Every man eventually is backed up to the wall of faith, and there

Host: The train station was closing for the night. The loudspeakers crackled with a final announcement, and the few remaining passengers drifted out into the cold. The lights above flickered weakly, painting the tiled floor with a kind of tired glow — that colorless light that only exists after midnight.

A half-empty coffee cup sat on the bench beside Jack. His coat was too thin for the chill, his hands buried deep in the pockets as if trying to hold onto the last fragments of warmth. Jeeny stood a few feet away, staring at a peeling poster on the wall that read, “BELIEVE IN SOMETHING.”

The station clock ticked loudly. The rain outside had turned to snow. The world felt frozen in a waiting room between decisions.

Jeeny: quietly, reading the poster aloud “Ezra Taft Benson said, ‘Every man eventually is backed up to the wall of faith, and there he must make his stand.’” She turned toward Jack. “Do you think that’s true?”

Jack: without looking up “Depends what’s on the other side of the wall.”

Host: His voice was rough, low, the kind that carried the weight of too many lost arguments with life. Jeeny walked closer, her boots clicking softly on the floor. The echo lingered, like footsteps in a cathedral.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t talking about belief in God, Jack. He meant that moment when there’s nowhere left to run. When logic, reason, excuses — all of it — runs dry. And the only thing left between you and collapse is what you choose to believe in.”

Jack: glancing up at her, tired eyes sharp “Belief doesn’t stop the fall. It just makes it poetic.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe poetry’s all that keeps us from breaking.”

Host: A gust of cold air whistled through the open door as a janitor wheeled past, mopping up the puddles left by the storm. The smell of wet concrete filled the air — cold, clean, merciless.

Jack: leaning forward, his voice dropping “You talk like faith’s some noble thing. But you know what it really is? It’s a last resort. You believe because you’re cornered — not because you’re brave.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But standing at the wall still takes courage. You could lie down. You could give up. But if you choose to stand, even for a moment — that’s faith.”

Jack: smirking faintly “So you think faith’s a choice?”

Jeeny: “I think despair is. Faith is what you reach for when despair stops answering.”

Host: The snow fell harder outside, pressing against the glass doors in silent flurries. The streetlights blurred into halos of pale gold. Jack looked up at the sound, watching the flakes swirl like ghosts of forgotten prayers.

Jack: “You ever been there, Jeeny? Backed up to your wall?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Twice.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “The first time, I begged for a miracle. The second time, I realized faith isn’t waiting for one — it’s surviving when it doesn’t come.”

Host: Her words fell into the silence like pebbles into deep water — soft, but echoing far beyond the surface. Jack turned fully toward her now, the fluorescent light outlining the hard planes of his face.

Jack: “You think survival is enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s all that’s possible. Sometimes faith isn’t a hymn. It’s a whisper that says, ‘Not yet.’”

Jack: “Not yet?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Not yet defeated. Not yet finished. Not yet gone.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a cloud of breath visible in the cold air. He rubbed a hand across his face — half-weariness, half-reflection.

Jack: “When I was twenty-two, I thought faith was certainty. I used to pray like I was bargaining with God — Give me answers, I’ll give you loyalty.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “Then life started breaking promises faster than I could make them.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think faith’s just another word for delusion.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s another word for defiance.”

Host: Jack stared at her. For a moment, his gray eyes softened — just enough to show the old hurt that lived beneath the armor.

Jack: “Defiance?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every time you choose to hope when it makes no sense, that’s an act of rebellion. Every time you love when the world tells you to stop, that’s faith. You can call it stubbornness if you want — it’s still the same wall.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s already made her stand.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe I just stopped running.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, heavy but not empty. The station clock ticked on, marking each second with mechanical patience. Outside, the snow had begun to gather — soft white layers covering the footprints of those who’d already left.

Jack: murmuring “You ever wonder why it takes hitting the wall to believe in anything?”

Jeeny: “Because comfort doesn’t teach you what matters. Crisis does.”

Jack: softly “And what matters to you?”

Jeeny: “That we keep choosing light. Even when the dark’s easier.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, the hum of the heating vents filling the silence between them. Jeeny’s words hovered in the air — not heavy, but luminous, like fragile truth held between hands.

Jack stood, stretching the stiffness from his body, then looked toward the empty tracks. His voice was quiet, almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, Benson said ‘every man is backed up to the wall of faith.’ I think he forgot to mention something.”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “The wall fights back.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then you fight harder.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t move?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were meant to lean on it — not break it.”

Host: The train lights appeared at the far end of the tunnel — faint, distant, but moving closer. The rumble began to build, a sound that grew like courage gathering in the dark. Jack turned toward it, the reflection of the approaching light flickering in his eyes.

Jeeny: softly “You see, Jack — faith isn’t standing tall without fear. It’s standing with fear and not letting it choose for you.”

Jack: “And when you fail?”

Jeeny: “You stand again. That’s the deal.”

Host: The train pulled in, hissing steam, its doors sliding open. The air smelled of iron and motion. Jack looked at Jeeny, hesitating for the briefest moment — the kind of pause that carries both surrender and beginning.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe the wall of faith isn’t something we hit, but something we build?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every act of courage adds another brick.”

Host: He nodded — slowly, almost smiling — then stepped onto the train. Jeeny followed, sitting beside him as the doors closed. The city began to move past them in blurs of color and rain-streaked light.

For the first time that night, neither spoke. There was no need. The silence between them wasn’t hollow anymore — it was full.

And as the train roared into the dark tunnel ahead, the camera pulled back, leaving behind the flickering lights, the snow-covered station, the world that still trembled in its uncertainty.

Over it all, Ezra Taft Benson’s words resonated like a quiet, unbreakable truth:

Every man reaches his wall.
And when he does, he must not flee —
but stand,
even if all he stands on is faith itself.