All that I am I owe to Jesus Christ, revealed to me in His divine

Host: The rain had been falling for hours, soft and relentless, washing the city streets into silver mirrors. Inside a dim coffeehouse, the windows were fogged, the lights warm but weary. The clock above the counter ticked past midnight, and the world outside felt miles away.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his coat draped over the chair, a Bible lying open beside his half-empty cup. The pages were worn, the spine cracked from years of quiet argument. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a mug, watching the steam rise like incense.

The radio murmured faintly in the background — a preacher’s voice fading into static.

Jeeny: (softly) “David Livingstone once said, ‘All that I am I owe to Jesus Christ, revealed to me in His divine Book.’”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s convenient. Give all your credit to someone else, and you’re free from failure.”

Jeeny: “Or free from pride.”

Jack: “You really think surrender’s freedom?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only kind that matters.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the rain trails on the window like veins of gold. Jack leaned back, his gray eyes narrowing, studying her as though she were another puzzle he could dismantle. Jeeny’s expression was calm, but her voice carried weight, the quiet conviction of someone who’s seen light through the cracks of darkness.

Jack: “Livingstone was a missionary and an explorer. You know what I admire about him? The science. The maps. The discovery. But the faith? That’s just the poetry he used to keep himself sane.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was both. Science can tell you where you are, Jack. Faith reminds you why you’re there.”

Jack: “Faith blinds people. Makes them trade truth for comfort.”

Jeeny: “Or makes them see when the world refuses to. He went into Africa when no one else dared. Not for glory. Not for wealth. He believed God’s love belonged where no map yet existed.”

Jack: “And what did it get him? Malaria. Loneliness. Death.”

Jeeny: “And a legacy that outlived every empire. His name still whispers hope where others only took.”

Host: A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. The streetlights flickered, and for a moment, the café felt suspended between centuries — as if Livingstone himself might walk through the door, soaked in rain and purpose.

Jack stared into his cup, his reflection rippling, distorted by motion.

Jack: “I used to pray, you know. Back when I was a kid. My mom would make me kneel by the bed. ‘Talk to Him,’ she’d say. But all I ever heard was silence. So I stopped talking.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe He was listening.”

Jack: “Or maybe there was no one there.”

Jeeny: “You’re angry at silence, not at God.”

Jack: “I’m angry at lies dressed as light.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re closer to Him than you think. Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith, Jack — it’s the shadow that proves faith is real.”

Host: The barista turned off the radio, leaving only the sound of the rain. The café felt like a chapel now — the kind built from silence instead of stone. Jeeny reached across the table and touched the Bible’s cover with careful reverence, as if it were something living.

Jeeny: “You think faith is weakness. But it takes strength to live by something you can’t measure.”

Jack: “And foolishness to trust what you can’t prove.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to every mother who’s prayed for her child to live, to every man who’s stood at a grave and whispered goodbye. Faith isn’t proof — it’s survival.”

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. Livingstone crossed continents because he believed one verse could heal a world that slavery and greed had broken. ‘All that I am I owe to Jesus Christ.’ That’s not humility. That’s truth spoken through exhaustion.”

Host: The rain softened, like a voice lowering in confession. Jack ran a hand through his hair, weary but thoughtful. Jeeny’s eyes caught the light — brown, steady, unwavering.

Jack: “You ever wonder if faith is just a story we tell ourselves to survive meaninglessness?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But then I remember — meaninglessness doesn’t ask you to be kind. Faith does.”

Jack: “So it’s morality wrapped in myth?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But myth built civilizations. It taught people to feed the hungry, to forgive enemies, to build hospitals, to dream of more than themselves. Can your logic do that?”

Jack: “Logic prevents us from burning each other over whose myth is truer.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still kill without faith — greed, jealousy, fear. Don’t blame God for the echoes of human cruelty.”

Jack: “Then why doesn’t He stop it?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Maybe because He gave us the brush — and we keep painting with darkness.”

Host: A bus passed outside, its lights flashing through the window. The Bible lay open between them, rain-damp air curling its pages. One verse was underlined — “I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”

Jeeny read it quietly.

Jack watched her lips move, and for the first time, his face softened.

Jack: “You really believe He’s still here? In all this?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In the breath between anger and forgiveness. In every moment someone chooses compassion when it’d be easier not to. He’s not in the thunder, Jack. He’s in the whisper.”

Jack: “The whisper I can’t hear.”

Jeeny: “Then stop shouting at the silence.”

Host: The rain stopped, and with it came a fragile stillness. The city lights shimmered through the mist, turning the world into a watercolor dream. Jack’s eyes followed the last raindrop crawling down the glass.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think faith was for the desperate. But maybe it’s for the stubborn.”

Jeeny: “It’s for the human.”

Jack: “You really think everything you are — everything — comes from Him?”

Jeeny: “Yes. My mistakes. My mercy. My hunger for meaning. All of it shaped by grace. You can’t owe your breath to logic, Jack.”

Jack: “But you can lose it to truth.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, they’re the same thing.”

Host: The clock struck one, echoing through the empty café. The barista had long gone. The lights dimmed, leaving only the glow from the street outside. Jeeny stood, slipped on her coat, and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe tonight. Just don’t stop looking.”

Jack: “What if I never find Him?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe He’ll find you.”

Host: The doorbell chimed as she stepped into the night. Jack stayed behind, his eyes fixed on the open Bible. The rain had cleared, and through the fogged glass, he could see the faint shimmer of dawn — pale and uncertain, but there.

He reached out, closed the book gently, and whispered — not to her, not to himself, but somewhere deeper.

Jack: “If You’re listening… I’m still here.”

Host: The camera pulls back, through the glass, past the glowing streetlights and the quiet city veins. The café becomes smaller and smaller — one lonely man, one divine whisper, and a sliver of new light breaking the dark.

And as the world turns, unseen and eternal, the echo of Livingstone’s words lingers in the night air:

“All that I am, I owe…” — not just to belief, but to the courage of one who dares to keep believing.