The Whisper of the Ridge
An interview with Youth Minister, Cookie Cantwell, from St. James Parish of Wilmington, NC.
I come to Glory Ridge to hear the "whisper of God." George Moore once asked me what "the Ridge" was saying to me. Each time I return to "the Ridge," I listen for the quiet and loving whisper of "the Ridge"... the Ridge whispers: "Make Work Worship."
Cookie and Luther on the porch between the two sabath houses.
That’s how Cookie describes it. Not a loud voice or dramatic sign, just a quiet knowing. A sacred hush in the hills of a little town called Walnut.
Her first visit came in the late 1990s. Her parish, St. James, hadn’t been yet. She was invited to go and take a look, to see whether this rugged, tucked-away camp might be the kind of place where her church’s youth could serve and be changed.
She had been nearby for a family gathering when the invitation came. Curiosity stirred, and she decided to go. She left the gathering, took the winding road alone, and found herself at the place where the path climbs toward the Ridge. She followed the bend in the path. She remembers the moment clearly.
There was no support staff back then, no hired team to guide the work. There was no one on salary, only willing hearts who showed up and gave what they had. The Ridge was like a blank canvas—rough, raw, and full of potential. And yet, something sacred stirred there. She stayed for just a few days, but that visit never left her.
The path to the ridge.
Back in Wilmington, explaining it wasn’t easy.
“It’s remote,” she’d say.
“It’s not comfortable. But it’s holy.”
Slowly, a small group from St. James said yes. The first trip came in 1999. Cookie helped craft the week. Because there were no formal programs offered by the Ridge, everything had to be planned and prepared by the group.
Cookie did the quiet, faithful work: coordinating, calling, and shaping a week where teenagers might come to see service as sacred, and where worship might be found in sweat and sawdust.
She remembers that George Moore didn’t hand out plans. He asked questions:
“What vision do you see here?”
Cookie saw it. She heard it. She believed the Ridge was a space where God still whispered.
She believes George created openness, not order. His vision allowed people to encounter God in ways that were real, humble, and uniquely their own.
“There are a million ways to experience the Ridge,” Cookie says. “A million ways God creates people.”
Before she returns each year, she begins to pray. She prays for the land, for the mountains, for the people who are already standing there—maybe not knowing yet how God is at work in them. As a member of the advisory board, she carries the vision forward: a dream of young people setting their phones aside, walking into the hills, and finding something deeper than distraction.
Photo of St. James mission trip at the depot. (Summer 2024)
She remembers how George dreamed of helping boys who were struggling, to show them another rhythm of life. She feels lucky to have known him.
She remembers the day he walked her to the top of the Ridge and asked,
“What is God telling you now about your ministry here?”
She still hears that question when she returns.
Every time she drives up, she rolls down the windows and turns off the music. She listens. Sometimes the Ridge speaks in silence. Sometimes in birdsong, or wind through the trees. And sometimes in rain—hard, drenching rain—that washes away schedules and comforts and leaves only the bare beauty of faith.
She remembers soaking-wet work days. Mud-caked shoes. Changed plans. Handwritten letters to community members when work couldn’t be finished. And still, the whisper came:
“Make work worship.”
She remembers how George would begin the day with that call:
“Brothers and Sisters, let’s make work worship.”
It became the rhythm of Glory Ridge. Now it’s the rhythm of Cookie’s ministry, too. Glory Ridge has never been about payment.
“We give what we can,” Cookie says. “We make an offering.”
The Ridge depends on people, not fees. On calling, not comfort. As George once said:
“God said no charge, make it a work camp. Because then people can give something, not take a handout. They can belong.”
And she knows not everyone is meant for this place. Some people don’t like the heat, or the bugs, or the stillness.
“That’s okay,” Cookie says. “Some people just aren’t called in that way.”
But for those who are, something sacred unfolds. She has watched teenagers fall silent under stars during worship. Adults moved to tears by the selflessness of those they encounter. Joy in the middle of tired work.
Cookie calls the Ridge holy ground.
She once heard someone say,
“The Gospel travels best in relationships.”
She’s seen it.
God moves here not through polished sermons or performance, but through shared meals, quiet prayers, laughter, and work done side by side.
Her advice for anyone going for the first time?
“Go with a spirit of openness. Be ready to receive whatever it is God has planned for you.”
Every person leaves with something different. That’s how it’s meant to be.
Cookie has a heart that knows when God is near. And she knows God doesn’t only dwell inside steeples or sanctuaries.
“God created Adam and Eve in a garden,” she says. “And God looked at what He made and said, ‘This is good.’ That’s how I feel at the Ridge. It’s not polished or perfect, but it’s good… deep down, God’s-kind-of-good.”
She’s grateful for those who shaped it—Deb, Matthew, Jennifer, Adam, and others who said yes not to perfection, but to presence. People who didn’t buy into the corporate, but trusted the whisper of God instead.
Because in the end, the Ridge isn’t about what Jesus wore, or even who He spoke to. It’s about the essence of who He is.
And up on that hill, if you listen closely,
you just might hear Him whisper.
Jonathan Graves wrote this article after a conversation with Cookie about her experiences at Glory Ridge.