Confound not faith and feeling together. They are distinct. Faith

Host: The night rain fell in thin silver threads, whispering against the cracked windows of a small train station forgotten by time. The clock on the wall ticked with weary persistence, its hands dragging across a face yellowed by years of neglect. Outside, the rails shimmered like veins beneath the stormlight.

Jack sat on the wooden bench, collar up, coat damp, eyes fixed on the tracks that disappeared into darkness. His hands trembled faintly, though whether from cold or from something heavier, it was hard to tell.

Jeeny entered from the side door, shaking the rain from her hair, her breath visible in the cold air. She saw him — his rigid stillness, his silence — and understood before a word was spoken that this night would not be simple.

The wind slipped through a crack in the door, carrying the faint echo of a woman’s voice from the worn-out radio on the counter:

"Confound not faith and feeling together. They are distinct. Faith is ours to exercise. Believe, believe. Let your faith take hold of the blessing, and it is yours by faith. Your feelings have nothing to do with this faith." — Ellen G. White

Jeeny: “That’s an old quote… I remember my mother reading that when I was little. She said it kept her from giving up when her world fell apart.”

Jack: “Then your mother was stronger than most.”

Jeeny: “Stronger or more stubborn?”

Jack: “Maybe both. Faith and stubbornness — same thing when you strip the poetry away.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, throwing their shadows long across the floorboards. The rain grew heavier, pounding the roof like a thousand small fists. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands clasped, her eyes soft yet searching.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet all day.”

Jack: “I’ve been thinking.”

Jeeny: “That’s never a good sign.”

Jack: (cracking a faint smile) “Maybe not. But this time it’s different.”

Jeeny: “Different how?”

Jack: “I realized I’ve been mistaking one thing for another. I thought I lost my faith. Turns out, I just lost the feeling of it.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference?”

Jack: “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Host: A train horn moaned in the distance — low, sorrowful — before fading back into the wet night. The station lights buzzed, fighting to stay alive against the moisture in the air.

Jack: “I used to believe faith felt like peace. Like certainty. Like something burning inside you that said, ‘You’re safe, you’re right, keep going.’ But lately, it’s just… empty. And I thought that meant it was gone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it means it’s real.”

Jack: (turning to her) “Real? What kind of faith feels like nothing?”

Jeeny: “The kind that’s not asking for proof.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a misty rhythm — like breathing. Jeeny’s voice lowered, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Ellen White said faith isn’t about feeling anything. It’s about choosing to believe when every feeling has left the room. Faith is what remains when emotion gives up.”

Jack: “So faith’s just willpower?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s surrender.”

Jack: “That sounds like contradiction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith always is. You surrender to something you can’t see — yet you keep walking as if it’s already yours.”

Jack: “That sounds like madness.”

Jeeny: “It is. Beautiful madness. The kind that built cathedrals and carried mothers through wars.”

Host: The lamp above them hummed softly, its light trembling in the cold. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing — not in anger, but in the ache of comprehension he didn’t want to face.

Jack: “You think faith survives without feeling? Without any fire, any conviction?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s when it’s most alive. When it’s stripped bare — when it’s nothing but a choice. You believe not because you feel hope, but because you refuse to stop believing.”

Jack: “You make it sound heroic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not heroic. It’s human.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the door, rattling it in its frame. Jack stood, pacing slowly across the narrow space, his boots thudding softly against the old wood.

Jack: “When I buried my brother, I prayed for peace. Nothing came. Not a whisper. Just silence. I thought that silence meant my faith was dead.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it meant your faith was working.”

Jack: (turning sharply) “How?”

Jeeny: “Because you prayed anyway.”

Host: The words struck him like a quiet thunder — not loud, but deep. Jack turned away, staring at the tracks, their slick metal stretching into infinity. His breath fogged the window, fading fast — like doubt, refusing to linger.

Jack: “You ever lose it? Your faith?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But that’s the trick. Faith doesn’t mean you never doubt. It means you walk through doubt like it’s weather — knowing it won’t last forever.”

Jack: “Feels like it does.”

Jeeny: “Feelings lie. Faith doesn’t ask their permission.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and steady, echoing through the empty station. The sound of it — precise, indifferent — reminded them both that time moves on, with or without conviction.

Jack: “So, what — faith is just a discipline? A habit?”

Jeeny: “No. Faith’s the bridge between discipline and love. You build it with work, but it stands because you believe there’s something worth crossing for.”

Jack: “And what if the bridge breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then you build it again. That’s faith, too.”

Host: He stared at her, the rainlight reflecting in his grey eyes like muted stars. For the first time that night, the corner of his mouth lifted — not in irony, but in fragile understanding.

Jack: “You really believe it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Simple? No. But necessary, yes. Faith isn’t measured by how you feel when everything’s right. It’s measured by how you act when everything’s wrong.”

Jack: (quietly) “So even when it feels gone…”

Jeeny: “You keep believing.”

Jack: “And when it feels foolish?”

Jeeny: “You keep believing.”

Jack: “And when the silence hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The train horn cried again, closer now — a long, aching sound that seemed to tremble through the walls. The light from its headlamp cut through the fog, golden and heavy, pouring across their faces.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and watched as the train slowed, steam hissing like a sigh.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe faith isn’t supposed to feel like fire. Maybe it’s supposed to feel like breathing — invisible, constant, quiet. You only notice it when you’ve been holding your breath too long.”

Host: Jack turned toward her. In that moment, the weariness in his face softened — the cynicism drained by something older, deeper, unnameable. He walked to the window beside her, their reflections blending into one — shadow and light, disbelief and hope.

Jack: “You’re saying faith is mine to choose — even when I can’t feel it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the whole point. You believe until the feeling follows.”

Host: The train doors hissed open. Warm light spilled into the station, cutting through the cold. Jeeny smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his as if by accident.

Jeeny: “Come on. It’s time.”

Jack: “To go where?”

Jeeny: “Forward.”

Host: They stepped onto the platform together, the rain easing into a fine mist, the world washed clean. As the train began to move, its hum mingled with the soft rhythm of their breathing.

Jeeny leaned against the window, watching the lights blur into motion. Jack sat across from her, silent, eyes thoughtful.

And somewhere in that fragile stillness between motion and meaning, he understood — faith wasn’t fire, or feeling, or even certainty. It was simply the courage to keep boarding the train, even when you can’t see the destination.

Host: Outside, the fog lifted. The sky cracked open with the faintest hint of dawn.

And as the tracks curved into the light, faith — quiet, unseen, alive — carried them forward.