All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given

Host: The evening was slow and honeyed, the sky painted in deep amber and smoke, like an old story being rewritten by the sun’s final breath. The river below the stone bridge moved quietly, carrying light on its surface the way memory carries meaning — gently, but with no intention of returning.

Jack and Jeeny sat by the riverbank, where the grass had grown wild around the edges of their silence. Between them, an old pocket watch lay open on the stone, its hands still ticking, the seconds marching forward — delicate, relentless, alive.

Host: The moment had the texture of something fragile, something that knew it couldn’t last. And that’s why it felt so sacred.

Jeeny: (softly) “Tolkien said, ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’ I think about that a lot lately.”

Jack: (leaning back, eyes half-closed) “That’s because you still believe time is a gift. I think it’s a debt.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s borrowed light — we just choose how to spend the glow.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But not practical. You can’t spend time wisely when you don’t even know how much you’ve got left.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why you should. Because you don’t know.”

Host: The wind moved through the grass, soft and warm, bending each blade in slow waves, like the breathing of the earth itself. The light caught on the watch’s face, flashing gold, a small sun trapped in brass.

Jack: (quietly) “People waste their lives trying to control the clock. Counting seconds like they mean something. But time doesn’t care how we spend it. It just moves.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the point — it moves no matter what we do. So the only thing that matters is how we fill it.”

Jack: “With what? Work? Regret? Meaning? None of that stops it from running out.”

Jeeny: (gently) “No. But it makes the running worth watching.”

Host: The river murmured, its sound low and steady, like the voice of something older than speech. In the distance, the last light touched the horizon, turning clouds to embers.

Jack: “You always talk about time like it’s holy. Like it’s some benevolent god.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a god. It’s a mirror. It reflects what you give it.”

Jack: (smirking) “And what if all I give it is emptiness?”

Jeeny: (looking at him) “Then that’s what you get back.”

Host: He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening, as if the truth had hit him too close to the bone. The watch ticked louder in the stillness, its rhythm now a kind of reminder — not of death, but of the life between ticks.

Jack: “You know, I used to think decisions like that — how to use your time — were for people with choices. Not everyone gets to decide. Some of us are just surviving the clock.”

Jeeny: “You always make survival sound small. It isn’t. Even endurance is a kind of decision.”

Jack: “You think suffering is noble?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s honest. And sometimes, just choosing to keep going is what you do with the time that’s given to you.”

Jack: “That sounds like something out of a sermon.”

Jeeny: “It’s something out of experience.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting a few fallen leaves and spinning them into the air, golden flecks against the darkening sky. They floated, spun, and fell again — a quiet metaphor for the conversation itself: light for a moment, then gone.

Jack: (sighing) “So what do you do, Jeeny, with your time?”

Jeeny: “I try to fill it with love. Even if it fails. Even if it hurts.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “It isn’t. It’s the hardest thing in the world. Because you have to do it knowing it won’t last forever.”

Jack: “And you still think that’s worth it?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Because meaning doesn’t come from how long it lasts — it comes from how alive you are while it’s happening.”

Host: The sun had disappeared now, leaving only a halo of gold behind the clouds. The watch on the stone ticked into the blue hour, its hands still moving, indifferent but beautiful.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, Tolkien wrote that line in a world falling apart. War, loss, darkness — and yet he still said we have a choice. You think he actually believed that?”

Jeeny: “I think he had to. Hope isn’t something you’re born with; it’s something you practice.”

Jack: “Hope feels naïve.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here, Jack? Still breathing, still fighting, still arguing with me?”

Jack: (pauses, looking down) “…Because giving up feels worse.”

Jeeny: “That’s hope. You just don’t want to call it that.”

Host: The river glowed faintly in the dark, carrying light fragments like tiny stars across its surface. The sound was steady, like time itself continuing, even as night fell.

Jack: (after a long silence) “So maybe that’s it — maybe the trick isn’t winning time, or owning it, or even understanding it. Maybe it’s just… choosing what kind of person you want to be inside of it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. Because time isn’t the question. You are.”

Host: The words settled, like dust after a storm, the air calmer, the moment somehow larger than the two of them.

Jeeny reached for the watch, closing it gently in her hand, as if she could hold the universe still for just one heartbeat longer.

Jeeny: “We don’t get to decide how much time we’re given. But we get to decide how much of ourselves we give to it.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes) “It has to be.”

Host: The first stars began to appear, one by one, their light quiet, distant, but constant. Jack looked up, and for once, there was no sarcasm, no armor, just the expression of a man realizing how small — and how sacred — his hours truly were.

Jack: (softly) “Then I guess it’s time to start deciding.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Before time decides for you.”

Host: The river kept moving, the watch kept ticking, and the night stretched wide around them — a canvas painted with stars and seconds.

And in that quiet infinity, the truth of Tolkien’s words found its home:
that the measure of a life is not in its length,
but in the decisions made within it —
how one chooses to spend the light,
before the darkness gently takes it back.