These sounds are just as abhorrent as when I first arrived, but for some reason I wish they weren’t so far away.
I don’t wanna wait around out here in the middle of nowhere.
Not alone. Not today.
Before big events, whether it was an intramural soccer game or the annual Christmas play, my dad and I had two important traditions. The first, of course, was a quiet session of prayer, a blessing to carry us forward and an offering of thanks to the Lord for carrying us this far.
The second was more specific to Luke.
My dad loved dumb jokes, and while these simple puns were also slightly groan-inducing, my exaggerated eye rolls were part of the fun. I spent my life building these rituals, and lately there’s not much reason for family traditions without a family to carry them.
But I’m not on my own anymore.
Before Saul can leave, I spring into action, my body carrying me forward on instinct and propelling me from the shop into the late afternoon air. Saul has just started pulling down the driveway in what I’ve recently learned is a refurbished 1969 Mustang, but he stops when he notices me chasing after him.
My friend lowers his music and rolls down the passenger side window as I approach, gazing at me from behind the wheel.
“You finally gonna let God back into your heart, Darling?” he jokes.
I shake my head. “No,” I reply. “Just wanted to ask if you remembered your bowl and spoon.”
A confused look crosses Saul’s face.
“Because it’s gonna get a little chili today,” I say.
My friend stares at me blankly.
“Alright,” I sigh awkwardly, climbing into the passenger seat.
Saul smiles.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warn. “I’ll come with you, but I’m waiting outside.”
“Fair enough.”
The second I shut the door he turns up his music and hits the gas, the two of us rocketing forward and throwing up a massive plume of dust.
The vehicle rumbles around me, its mighty engine literally shaking my body as hammering, caustic noise fills my ears. We fly down the dirt road then swerve out onto a long asphalt lane, taking off with such speed that my head slams back against the headrest and remains held tight.
Everything about this moment is the polar opposite of the quiet and well-manicured existence I used to care about, the family traditions I used to honor, but somehow a thread among these experiences remains the same.
I can’t understand a word this vocalist is screaming at me, but according to Saul we are listening to full-on, dyed-in-the-wool Christian music. It goes without saying that we’re literally on our way to church right now, so I’m hardly in a secular situation.
I can’t help the smile that creeps its way across my face, nor the laughter that spills from my throat. For the first time in a long while, I’m actually having fun.
I reach over and turn up the squealing, shrieking, slamming noise even louder, allowing this aural swell to envelop my body. Grinning wide, I try my best to nod along, but I can’t make any sense of the frantic, blast-beat rhythms, which only makes me laugh even harder.
Eventually, Saul and I pull into a small parking lot surrounded by thick forest, a tiny blue lodge tucked away in one corner. We find a spot and park near the handful of other cars, my friend shutting off his vehicle and plunging us into silence.
This is a humble place of worship, the antithesis of any massive, modern Kingdom of the Pine facility. It’s a communal building, likely rented out to any number of rural folks, from Boy Scouts to swap meets to the occasional wedding reception.
On Sundays, it’s a church.
“You sure you’re not coming in?” Saul asks.
I nod confidently. “I’m never going in again.”
My friend hesitates, not wanting to press the issue but finally asking a gentle follow-up. “Why’d you come on the drive then?” he questions. “Why not stay home if God’s not calling to you?”
I could tell him a number of moving stories about praying with my dad before any big life event, but I spare him the details. This isn’t about recreating what my father did in the past, it’s about exploring what I do in the future.
“Tonight’s important,” I say. “I just wanted to be around other people. Isn’t that the whole point?”
Saul doesn’t confirm or deny my assertion, just listens.
“Obviously, there’s more than one way to be religious, you’re proof of that,” I continue, “but then I can’t help wondering, why bring God into this at all? Is your heavy metal really better with Jesus in the liner notes?”
“That was grindcore,” Saul corrects me.
“Fine,” I retort. I gaze out the window for a moment, watching believers filter in. They’re greeted at the door by a smiling priest who shakes everyone’s hands.
“There are things I miss about my old life, like community and family and just … going to church on a day like today. You’ve shown me how someone could find love in that book on their own terms, but too many people around here have used it for hate.”
Saul hesitates. “You wanna know what makes Kingdom of the Pine so scary?”
I don’t attempt an answer.
“They may be ruthless and single-minded, but they’re not doing this out of hate,” Saul continues. “At least, they don’t think they are. They’re doing it out of a sick, ass-backward love.”
“Either way, I don’t wanna be a part of it,” I proclaim.
Saul just nods, smiling to himself. “I’m just not okay with letting them define God’s love. This is my little way of doing something about it.”
We sit in silence for a moment, letting the words sink in. I’m beginning to realize my opinion about all this is much firmer than I thought, and Saul’s is, too. This is something we’ll never quite see eye to eye on, but despite all that, I’m so damn thankful to be sitting here with him.
The patrons finish trickling inside, the last of them finding their seats as the service begins. The priest takes one last look around before shutting the propped-open door.
“You should get in there,” I suggest. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be waiting.”
Saul shakes his head. “Today, I’ll sit out here with you,” he replies, rolling down the windows.
“It’s a big night,” I protest. “If you wanna pray, go pray.”
“This is my service,” he retorts, dropping his seat back and relaxing as faint hymns begin to drift across this parking lot toward us. The choir within is sparse and modest, a vastly different tone compared to Kingdom of the Pine gatherings.
I gradually realize Saul’s words could have two distinct meanings. Either he’s fine with enjoying tonight’s church service from a distance, or he understands I need company and his presence is a duty of friendship.
Either way, I’m thankful Saul’s here with me.
We sit like this the entire time, listening to the wind in the trees and smelling the fresh Douglas fir as it wafts across our nostrils. The sermon inside is faint and muffled, unintelligible unless the whole congregation sings together, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. I find myself shocked at how pleasant the whole experience is, the seething anger I’ve had toward Kingdom of the Pine briefly checking out.