Grant Ewing has no chill. Grant Ewing has zeal. His eyes glow, his hands wave, and his words fly out faster than corn kernels from a dysfunctional popcorn machine. In a world that has conditioned us to perceive apathy and detached irony as the foundation for cool, Grant is an evangelist. And I am better for it.
I am envious for the stamina of our friendship in my other relationships. Years ago, we forged our bond through family New Years Eve parties, attempting to teach second-graders the Truth about God, and and a couple of overlapping years at summer camp. After I left for college, we began unofficial, but routine check-ups every time I returned to the Bay for the holidays. For two hours, every December, a sacred and safe place.
Whether over runny diner eggs or breathing evaporated saltwater winds blowing through our lungs, we analyze the contours of our faith. We tell stories of transformation and regression. We probe the definition of 21st century Christianity. And we do not settle, because there are answers to questions we have not even considered and we are hungry to ask them.