Faith is something we never discuss at the dinner table in my

Host: The dining room glowed with the muted light of candles, their flames flickering in the reflection of crystal glasses. Outside, the wind whispered against the old apartment windows, carrying the faint sounds of a city winding down — footsteps, car horns, laughter from a distant street. The table was laid neatly: two plates, two cups of untouched wine, a bowl of steaming soup whose aroma hung in the air like a half-remembered memory.

Jack sat at the head of the table, his jacket still on, collar unbuttoned, staring absently at his plate. Across from him, Jeeny traced the rim of her glass with one finger, her expression calm but thoughtful. There was a warmth between them — but also something unspoken.

Jeeny: “Volodymyr Zelensky once said, ‘Faith is something we never discuss at the dinner table in my family, but I do believe in God.’”

Jack: “Ah, faith and family — the two subjects guaranteed to turn dinner into war.”

Host: Jeeny smiled softly. The flame from the candle trembled slightly, bending toward her voice.

Jeeny: “Not always. Some things are too sacred to argue about. Maybe that’s why his family didn’t discuss it — not because it wasn’t real, but because it was personal.”

Jack: “Or maybe because faith’s the kind of topic that exposes how little we actually know. People talk about God like He’s a member of the family — until someone asks what He means.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly the point. Faith doesn’t survive because we define it — it survives because we don’t.”

Host: The cutlery clinked softly as Jack reached for his glass, his eyes steady, his tone measured.

Jack: “You believe in God?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Without proof?”

Jeeny: “Without needing it.”

Jack: “See, that’s what I don’t get. You’d never buy a house without an inspection, never take medicine without knowing what’s in it, but you’ll hand your soul to something unseen and call it trust.”

Jeeny: “That’s because faith isn’t a transaction, Jack. It’s surrender. Not to ignorance, but to wonder.”

Host: The rain started outside, light but steady, tapping against the glass like the rhythm of contemplation.

Jack: “Wonder doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t protect you from war or disease. I get why Zelensky says he believes — it sounds good. But belief doesn’t stop bombs.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps people from becoming bombs.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And naïve.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me — what else keeps people standing when everything they love is burning?”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried through the quiet like a chord plucked on a single string. Jack didn’t answer immediately. The flickering candlelight played across his face, half-shadowed, half-lit — like a man wrestling with invisible weight.

Jack: “You think faith’s enough to save someone?”

Jeeny: “Not from death. But maybe from despair.”

Jack: “So it’s medicine for fear.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s courage in spite of fear.”

Host: She took a sip of wine, her eyes distant, as if watching something only she could see.

Jeeny: “I think Zelensky’s faith isn’t about religion. It’s about trust in something larger — the unseen force that tells him to keep fighting, keep leading, even when the odds laugh at him.”

Jack: “You mean purpose.”

Jeeny: “Purpose is what you write on paper. Faith is what makes you walk into fire believing the paper still matters.”

Jack: “So faith’s irrational.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. So is love. So is art. Everything that makes us human is irrational. Reason builds bridges. Faith crosses them.”

Host: The rain grew louder, beating softly against the window, blurring the reflection of the candles. Jack stared into his glass, watching the wine swirl like a small storm.

Jack: “My father used to pray before every meal,” he said quietly. “I used to roll my eyes. He’d close his hands, thank God for food he bought, cooked, and served. I never understood what he was thanking.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wasn’t thanking. Maybe he was remembering.”

Jack: “Remembering what?”

Jeeny: “That even the things we earn are gifts — because we’re not promised any of it. Gratitude is faith’s twin, Jack. You can’t have one without the other.”

Host: He looked up at her, the faintest trace of something fragile behind his cynicism.

Jack: “And when gratitude runs out?”

Jeeny: “Then faith carries you until it comes back.”

Host: The candle between them flickered, then steadied. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance — a soft growl beneath the rain.

Jack: “You ever think faith’s just self-deception? A coping mechanism dressed up in poetry?”

Jeeny: “If it keeps people alive, then maybe the deception’s divine.”

Jack: “So you’d rather believe a beautiful lie than face the ugly truth?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather believe that beauty is truth, even when the world forgets.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — not heavy, not hostile, but sacred. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Jack finally exhaled, long and slow.

Jack: “Maybe faith’s just… conversation with the universe. Even if it never answers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe the silence is the answer.”

Host: She reached across the table, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand. It was a small gesture, but in it was everything unsaid — comfort, understanding, forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t always need to be discussed, Jack. Sometimes it just needs to be lived. Zelensky understands that. You don’t have to talk about God to prove you believe — sometimes you just have to keep standing when the world falls apart.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: The rain began to slow. The flames of the candles burned taller, steadier. The air felt lighter — as if the conversation had opened a window neither of them had noticed was closed.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “maybe I do believe in something. I just don’t have a name for it.”

Jeeny smiled. “That’s still belief.”

Host: The camera pulled back — two figures at a table, framed by flickering light and falling rain. The plates remained untouched, but something invisible had been fed.

And as the city exhaled beyond the glass, Volodymyr Zelensky’s quiet truth lingered in the air like the aftertaste of wine and revelation:

“Faith doesn’t need to be spoken to be real. It lives not in words, but in the strength it gives you when no one is listening.”