As I lay so sick on my bed, from Christmas till March, I was

Host: The cabin sat on the edge of a swamp, its timbers old and groaning, the air thick with the perfume of pine smoke and mud. Outside, the night pressed close — black, vast, and heavy with the weight of history. Inside, a single lantern burned low, its flame trembling like a tired heart.

The fireplace crackled softly. Jack sat near it, the orange light painting his face in streaks of warmth and shadow. His hands, calloused and strong, held an open book — Harriet Tubman’s words staring back at him. Across from him, Jeeny sat on the floor, her knees drawn close, her eyes reflecting the same flame.

A storm whispered through the trees beyond, and for a moment, it felt as though the world outside had stopped — waiting for her words to echo again.

Jeeny: softly, reading from the book
“As I lay so sick on my bed, from Christmas till March, I was always praying for poor ole master. 'Pears like I didn't do nothing but pray for ole master. ‘Oh, Lord, convert ole master;’ ‘Oh, dear Lord, change dat man’s heart, and make him a Christian.’”

Jack: quietly, closing his eyes “It sounds like forgiveness... but heavier. Like a prayer that hurt to say.”

Jeeny: “It is heavier. It’s love without safety. Faith without reason.”

Jack: after a pause “You think she really forgave him?”

Jeeny: “I think she did something deeper. She hoped for his redemption, even while he owned her body. That’s not forgiveness — that’s transcendence.”

Host: The firelight danced between them, each flicker revealing the exhaustion and awe in their faces. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it the low cry of something wild — maybe a bird, maybe memory.

Jack leaned forward, his voice low and rough.

Jack: “I’ve never understood that kind of grace. To pray for the man who chains you? To ask God to save the one who never saw you as human?”

Jeeny: “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? The enslaved woman praying for the enslaver — not to survive him, but to save him. That’s faith so radical it shames our modern sense of justice.”

Jack: bitterly “Or it’s madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the two look the same when you love God more than your pain.”

Host: The flame wavered, throwing shadows like ghosts across the cabin’s walls. The rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady — a rhythm like a heartbeat pressed against the roof.

Jack turned the page, his eyes scanning the faded lines, his voice a murmur.

Jack: “She said she was sick from Christmas till March. All that time, she prayed for the man who’d broken her world...”

Jeeny: “It’s the prayer of someone who understood that hate’s a chain, too. Maybe she wasn’t asking for his heart to change — maybe she was freeing her own.”

Jack: “You really think faith can do that?”

Jeeny: “I think Harriet’s faith had to. She didn’t have armies or laws or allies. She had hope. And hope was her rebellion.”

Host: The wind howled louder now, slipping through the cracks in the wood. The lantern’s light flickered against the Bible resting on the table, its pages fluttering like fragile wings.

Jack’s gaze lingered on it.

Jack: “I used to think faith was weakness — something people clung to because they had no power. But now...”
He looks up at her.
“Now it feels like the only real power anyone ever had.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she knew. She wasn’t just praying for him — she was praying through him. Her prayer was rebellion in disguise.”

Host: The storm outside intensified, rain hammering against the cabin like a thousand fists. The fire hissed, shrinking into embers.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and watched the trees sway violently under the sky’s fury. Her voice softened, trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “You know what strikes me most? She was sick. Weak. Lying in bed. But her spirit was still working — not on her own healing, but his. There’s a strength in that kind of surrender that I can’t even comprehend.”

Jack: “Strength? Or delusion?”

Jeeny: turns sharply “Don’t do that. Don’t reduce her faith to delusion because it doesn’t fit our anger.”

Jack: “I’m not angry. I’m... bewildered. How do you love the man who crushed you? How do you pray for his soul while he profits off yours?”

Jeeny: quietly “You love God more than vengeance. That’s how.”

Host: The firelight flickered against the tears glistening in her eyes. The cabin felt smaller now — tighter, as though the weight of Tubman’s spirit had filled the space between them.

Jack stood, restless, pacing. His boots creaked against the old floorboards.

Jack: “She wanted his heart to change. But what if it never did? What if he died the same cruel man?”

Jeeny: “Then she still won. Because she refused to become him.”

Jack: pausing, turning toward her “You think prayer can be an act of defiance?”

Jeeny: “The greatest kind. It’s what she built her freedom on. Every step she took north was a sermon.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a whisper. The lantern dimmed. Outside, the first sliver of dawn cracked through the storm, casting a faint silver light across the windowpane.

Jeeny: softly “She prayed for him. But maybe she was really asking God to make her strong enough not to hate him.”

Jack: “That’s a kind of strength I don’t think I have.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t need to have it. Maybe just believing it’s possible is enough.”

Host: The light shifted, cool now, silver-gray. The storm was passing. A new day was bleeding slowly into the swamp’s horizon.

Jack walked to the window beside her. For a long moment, neither spoke. The world outside was drenched, shimmering, reborn.

Jack: quietly “You know, people call her a hero, a liberator. But I think she was something rarer.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “A forgiver.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “The hardest thing a person can be.”

Host: The silence that followed was reverent. The kind that doesn’t need words because truth has already filled the air.

Jack reached for the book again, opening it to the same passage. He read it once more, his voice steady now, almost like a prayer itself.

Jack: “‘Oh Lord, convert ole master; oh dear Lord, change dat man’s heart, and make him a Christian.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that prayer still echoes somewhere — in every person who chooses compassion over bitterness.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what freedom really is. Not escaping the chains — but refusing to forge new ones inside your heart.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there — on the two of them standing by the window, the cabin bathed in pale morning light. The swamp beyond shimmered with renewal, each droplet of rain catching the dawn like forgiveness itself.

The book lay open on the table, Harriet Tubman’s words glowing faintly in the soft light.

Host: And as the scene faded to stillness, her voice seemed to rise again from those pages — not as sorrow, but as testament:

“As I lay so sick on my bed, from Christmas till March, I was always praying for poor ole master… ‘Oh Lord, convert ole master; oh dear Lord, change dat man’s heart, and make him a Christian.’”

Host: The fire had gone out.
But something else had begun to burn — quietly, fiercely, eternally —
the light of a faith so pure it could forgive without surrendering truth.

And in that dim cabin, for a brief and trembling moment,
Jack and Jeeny understood what true freedom costs —
and what it saves.