We were fresh off a sweaty father-son football session—Dylan and I, weekend warriors of the local oval. I had my footy under one arm, optimism in my heart, and sunscreen in my eyebrows.
That’s when I spotted the hall. Brick, modest, and bearing a sign referencing a church. The area was crawling with churches, and I’d recently developed a quiet little fascination with them. Not out of any grand religious awakening—more of a midlife curiosity. I’d begun dropping in on local congregations like someone trying different cafés. Anglican, Baptist, even a Quaker meeting where the silence felt deeply personal and slightly confrontational. It was like sampling spiritual dialects—some poetic, some stern, some with surprisingly good tea.
So when I saw the doors open at this unassuming hall, I thought: Why not?
“Looks like something’s on,” I said.
Dylan, six years old and perched on his bike beside me, gave a quiet “huh.” His helmet sat slightly askew—a silent warning, had I been paying attention.
We pedalled up to the entrance and casually left our bikes on the front lawn, right by the main door—like we were popping in for a two-minute prayer and a water refill. I tucked the football under my arm like a sacred object—part relic, part conversation starter—and we walked in. Still wearing our bike helmets.
The room was full. Round tables, floral decorations, soft music. A man in a tuxedo nodded at us. I nodded back, thinking: Very welcoming. Probably Uniting Church.
A projector played a slow-moving montage of a couple laughing in forests and on beaches. I leaned down to Dylan. “Modern service,” I whispered. “Multimedia.”
He blinked. “Mm.”
I began to mingle, football under one arm, helmet firmly on head, shorts just clinging to respectability.
I introduced myself to a woman in a pale pink dress. “Lovely event,” I said. “Is this a regular Sunday thing?”
She gave me a once-over—the bike helmet, the footy, the shorts—and said, “Uh… sort of.”
Another guest told me he’d come from interstate. “You must be quite devoted,” I said, impressed.
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” he replied.
“Beautiful,” I said. “I admire that kind of commitment.”
I approached the cameraman. “Do you film all the services, or just the big ones?”
He paused, then said gently, “Mostly family events.”
I nodded solemnly, like that clarified everything.
At no point did I think I was out of place. I was a seeker among believers, a dad with purpose and a football-shaped offering. I figured the helmets made us look prepared. Vigilant. Spiritually agile.
Dylan, to his credit, stayed by my side, helmet on, silent as a monk. I didn’t know it then, but he’d figured it out instantly. And opted to let it ride.
Eventually we reassembled near the back. A woman in a floral dress handed us small gift bags. “Thank you for coming,” she said warmly.
“Wonderful service,” I said, smiling. “Very moving. I learned a lot.”
We walked out, still helmeted, retrieved our bikes from the front lawn, and rode home in silence.
Later that evening, curiosity got the better of me. I Googled the venue. Community hall. Private bookings. Mostly weddings.
I stared at the screen.
“Dylan…”
He looked up from the floor, completely at ease.
“You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “You never asked.”
Some people might be perturbed to discover their six-year-old child is more observant and socially aware than they are in their late forties. But I took it as a point of pride. Better than a chip off the old block.
I briefly considered asking him to lead all future social investigations, but decided against it.
My leadership, after all, offers far better comic opportunities.
Besides, this little misadventure only confirmed what I’ve long suspected: I may not have the mind of a mystic or the eye of a philosopher, but I do seem to have the instincts of a comedian. Where others search for meaning, I seem to wander into punchlines.