First, I have to thank God for giving me the gift that he did as

Host: The ice rink was empty, a wide sheet of silver-blue glass beneath a dome of sleeping light. The air was cold, pure, and alive — the kind of cold that burns before it heals. The sound of distant music lingered faintly in the rafters, a melody half-remembered, half-prayer.

At the center of the rink stood Jeeny, her skates glinting, her breath visible, her posture poised in fragile balance. At the edge, Jack leaned against the barrier, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes watching, equal parts awe and disbelief.

The only words spoken on this quiet winter night came from the small speaker perched on the wall — a voice reciting softly from a recording:
“First, I have to thank God for giving me the gift that he did as well as a second chance for a better life.” — Oksana Baiul.

Jeeny: pausing mid-glide, looking toward Jack “Do you believe in second chances?”

Jack: “I believe in survival. Second chances sound prettier than they are.”

Host: The ice cracked softly under her blade as Jeeny turned, her movement slow, graceful, a poem unfolding without words. The arena lights reflected off her hair, casting glimmers like falling snow.

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is the first chance. The second is what you do when you realize you’re still here.”

Jack: “You make it sound like gratitude. But not everyone gets to thank someone for their pain.”

Jeeny: skating closer, her tone gentle “Gratitude isn’t about the pain, Jack. It’s about what’s left after it. The quiet part of healing — when you stop asking ‘why me’ and start whispering ‘still me.’”

Host: The music shifted, a soft piano melody — hesitant, trembling, like a memory learning how to breathe. Jack’s gaze lowered, his reflection trembling in the ice beneath him.

Jack: “You really think God hands out second chances? Or is it just luck — the way some people fall and somehow don’t break?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe grace looks like coincidence from far away.”

Host: A pause, filled with the sound of her skates tracing circles, carving invisible prayers into frozen time.

Jeeny: “Baiul fell hard, you know. Not just on the ice — in life. Fame, loss, addiction, shame. And still, she thanked God. That’s not luck. That’s surrender turned into strength.”

Jack: “And what about those who never get back up?”

Jeeny: “They deserve grace, too. But maybe their second chance isn’t about rising again — maybe it’s about being remembered with kindness.”

Host: The lights dimmed, soft gold spilling across the rink, like dawn visiting the cold. Jack stepped closer, his breath clouding in front of him.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s a muscle. Like the more you break it, the stronger it gets.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Faith isn’t about not falling — it’s about believing the ice will still hold you when you do.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Nothing about surviving is easy. But gratitude makes it bearable.”

Host: Jeeny extended a hand, and after a long hesitation, Jack took it, his boots crunching softly against the frost as she guided him onto the ice. His balance wavered, his instincts fought, but her grip held steady — patient, unafraid.

Jack: half-laughing, half-terrified “You sure about this? I haven’t done this since… well, never.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Everyone’s clumsy in their second chance.”

Host: They moved slowly, her grace meeting his awkwardness, their shadows long and trembling across the surface.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith was for people who couldn’t accept the randomness of life. But standing here… it feels different. Like maybe randomness has rhythm after all.”

Jeeny: “It does. You just have to listen between the chaos.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t hear anything?”

Jeeny: “Then you skate anyway.”

Host: The music swelled, the notes blooming into something hopeful — fragile, yes, but alive. Jack looked around, breathing deeply, as if tasting air that hadn’t touched him in years.

Jack: “You really think thanking God changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It changes you. Gratitude is how we stop being the wound and start being the scar.”

Host: He stumbled, but she caught him, their laughter breaking through the cold silence — a sound bright enough to echo. The lamp light shimmered off the ice, scattering across their faces like tiny miracles.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For a second, I actually feel… lighter.”

Jeeny: “That’s the gift part.”

Jack: “And the better life?”

Jeeny: “That’s up to you.”

Host: The music faded, leaving only the sound of their breathing, the soft glide of steel, and the echo of her words.

Jeeny stopped, her hand still holding his, her eyes reflecting the light like tears that refused to fall.

Jeeny: “We all get second chances, Jack. But not everyone recognizes them. Some look like love. Some look like loss. And sometimes… they look like this — learning to move again when the ice is still thin.”

Host: The arena lights dimmed, the world slowing, as they stood in the circle of light they’d carved together. Beyond them, the darkness waited, patient, infinite — but less frightening now.

Jack: softly, almost reverently “Maybe you’re right. Maybe grace isn’t given — maybe it’s found.”

Jeeny: “And once you find it, you thank whoever you must.”

Host: She smiled, stepped back, and let him glide alone, the ice singing quietly beneath him — not perfectly, not steadily, but free.

Above, the spotlight flickered, like a heartbeat in the dark.

And as the music died, the arena fell silent, save for Jack’s whisper, small but full of truth:

Jack: “Thank you — for the gift. For the second chance.”

Host: The light went out, the world exhaled,
and for the first time, the ice didn’t feel cold at all.