucker 