As a youngster, when I was active in church, I had a lot of fun

Host: The evening settled over the small coastal town, soft and golden, like a memory that refused to fade. The streets glimmered with string lights, their faint flicker dancing across the faces of children who ran with paper stars and bells. A church bell rang in the distance, slow and steady, each toll folding into the scent of salt and coconut smoke.

Inside a half-open hall, a group of volunteers worked — paint, nails, timber, and laughter mixing into a humble music of preparation.

Jack stood near the window, sleeves rolled up, his hands streaked with sawdust and paint. His eyes, usually cold, now softened as he watched Jeeny on the other side of the room, stringing stars along a wooden beam. Her hair caught the light; her smile was quiet, steady — the kind of smile that could make a room glow without lamps.

Host: On the wall, someone had pinned a quote from Nivin Pauly, a local favorite — a simple reminder of warmth:
“As a youngster, when I was active in church, I had a lot of fun choosing and hanging massive stars and making the cribs. I was also very involved in the Christmas plays, though not as an actor, but I took joy in setting up the props.”

Jack: “You know, I never understood it.”

Jeeny: “Understood what?”

Jack: “The joy people take in decorating things they don’t believe in.”

Jeeny: “You mean faith?”

Jack: “No — the rituals. The stars, the cribs, the lights. It’s all… I don’t know… decoration for something unseen. People call it holy, but it’s just a set, isn’t it? Like a play without an audience.”

Host: Jeeny paused, the string of stars dangling from her hands, her eyes reflecting the tiny glimmers of light.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the beauty of it, Jack? That it doesn’t have to be seen to be felt? When I was a kid, my father used to say that every star we hung wasn’t for God — it was for hope. For a neighbor who lost someone, for a child who missed her mother. We were decorating our own sadness with light.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But it’s also a little tragic, don’t you think? Trying to hide grief behind tinsel.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not hide — maybe transform. That’s what rituals do. They take what hurts and turn it into something you can touch, build, or hang. Like Nivin said — he didn’t act in the plays, he built the props. But even then, he was telling a story. We all are, even when we don’t speak.”

Host: Jack leaned back against a wooden pillar, the faint sound of the ocean mixing with the carols drifting in from the nearby church. He watched the volunteers move like small constellations — laughter, movement, joy stitched together by candlelight.

Jack: “When I was a boy, I didn’t hang stars. My mother used to take me to midnight mass because she believed the first light of Christmas could erase anything bad that happened that year. But I never saw anything erase. Not the fights, not the poverty, not her tears. The light came and went — the dark stayed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you were looking for the wrong kind of light.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it cut through the noise — like a single candle flame defying a storm. Jack’s brow furrowed, his eyes flicking toward the altar, where a small, half-finished crib waited for its final touches.

Jack: “And what kind is that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that doesn’t try to erase the dark — just live inside it. When I build a crib, it’s not because I think I’m summoning something divine. It’s because I want to remember that something divine once chose to be human. To sleep in a wooden box, to cry, to be fragile. That story isn’t about religion, Jack. It’s about humility.”

Jack: “And rituals keep that alive, you think?”

Jeeny: “Not the rituals themselves. The people who keep doing them. Even when the meaning fades, the motion matters. The act of building, of hanging, of creating something beautiful when you don’t have to — that’s the real faith.”

Host: A sudden gust of wind pushed through the open window, swaying the hanging stars. One fell, its thin thread snapping, and it landed between them with a small, metallic clink.

Jeeny bent, picked it up, and held it out to him.

Jeeny: “Here. Hang this one.”

Jack: “Why me?”

Jeeny: “Because you need to know what it feels like to put up a star, not just question it.”

Host: Jack hesitated, his fingers brushing against hers for a fleeting moment before he took the star. The touch was brief — but it carried the warmth of something more ancient than belief. He walked toward the crib, climbed onto a small stool, and hung it above the wooden roof, just over where the infant figure would be placed.

The light from the lantern caught on the star’s silver edge, casting a thin beam across the room — landing right on Jeeny’s face. She looked up, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “See? It’s not so hard to believe in something when your hands are busy building it.”

Jack: “It’s not belief, Jeeny. It’s muscle memory.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what faith is.”

Host: A few children entered, giggling, carrying boxes of painted angels and candles. The room filled with the soft hum of joy — simple, uncalculated. Jack watched them, an unreadable expression forming in his eyes.

Jack: “You know… maybe I get it now. Maybe the point isn’t to believe that something magical happens. Maybe it’s just to keep making it happen — for someone else.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Nivin was saying, I think. The joy wasn’t in the stage or the spotlight. It was in the setup — in being part of something that made others feel alive.”

Host: The bells from the church rang again — louder now, brighter. Someone lit the crib’s small lantern, and its flame flickered, spilling warm light across every corner of the hall.

Jack and Jeeny stood there — silent, side by side — their faces washed in gold. The stars above them swayed, each one a tiny universe of effort, laughter, and memory.

Jack: “You know, for a moment, it almost feels like the world is… kind.”

Jeeny: “It always was, Jack. We just forget to decorate it.”

Host: The camera pulls back, the hall now glowing with soft light, children’s laughter, and the whisper of waves outside. The stars above the crib shimmer, their faint reflections dancing on the windows like dreams that have chosen to stay awake.

And there — amid sawdust, paint, and candlelight — faith doesn’t look like a sermon. It looks like two people, quietly building something beautiful, because joy — like light — always begins in the hands.