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On the night before our final summit push--half-night, since we have to leave well before dawn--Godi makes sure I finish every grain of rice in my bowl, and then he sings a hymn. It’s in English, but I don’t know it. His pleasant baritone pushes back the total silence that envelops our camp. Godlisten is my guide and only constant companion on the hike up Kilimanjaro. Tanzania is full of these names: Godlisten, Godblessing, Godlove. I’ve visited the historic Anglican cathedral in Zanzibar, its cross hewn from the tree under which David Livingstone’s heart was buried; I know how intimately intertwined the legacy of Christian missionaries in East Africa is with colonialism. Beneath that same church are damp stone cells that were packed with living bodies during the height of the slave trade. I know, too, that missionary work isn’t ossified in history books alongside Livingstone and pith helmets. Many of my childhood friends are currently serving Mormon missions. Growing up in Salt Lake, I often felt alienated by talk of prophets and commandments. My parents raised me in the church of the mountains; we spent our Sundays hiking, skiing, exploring. It’s their adventure-seeking upbringing that led me here, to the roof of Africa. The last note of the song fades. “That was beautiful,” I say. “Americans and Europeans came and told us we must be Christians,” he muses, “so we became Christians. And now the Americans and Europeans aren’t Christian anymore.” “Some are,” I hedge, uncomfortable. Until now, I’ve avoided discussing religion with Godi, but I can tell it’s important to him. “A lot of us feel that religion causes conflict. Is there fighting between Christians and Muslims here?” Godi just laughs. “God, Jesus, Allah, Ruwa, all the same.” “What about science?” I ask. “Science keeps me alive,” he says, “but God gives me life.” Four hours later, I’m stepping up into the stars. They’re painted on a vaulted ceiling, like an astronomy diagram from the middle ages, so close I could brush them with my fingertips--if only I had the strength to lift my arm. Every leaden step and coppery breath take us higher until we look out and see stars below us, pinpricks of light outlining the curvature of the earth like an airport runway. I follow Godi’s boots, avoiding the places where he stumbles on loose rocks. His white jacket reflects the light of my headlamp back into my eyes. The scree gives way to scattered snowdrifts as we near Furtwängler glacier; we pick our way around the rim of the crater, skirting boulders, feet sliding on snow. My breath sticks in my throat. We set a rhythm, slow and faltering as a dying man’s heartbeat. “How you doing?” “Kichizi kama ndizi ndani ya friji,” I reply. He grins. It’s a phrase he taught me: Kiswahili for 'cool as a banana in the fridge.' The sky is striated now, grey, yellow, red, the earth hidden beneath a sea of clouds. In the pre-dawn light, I can see that what I thought was a boulder looming before us is actually a wooden sign. CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE NOW AT UHURU PEAK, it reads. Exhausted, elated, I pull my gloves off, take a few grainy photos with numb and clumsy fingers. They don’t capture the view. In the language of the Chaga people who live on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, Ruwa is the word for both God and the sun. There was no beginning, no first word or numbered days. Everything is cyclical: the wildebeest migration, the monsoon and the dry season, birth and death, the phases of the moon and arcing paths of the stars. “Look,” calls Godi. A sliver of golden light casts the ice in bronze. Side by side, we watch the sunrise. At 5895 meters above sea level, I’m closer to it than I’ve ever been, or might ever be again. “Praise God!” he cries, laughing, arms outstretched as though he can embrace the sky, the breaking clouds, the continent unfolding beneath us. “I feel alive,” I grin. His hand falls on my shoulder. Whatever words we use to express it, we share this feeling: the joy of being part of something greater than ourselves.