Be still and cool in thine own mind and spirit.

Host: The chapel was silent except for the wind whispering through the cracked windows. The air smelled faintly of old wood and rain, the scent of stillness itself. A candle burned at the altar — one, small, trembling flame fighting the long dark. Its light danced across the walls, painting gold halos around the edges of decay.

Jack sat on one of the pews, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the flame. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves; his hands were restless — those of a man at war with his own thoughts. Jeeny stood by the doorway, her coat damp from the storm, her eyes soft and watchful. She said nothing at first. She simply listened — to the silence, the rain, and Jack’s breath.

On the lectern, an old Bible lay open to a note scribbled in the margin. The ink had faded, but the words were still legible:

"Be still and cool in thine own mind and spirit." — George Fox

Jeeny: (quietly) “It’s strange how he wrote that in a time of persecution. To be still when the world was burning around him. That takes strength.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Or blindness. The world doesn’t reward stillness, Jeeny. It devours it. Be still, and you’ll be buried by those who move faster, shout louder, strike harder.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the ones who shout the loudest are always the first to burn out. Fox didn’t mean stillness as surrender. He meant it as command — be still in power. The cool mind cuts sharper than any sword.”

Host: The wind moaned softly through the broken stained glass, scattering colored light across Jack’s face — red, blue, and green flickers like stained emotions. He stood, pacing, the boards creaking beneath his boots.

Jack: “I’ve tried stillness. It’s overrated. The world moves on, and all your calm gets mistaken for weakness. If you don’t fight, you’re forgotten.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer) “No, Jack. If you fight everything, you forget yourself. Stillness isn’t absence — it’s mastery. Fox wasn’t telling us to freeze. He was telling us to own the fire without being burned by it.”

Jack: (sharply) “And what if the fire’s the only thing keeping you alive?”

Jeeny: “Then learn to let it warm you, not consume you.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they struck deep. The candle flame wavered as if caught by the wind of their tension. Jack’s jaw tightened; his breath came slow, deliberate. He turned toward the window, watching the rain bead and trail down like a map of unspoken things.

Jack: “You speak like stillness is armor. But what good is calm in a world that demands outrage? Every battle I’ve fought, every deal I’ve made — it’s chaos that wins, not quiet.”

Jeeny: “And yet chaos never keeps what it wins. Stillness isn’t about denial. It’s about direction. You can’t steer a storm by shouting at it — only by centering within it.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the faint rhythm like a heartbeat softening. Jeeny walked toward the altar, her hand brushing the old Bible, her fingers grazing the inked words.

Jeeny: “George Fox wasn’t talking about silence for the sake of peace. He was talking about clarity in the face of violence. The Quakers stood unarmed before kings and executioners — and their stillness frightened them. Because calm people can’t be controlled.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You think stillness is rebellion?”

Jeeny: “The purest kind. The rebellion of not being moved by the noise.”

Host: The candle flickered as she spoke, its flame stretching taller, stronger. Jack’s shadow loomed across the far wall, divided by the fractured light from the stained glass — one man, many colors.

Jack: “You make it sound like stillness is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “It is. The mind that’s still can’t be provoked. The heart that’s cool can’t be conquered.”

Jack: (lowering his voice) “But what about passion? Isn’t that the point of being alive — to feel, to burn?”

Jeeny: “To burn, yes. But not to turn to ash.”

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance — soft, fading, as if retreating. Jack turned back toward her, his eyes weary but alive. He sat again, elbows on his knees, staring at the small candle. The flame reflected in his pupils, twin lights trembling but unextinguished.

Jack: (quietly) “You think I’ve been burning too long.”

Jeeny: (gently) “I think you’ve mistaken the smoke for purpose.”

Host: A long silence fell between them, filled only by the whisper of wind and the soft pop of melting wax. The candle leaned slightly, but its flame never faltered. Jeeny walked toward him, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “Fox’s words — they weren’t about peace without struggle. They were about composure within it. Stillness doesn’t mean you stop fighting. It means you fight like water — with patience, precision, inevitability.”

Jack: (murmuring) “Like water.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Water wears down mountains without anger. Fire devours what it touches. But water transforms what resists.”

Host: She sat beside him now, close enough for the warmth of the candle to reach both their faces. The light traced her features — calm, radiant, anchored. Jack looked at her, his own restlessness reflected in her serenity.

Jack: “I envy that — whatever it is you have. That quiet.”

Jeeny: “It’s not quiet. It’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage?”

Jeeny: “To be unmoved when the world demands reaction. To hold peace when everything else wants to steal it. That’s not weakness, Jack — that’s power.”

Host: Her voice was steady, low — the sound of water smoothing stone. Jack’s shoulders softened. The tension in his hands began to fade. He leaned back against the pew, closing his eyes for the first time since she arrived.

The candlelight shimmered, painting his face in soft gold.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what Fox meant. To be cool in spirit doesn’t mean to stop feeling — it means to feel without drowning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Stillness isn’t the absence of fire. It’s learning to breathe inside it.”

Host: Outside, the last drops of rain slid down the glass. A faint moonlight began to filter through the clouds, silver and soft, mingling with the glow of the candle. The chapel seemed to exhale — as if relieved that the storm had passed both outside and within.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at her — a long, quiet look, filled not with defiance but with something new. Understanding.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make stillness sound like a revolution.”

Jeeny: “It is. The one fought in silence — and won.”

Host: The wind outside had died completely now. The candle’s flame stood perfectly straight, unshaken. The world, for one rare moment, was utterly still.

And in that sacred quiet, the truth of Fox’s words became more than wisdom — it became atmosphere.

To be still was not to withdraw from life,
but to command it.

To be cool was not to be detached,
but to burn without breaking.

And there, beneath the trembling light, Jack and Jeeny sat —
two souls learning that the greatest act of defiance
is not to conquer the storm,
but to remain unshaken within it.