A conviction that you are a daughter of God gives you a feeling

Host: The chapel was nearly empty — the kind of quiet that only exists after prayer has ended and the world has not yet resumed its noise. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, turning the air into color, soft blue and amber dust shimmering like something divine.

At the front, the altar candles burned low, the flame trembling slightly in the draft that came through the old wooden door. The air smelled faintly of lilies and beeswax — the scent of reverence.

Jack sat halfway down the pews, hands clasped loosely, his eyes distant, not in disbelief but in search. The sharpness that usually lived in his voice was softened here; even his posture had gentled, as if this place had taught his body to rest.

Jeeny entered quietly, her steps light, her hair pulled back, her expression calm but bright with feeling. She carried a small book — worn, the edges marked with devotion.

She sat beside him without a word. For a long moment, there was only silence — two souls breathing the same air beneath the gaze of colored light.

Then, from the small speaker hidden near the pulpit, the voice of an old recording rose — measured, kind, sure:
"A conviction that you are a daughter of God gives you a feeling of comfort in your self-worth. It means that you can find strength in the balm of Christ. It will help you meet the heartaches and challenges with faith and serenity." — James E. Faust

The words hung in the stillness like the lingering vibration of a bell.

Jeeny: “That’s the kind of conviction the world forgets how to teach.”

Jack: “You mean faith?”

Jeeny: “No. Identity. The kind that doesn’t depend on applause.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people I know only feel worthy when someone else notices.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he said it — to remind us that worth isn’t borrowed. It’s born.”

Host: The light shifted, and a stripe of gold fell across her face. For a moment, she looked like one of the figures from the window — radiant, steady, both human and eternal.

Jack: “You really believe that? That being called a child of God changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It changes everything. Because if you believe you’re divine in origin, you stop begging the world to tell you who you are.”

Jack: “That sounds like comfort. Dangerous comfort.”

Jeeny: “No. Not comfort that makes you lazy — comfort that makes you whole.”

Host: A bird chirped outside the window, its voice clear, breaking through the hush like a note of joy.

Jack leaned back against the pew, his eyes on the ceiling, following the beams of light that cut through the dust.

Jack: “You know what I envy about believers like that? Their certainty. I’ve spent my whole life trying to build worth through work, reputation, resilience. But faith — real faith — it just starts from worth, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t climb toward it. You begin with it.”

Jack: “And what happens when you lose it?”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You just forget it for a while.”

Host: Her tone carried no judgment — only gentleness. The kind that makes confession seem less like surrender and more like relief.

Jack: “You think faith can really heal heartbreak?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not by erasing pain, but by reminding you it’s not the end of the story.”

Jack: “The balm of Christ.”

Jeeny: “The promise that nothing broken stays that way forever.”

Host: The light moved again, falling now across the crucifix — the carved figure of Christ illuminated, his expression both agony and peace.

Jack: “I used to come to church as a kid. I never understood how people could find serenity in suffering.”

Jeeny: “Because you thought serenity meant escape. It doesn’t. It means standing inside the pain without losing yourself.”

Jack: “Faith as endurance.”

Jeeny: “Faith as belonging. When you know whose you are, you stop being afraid of what happens to you.”

Host: He turned to look at her, the candlelight catching his eyes — they were damp, but steady.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s lived that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have.”

Jack: “What got you through?”

Jeeny: “Remembering that I’m loved — not because I’m flawless, but because I exist. That’s what he meant, Faust. The conviction of being a daughter of God isn’t pride — it’s peace.”

Host: The bell outside the chapel chimed softly, its echoes folding through the air. The sound felt like breath — gentle, rhythmic, ancient.

Jack: “And what about men? What does that conviction mean for us?”

Jeeny: “The same thing. You’re a son of God. Which means your strength doesn’t have to come from control or success — it can come from grace.”

Jack: “Grace.”

Jeeny: “The courage to forgive yourself for not being perfect.”

Host: Her words fell like a benediction, quiet but piercing. The air between them seemed to warm, not with doctrine, but with understanding.

Jack: “So faith isn’t about religion.”

Jeeny: “It’s about relationship. Between the human and the divine. Between you and who you were meant to be.”

Jack: “And that’s what gives serenity?”

Jeeny: “Not the absence of storms — the presence of shelter.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, the chapel filling with twilight. The candles glowed brighter now, like tiny keepers of truth.

Jeeny stood and walked toward the altar, her shadow long across the marble floor. She lit another candle — this one for someone unseen — and whispered something too soft to hear.

Jack watched her, his voice low when he finally spoke.

Jack: “I don’t know if I believe in God the way you do.”

Jeeny: “That’s okay. Belief is just the language. What matters is the listening.”

Jack: “And what if I can’t hear anything?”

Jeeny: “Then sit in the quiet until you can.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was alive — filled with the faint hum of the divine that lingers in all sacred places, even the ones inside us.

The last beam of light fell through the window, resting on the open page of the Bible at the front. The words shimmered faintly, unread but understood.

Because James E. Faust had known a truth the world keeps forgetting:
that divinity isn’t distance — it’s inheritance.
That faith isn’t a fortress, but a foundation —
a reminder that our worth was written long before our failures.

Host: As the chapel doors closed behind them and the night gathered like velvet outside,
Jack and Jeeny walked side by side,
their footsteps slow, steady —
two souls learning that serenity doesn’t come from escape,
but from knowing who you are, and Whose you are.

And in that quiet, holy darkness,
the stars above them glowed like candles —
each one a small, eternal whisper of grace.