My family went to a Mennonite Baptist church - they're pretty

Host: The night air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke — the kind that clings to denim and memory. A single bonfire burned in the center of an open field, its light flickering against the slow, patient darkness of rural Saskatchewan. The sky stretched vast and solemn above, a black canvas pricked with silver — infinite and close all at once.

Jack sat on a folding chair, an old guitar resting across his knees, fingers idly brushing the strings. The firelight sculpted his face into planes of shadow and bronze — weary, reflective, grounded. Jeeny sat nearby, wrapped in a worn flannel, her hair loose, her eyes catching the flames.

Between them, a half-empty bottle of whiskey glinted like liquid memory. And between sips and silences lay the quote they had been circling all evening — handwritten on a napkin, resting beside the guitar case.

“My family went to a Mennonite Baptist church — they’re pretty conservative Christian folk. We weren’t on a colony or anything like that, but it certainly shaped me throughout the years.”
— Colter Wall

Host: The fire cracked, sending a small spray of embers into the night. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, then fell quiet. The silence that followed felt like reverence — the kind born of old faith and the ache of remembering where you came from.

Jeeny: softly, watching the flames dance “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a place can stay inside you long after you’ve left it. Like the accent of your soul.”

Jack: plucking a single string, letting the sound linger “Yeah. You can run from a town, but not from its echoes.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Especially when those echoes are hymns.”

Jack: nodding “Hymns and silence. That’s what I remember. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was heavy with belief.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of hay and rain — the language of the prairie. Jack looked up toward the sky, eyes tracing constellations as if trying to read something written just for him.

Jeeny: after a pause “He said it shaped him. Not broke him, not bound him — shaped him. That’s the grace of it, I think.”

Jack: half-smiling “You sound like you envy that kind of shaping.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe I do. There’s something honest about faith when it’s inherited — not chosen, but lived.”

Jack: chuckling softly “You mean when it’s branded on you before you learn to question it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s like growing up in a language you never agreed to speak — but it still becomes the one you dream in.”

Host: The firelight danced across Jeeny’s face, painting her expression in shades of gold and thought. Jack strummed a soft chord — three notes that carried the sound of longing through the night.

Jack: after a moment “I get what he meant, though. Growing up surrounded by that kind of faith... it gives you edges. You might outgrow the rules, but not the rhythm.”

Jeeny: nodding “Faith is rhythm, isn’t it? Even if you stop believing in the words, the cadence never leaves you.”

Jack: smirking faintly “That’s poetic for a girl who doesn’t go to church.”

Jeeny: smiling back “You don’t have to go to church to understand reverence.”

Host: The flames crackled louder now, throwing light over their faces — two silhouettes caught between doubt and devotion. The night seemed to lean closer to listen.

Jack: after a long pause “When I was a kid, my father used to take me to a small church on the edge of town. Wooden pews, old organ, the same sermon every Sunday. I used to think it was all just noise.”

Jeeny: gently “And now?”

Jack: staring into the fire “Now I think it was trying to teach me patience. And humility. The kind of lessons that don’t show up until life starts kicking you around.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s what shaping is — not perfection, just the bending of your pride until it fits your soul.”

Host: The fire popped, a spark leaping briefly before dying in the dirt. The moment hung suspended — sacred in its simplicity.

Jeeny: softly “Mennonites. Baptists. Conservative faith — it’s easy to mock when you’re young. But when you strip it down, there’s beauty there. Restraint. Discipline. A sense of smallness that keeps you humble.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe that’s what keeps artists like Colter grounded. You can write all the outlaw songs you want, but somewhere deep down, you still hear the hymn you were born into.”

Jeeny: smiling “The hymn never dies. It just learns to play guitar.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying with it the faint hum of far-off thunder — a reminder that the prairie sky could bless or break without warning. Jack set the guitar down gently, the strings humming their last note.

Jack: softly “You think we ever escape what shaped us?”

Jeeny: shaking her head “No. But we learn to make peace with it. To sing with it instead of against it.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So that’s what freedom looks like?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Maybe not freedom. Maybe grace.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the two figures framed by the dying fire, their voices lost in the immensity of night. Above them, the stars glimmered like old promises, ancient and forgiving.

Jeeny reached out and tossed another log into the fire. The flames caught quickly, rising in defiant gold.

Jack: murmuring “It’s funny. We spend half our lives trying to unlearn what raised us. But in the end, it’s the thing that gives our stories their weight.”

Jeeny: quietly “And their warmth.”

Host: The flames roared for a moment, then softened again into a steady glow — the kind that feels earned, not given.

And as the scene faded into the vast stillness of the prairie night, Colter Wall’s words seemed to linger in the smoke —

That roots are not chains,
but the quiet geometry of becoming;
that even the strictest faith
can carve out the shape of a gentler soul;
and that somewhere between hymn and heartbreak,
a man learns to carry his past
like a well-worn song
he never quite stops humming.