Ask those who love Him with a sincere love, and they will tell

Host: The church stood quiet beneath a fading sky, its stone walls soaked in the orange glow of the dying sun. Through the half-open doors, a faint echo of organ notes drifted — not music, but memory. Dust hung in the air like golden smoke, and the scent of incense clung to every breath.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands clasped, his eyes cold and tired. He wasn’t praying — not really. His lips moved, but the words had long since turned to habit, stripped of belief. Across the aisle, Jeeny knelt, her fingers tracing the edge of a worn rosary, her eyes closed, her expression calm, like someone whispering to an unseen friend.

Host: The light through the stained glass painted her in shades of crimson and blue, like heaven had poured its colors on her shoulders. Jack watched her for a moment, something between envy and skepticism stirring in him.

Jack: softly, voice rough “You really believe someone’s listening, don’t you?”

Jeeny: without opening her eyes “I know He is.”

Jack: “Even when the world isn’t?”

Jeeny: turns, eyes meeting his “Especially then.”

Host: The organist stopped playing. The church fell silent, except for the faint creak of wood and the echo of wind slipping through the cracks. Outside, a storm gathered — the first low rumble of thunder like a warning from another realm.

Jeeny: “Alphonsus Liguori once said, ‘Ask those who love Him with a sincere love, and they will tell you that they find no greater or prompter relief amid the troubles of their life than in loving conversation with their Divine Friend.’ I believe that.”

Jack: leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low but sharp “A ‘Divine Friend’? You make it sound like God’s just waiting to chat over coffee. Do you really think talking to the ceiling fixes anything?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the ceiling I talk to, Jack. It’s what listens from inside.”

Jack: snorts “That’s just psychology. Comfort disguised as faith. We all talk to ourselves when things fall apart — we just don’t pretend it’s divine.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the aisle, casting their shadows long across the marble floor. Jeeny’s rosary beads glimmered like tiny stars.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what you think faith is — pretending. But for those who’ve known silence so deep it hurts to breathe, prayer isn’t pretending. It’s surviving.”

Jack: “Surviving doesn’t need prayer. It needs will. It needs action.”

Jeeny: softly “And when will and action fail? When there’s nothing left to fix? When your mind keeps running, but your heart’s too tired to follow?”

Jack: pauses, jaw tightening “You stop depending on illusions.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You start depending on love.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with fear, but with truth. The rain began outside, slow at first, then steadier, beating against the windows like quiet applause.

Jeeny: “When Alphonsus wrote those words, he wasn’t talking about comfort. He was talking about relationship. About a love so deep it becomes dialogue. About finding peace not in answers, but in presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t leave when the world does. You don’t have to see Him to speak to Him. You just have to be honest.”

Jack: leans back, scoffing “I’ve been honest plenty. Honest about pain, about doubt, about how sometimes God feels like nothing but silence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where He listens most.”

Host: The lightning flashed again, brighter this time, illuminating their faces — Jack’s lined with weariness, Jeeny’s glowing with quiet certainty. The rain hammered harder now, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You sound so sure. Like you’ve seen Him.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Not seen. Felt. Like the warmth after crying, when no one else is there. Like forgiveness that doesn’t come from words. That’s Him.”

Jack: his voice cracking slightly “You think He forgives everything?”

Jeeny: “I think He listens to everything. Forgiveness grows from that.”

Host: A pause — deep, sacred, stretching between thunder and breath. Jack’s eyes fell to the floor, his hands tightening together until his knuckles whitened.

Jack: “When my brother died, I sat right here. Asked for a sign. Anything. A whisper, a flicker, a feeling. Nothing came. You call that a friend?”

Jeeny: leans closer, her eyes glistening “Maybe He was there, Jack — in the silence. Some friendships don’t speak; they hold.”

Jack: bitterly “That’s poetic. But silence doesn’t heal.”

Jeeny: “It does, if you stop fighting it. Sometimes love doesn’t talk back — it just stays.”

Host: The rain softened to a steady rhythm, the storm mellowing into a tender murmur. The candles near the altar flickered but did not die. Their flames wavered, like small souls still standing in the wind.

Jeeny: “Prayer isn’t asking for miracles, Jack. It’s breathing through the pain with Someone beside you. It’s saying, ‘I’m still here,’ even when you feel forgotten.”

Jack: quietly, almost whispering “And what if I can’t believe that Someone’s there?”

Jeeny: “Then start by speaking anyway. Love listens even when it’s not seen. That’s what Alphonsus meant — the conversation itself is the healing.”

Host: The church seemed to exhale — the walls breathing with the rhythm of the rain. A beam of moonlight slipped through the stained glass, landing softly across Jack’s hands. His fingers loosened. Slowly, he raised his gaze toward the altar, where the small figure of Christ looked down — not in judgment, but in sorrowful understanding.

Jack: softly, almost to himself “I don’t know what I’d even say.”

Jeeny: whispers “Then just start with your pain. He understands that language best.”

Host: The air grew still. The storm faded into distant echoes. Jack’s shoulders eased, as if the weight of years had begun to shift, if only slightly. His eyes glimmered, not with faith, but with the beginning of openness — a kind of surrender born not of belief, but of exhaustion.

Jack: “You really think He hears that?”

Jeeny: nods “Every breath of it.”

Host: She reached across the pew, her hand resting lightly on his — not to convince, not to argue, but simply to stay. The church bell rang once, deep and resonant, filling the space like an answer too vast for words.

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe... maybe it’s not about hearing. Maybe it’s about being heard.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The final light faded from the windows, leaving only the soft glow of the altar candles — two small flames still burning, side by side. Outside, the night air was calm, the rain now only a memory.

As they rose and stepped into the cool darkness, Jack turned once more toward the empty pews, the faint echo of silence filling him not with doubt, but with something gentler.

For the first time in years, he breathed — deeply, slowly — and the breath itself felt like prayer.

Host: The camera would linger on that moment — the doors closing, the faint shimmer of candlelight still alive within. Two souls, one broken, one believing, walking into the same night, their silence no longer empty, but shared.

And somewhere, unseen but near, the Divine Friend — quiet, listening — smiled.