I went through a phase where I lived for God; I gave up thoughts and actions. My will was divine in the way that youth ministers said it could be if you repeated Thy Will Be Done. In this phase, I attended prayer breakfasts where they served pancakes on paper plates. Maybe because it was six in the morning, they were the best pancakes I ever tasted. My parents were beside themselves with concern for my lack of intellectual investigation. I was pretty sure I had never been happier. I had my first boyfriend, an evangelical who always prayed after we made out. He backpacked a lot and convinced me to become a backpacker for God. We hiked with converts who knew how to sing and climb at the same time. I fell from grace on our best ascent. At a Sierra Nevada pass where the ledge was two feet wide and the drop was sixty, I remembered I was afraid of heights. I am alone after all! I said. My companions, who dreamed of becoming missionaries, looked at me with dismay and hiked on ahead. Even my boyfriend. Didn’t God say that? I thought, crawling the rest of the way on my hands and knees.