It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your ears after the flames die down.
The pit’s still warm, but the meat’s resting, and so am I.
I lean on the table, smell the oak in my shirt, and realize this is as close as I’ll ever get to church.

I’ve burned a lot of things.
Some dinners. Some bridges. Maybe a few chances I didn’t deserve.
But when I’m here, hands cracked, shirt ruined, beer flat, it all feels like forgiveness wrapped in smoke.

The coals don’t care about your bad day.
They don’t judge your screw-ups.
They just burn how you feed them. Too much air and they flare. Not enough and they die.
Like most relationships.

Some folks pray in pews. I pray in patience.
I whisper thank-yous every time the bark sets right or when the fat drips perfect and the smoke runs clean.
That’s faith, not the kind you find in a book, but the kind you earn from trial, error, and a few small miracles disguised as ribs.

I’ve stood here through storms, through hangovers, through every kind of hell the sky could throw.
Wind screaming like a banshee. Rain laughing in my face. Propane giving out mid-cook just to test my willpower.
And somehow, every time, the fire comes back.

People ask why I do it.
Why I spend hours feeding fire for something gone in ten minutes.
Because that’s the point.
You build. You wait. You fail. You fix.
And for a moment, a perfect smoky second, you get it right.
Then it’s gone, and you start again.

That’s life. That’s BBQ. Same sermon, different scars.

I take one last look at the coals. They’re glowing soft, fading slow, like the end of a good story.
The kind that doesn’t need a sequel.
The kind you feel long after the light’s out.