Before we went on any protest, whether it was sit-ins or the

Host: The dawn crept softly across the horizon, spilling pale gold light over an abandoned train station. The air was still — heavy with dew and the faint scent of iron, dust, and something older, something sacred. The distant hum of a city waking up floated through the silence.

In the middle of the platform, two figures sat side by side — Jack and Jeeny — each holding a cup of black coffee, steam curling upward like fragile prayers. Behind them, an old poster from the 1960s clung stubbornly to the cracked wall: “Freedom Now.” The paper was yellowed and torn, but its message remained fierce, alive.

Host: The light touched their faces, revealing not youth nor age, but something in between — the quiet wear of people who’ve wrestled with history and still believe in its redemption.

Jeeny: (softly) “John Lewis once said, ‘Before we went on any protest, whether it was sit-ins or the freedom rides or any march, we prepared ourselves, and we were disciplined. We were committed to the way of peace — the way of non-violence — the way of love — the way of life as the way of living.’”

Host: She spoke the words slowly, reverently, as though each syllable still carried the heartbeat of those who once walked with him.

Jack: (quietly) “Discipline. There’s a word people don’t connect with love anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they mistake love for feeling. John Lewis knew love was a practice. A choice. Something you train for — like peace under pressure.”

Jack: “You make it sound like war.”

Jeeny: “It was.”

Host: The wind stirred gently through the broken windows, carrying the whisper of old songs — hymns and marches and the soft thunder of courage.

Jack: “You know, I’ve read about those sit-ins. The way they trained — how they let people spit on them, hit them, humiliate them — and never struck back.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Lewis meant by discipline. You don’t react from pride; you respond from principle.”

Jack: “I don’t know if I could’ve done that. Just sit there while someone screams hate into my face.”

Jeeny: “Neither did they — until they practiced. They rehearsed grace like it was armor.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Armor made of love doesn’t sound very protective.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind that doesn’t rust.”

Host: The sunlight reached them fully now, spilling gold across the rails, the metal gleaming like veins of memory. Jack watched it, his grey eyes narrowing, thoughts shifting like shadows.

Jack: “I wonder if Lewis ever doubted it — the nonviolence. If he ever woke up and thought, ‘Maybe love isn’t enough.’”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. He was human. But he kept walking anyway. That’s what makes faith real — not certainty, but persistence.”

Jack: “Faith in what? That people can change?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even when they don’t. Especially when they don’t.”

Host: The train station creaked in the growing heat, the air shimmering slightly — as if the ghosts of those who’d stood on similar platforms, waiting for buses to freedom or jails for justice, still lingered.

Jack: “I met a man once — a veteran of the marches. He said the hardest part wasn’t facing the police or the dogs. It was facing his own rage.”

Jeeny: “That’s the battlefield inside. To answer hatred with peace — it breaks you open. But that’s how love wins — not by conquering, but by outlasting.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s the opposite of simple. Nonviolence isn’t weakness. It’s willpower wearing kindness as its uniform.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his expression softening, the cynicism slipping just slightly.

Jack: “You believe that kind of love still works? In this world?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Jack: “You really think so?”

Jeeny: “Think about it. Armies win wars, but they don’t win hearts. Fear changes behavior, not belief. But love—” (she places her hand on her chest) “—love plants something deeper. It grows quietly, like roots through concrete.”

Host: Her voice trembled not with fragility, but conviction — the kind born from seeing too much and giving up nothing.

Jack: “You ever feel like peace is too slow?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But violence is quick only in destruction. Peace takes its time because it’s building something meant to last.”

Jack: “You think that’s why Lewis called it ‘the way of life as the way of living’? Because peace wasn’t just what they did — it was who they became.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Nonviolence wasn’t a tactic — it was transformation. You can’t fight for peace with a violent heart.”

Host: A faint train horn echoed in the distance — long, mournful, ancient. It sounded less like a machine and more like memory itself calling out.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about his words? That he put peace and love in the same breath — not as ideals, but as discipline. Like breathing. Something you train your soul to do.”

Jack: “And if the world keeps breaking your heart while you practice?”

Jeeny: “Then you let it. A broken heart loves more honestly.”

Host: The sunlight grew brighter, turning the old station into a kind of shrine — golden dust floating through the beams like particles of history.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think protests were chaos. Anger made visible. But Lewis — he made them look like prayer.”

Jeeny: “They were prayers — prayed with footsteps, with silence, with song. Each march was a sermon that said, ‘We believe in a world that doesn’t exist yet — and we’re willing to walk until it does.’”

Jack: “You ever wonder if that world will come?”

Jeeny: “Only when we stop asking if and start asking how.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked — and for a moment, the decades of disillusionment in his eyes softened into something closer to reverence.

Jack: “You’d have marched with them, wouldn’t you?”

Jeeny: “Of course. And you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “I don’t know. I like to think I would’ve. But courage looks easier in hindsight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe courage isn’t the absence of fear — maybe it’s loving something enough to act despite it.”

Host: The train horn sounded again, closer this time, echoing through the empty station. The two rose, gathering their things. The light had fully claimed the platform now — every beam alive with color, every surface warm.

Jack: “You think we could ever live that way again — disciplined, peaceful, purposeful?”

Jeeny: “We could. But first, we’d have to unlearn hate disguised as strength.”

Jack: “And replace it with what?”

Jeeny: “With love disguised as resolve.”

Host: The train approached, slow and deliberate, its reflection slicing through the sunlight. They stood side by side, the wind from its motion brushing their hair, carrying the scent of iron and history.

Jack: “You know, Lewis called it ‘the way of life as the way of living.’ That’s… beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It’s a reminder. That peace isn’t a dream — it’s a discipline.”

Jack: “And love?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Love’s the discipline that never ends.”

Host: The doors opened, the sound like a sigh. They stepped inside.

Outside, the station stood quiet again, bathed in golden light — the posters, the rails, the wind still whispering the names of those who once walked the long road of peace.

Host: And as the train disappeared into the horizon, the echo of John Lewis’s words remained — not as history, but as instruction:

That peace is not a pause between wars.
That love is not weakness, but work.
And that the way of non-violence —
is not the way of avoiding life,
but the only way of truly living it.