Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks

Host: The night settled like ink over the city, its streets shimmering with reflected neon and light rain. A small diner sat by the riverbank, its windows fogged, its lamps humming faintly above half-empty cups and lonely people. Jack sat near the window, his coat still damp, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her eyes following the raindrops tracing down the glass like tiny messengers of something divine.

Host: There was a quiet tension, the kind that hovers before truth begins to speak. The rain whispered like a voice from somewhere unseen.

Jeeny: “Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message.”

Jack: He raised an eyebrow, his grey eyes catching the flicker of a passing car’s light.
“Malcolm Muggeridge. I remember that one. A nice sentiment. But I’ve never seen God writing messages in the mud of our days, Jeeny. I see only coincidence, chaos, and human interpretation.”

Jeeny: She smiled faintly. “You mean you only see what you choose to see, Jack. Just because the message isn’t written in ink doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Even pain can be a letter from grace.”

Host: The sound of the rain deepened, blending with the soft jazz spilling from the jukebox. Outside, the streetlight flickered, its light trembling across Jack’s face.

Jack: “You talk as if the universe were a teacher, sending us lessons in the form of traffic jams and heartbreaks. Tell me, Jeeny—what was God trying to say to the children of Warsaw in ’39, or to those who died in the tsunami of 2004? That suffering is just divine communication?”

Jeeny: Her gaze softened, but her voice was steady.
“No, Jack. Those are tragedies, not messages. But maybe even in despair, there are whispers of what it means to be human. Muggeridge himself lived through the war and saw famine, yet he found faith not in the events, but in how they changed him. He learned to listen, even in darkness.”

Jack: “That sounds like reframing misery to make it tolerable. A psychological trick dressed in religious robes.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, his eyes narrowing. His voice was low, almost weary.

Jack: “You see, I prefer to deal with facts. The world moves by chance and choice, not by celestial letters dropped into our laps. You can call it God, I call it pattern recognition—humans trying to find meaning in noise.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack? That our very need to find meaning might be the voice itself? Why do we seek connection, purpose, and hope, if not because something inside us knows it’s there?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered like embers catching light, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke. The silence between them pulsed, alive with unspoken truth.

Jack: “Because the mind is a machine built to survive, Jeeny. It makes stories to keep us sane. We can’t stand chaos, so we invent meaning.”

Jeeny: “And what if that very instinct to invent meaning is how God works through us? What if our stories are His language? Every happening, as Muggeridge said—great or small—could be His way of touching our souls.”

Host: The rain slowed, the sound softening like a heartbeat fading in the distance. A waitress passed by, her shoes squeaking, leaving the faint scent of coffee and soap.

Jack: “You give too much credit to the invisible. Maybe you need it. Maybe people like you can’t bear the silence of the universe, so you fill it with a voice that sounds like comfort.”

Jeeny: Her tone sharpened, the warmth giving way to fire.
“And maybe people like you are so afraid of disappointment that you’d rather believe in nothing. Isn’t it easier to think no one’s speaking than to admit you’re not listening?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, out at the street, where a man in a raincoat stood lighting a cigarette, the flame flickering before vanishing.

Jack: “Listening to what? The universe is too busy collapsing and expanding to care about our little conversations. The sun will burn out, Jeeny. The stars don’t write poetry.”

Jeeny: “No, but we do. And that’s the miracle, isn’t it? That in all this void, we still create words, songs, paintings—we still love. If that isn’t God speaking, then what is?”

Host: Her voice trembled, and for a moment the air between them grew heavy with feeling. Jack’s eyes softened, his cynicism bending under the weight of her sincerity.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say the same thing—after my father died. She’d see signs everywhere. A bird landing on the window, a dream about his watch. I thought it was just her way of coping. Maybe it was.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it was her way of being spoken to. You ever think that maybe love itself is a language between the seen and unseen?”

Host: Jack’s hands trembled slightly. He set his cigarette down and stared at the smoke twisting upward, like a message written in air, fading before it could be read.

Jack: “You really believe there’s meaning in everything, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I feel it. Every coincidence, every loss, every moment of joy—it’s like footsteps on the sand. You don’t always see the walker, but you know someone passed through.”

Host: A long pause filled the diner. The rain had stopped. Outside, the river shimmered under the moonlight, carrying bits of paper and leaves, drifting like forgotten letters.

Jack: He exhaled slowly. “Maybe... Maybe it’s not about whether the messages are real. Maybe it’s about whether we’re changed by believing they are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The art of life, as Muggeridge said, is to get the message. Not to prove it, not to argue it—but to receive it.”

Host: The light from the streetlamp grew warmer now, spilling across their faces. The diners had mostly gone, and the jukebox had gone silent.

Jack: “So what do you think the message is, tonight?”

Jeeny: She smiled softly. “That even in the noise of the city, two souls can still stop long enough to listen.”

Host: Jack said nothing. He only watched as Jeeny reached for her coat, the steam from her untouched tea rising like the last breath of a dream.

Host: Outside, the rain began again, softly, like applause from a distant audience. The city lights blurred through the drops, painting everything in gentle gold.

Host: And somewhere in that small, flickering moment, Jack looked up—not at Jeeny, not at the world, but at something unseen—and for the first time in a long while, he listened.