For years I bore the crippling weight of anger, bitterness and

Host: The church stood in the ruins of an old battlefield, where the grass had reclaimed the earth and the wind carried whispers of forgotten screams. Evening light spilled through the cracked stained glass, scattering shards of amber, red, and blue across the pews. The faint smell of incense mingled with the distant rain, drifting through the open doors.

Jack sat near the front, head bowed, his hands clasped loosely — not in prayer, but in memory. His eyes, sharp but weary, followed the way the light painted the old wooden cross on the altar. Beside him, Jeeny’s voice broke the silence, soft as confession.

The words of Phan Thi Kim Phuc — the “Napalm Girl,” survivor turned ambassador of peace — lingered between them like a psalm spoken through smoke:
“For years I bore the crippling weight of anger, bitterness, and resentment toward those who caused my suffering. Yet as I look back over a spiritual journey that has spanned more than three decades, I realize the same bombs that caused so much pain and suffering also brought me to a place of great healing. Those bombs led me to Jesus Christ.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone can walk through fire and come out still able to forgive. To not only live — but to find peace inside the ashes.”

Jack: “Peace. That’s the word everyone throws around after the smoke clears. But no one talks about the rage that stays. You can call it healing, Jeeny — I call it forgetting. And I don’t believe forgetting makes you free.”

Jeeny: “It’s not forgetting, Jack. It’s transforming. What Kim Phuc found wasn’t denial — it was redemption. She carried her pain, looked it in the eye, and still chose light over darkness.”

Jack: “And how many people can do that? How many ever get that far? Most people drown in that darkness and call it survival. You think she found Jesus through pain — maybe she just learned how to make sense of something senseless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that is faith — making sense of the senseless.”

Host: The wind slipped through the broken window, and one of the candles on the altar flickered, spilling wax down its side like a quiet tear. The light quivered on Jack’s face — a map of lines carved by years of defiance and disappointment.

Jack: “You know what burns me about all this? The world hurt her. Burned her. And she thanked it for bringing her closer to God. That’s not healing — that’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s strength. Real strength — not the kind that fights, but the kind that forgives.”

Jack: “Forgiveness is a trick the wounded tell themselves to survive.”

Jeeny: “No. Bitterness is the trick, Jack. It convinces you you’re protecting yourself when you’re really still chained to the ones who hurt you.”

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s holy.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder now, drumming against the roof like a thousand small memories returning. The sound filled the hollow church, merging with the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath their feet.

Jeeny: “She had every reason to hate. Every reason to curse God. But she didn’t. That’s what makes it sacred. She saw beauty where the world only saw scars.”

Jack: “And what did that beauty change? The world still makes bombs. The world still burns children. Forgiveness didn’t stop the fire.”

Jeeny: “But it stopped it in her. Don’t you see? That’s the point. The world may not change, but she did. And maybe that’s how the world begins to shift — one heart at a time.”

Jack: “You think one woman’s peace can heal a planet’s sickness?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t need to. Maybe peace isn’t about fixing the world. Maybe it’s about refusing to let the world destroy you.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air like smoke after a candle’s flame. Jack stared at her, the faintest flicker of something — doubt, or wonder — moving behind his eyes. He rose, walking slowly toward the altar, the floor creaking beneath his steps.

He stared up at the cross — a symbol he’d once mocked, now just a question carved in wood.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me God had a plan. That every wound had purpose. Then she died — cancer — slow and ugly. If there was a plan in that, it must’ve been written by a sadist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the plan wasn’t about the pain, Jack. Maybe it was about what the pain could teach you — what it could wake in you.”

Jack: “You mean faith?”

Jeeny: “No. Compassion. The kind you can’t fake, the kind that only comes after you’ve broken.”

Jack: “So suffering is the teacher, then? That’s a cruel school.”

Jeeny: “But the lessons last.”

Host: The rain softened now, becoming a hush. A faint ray of light broke through the dark clouds outside, slipping through the broken glass to fall across the altar. The colors of the stained glass — red like blood, blue like grace — shimmered faintly across Jack’s hands.

Jeeny stepped beside him, her voice quieter now, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Kim Phuc said those bombs — the same ones that burned her flesh — led her to healing. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s resurrection.”

Jack: “Resurrection is a myth.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s a metaphor. It’s what happens every time someone chooses mercy over vengeance.”

Jack: “And you think that’s divine?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the closest thing to it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The church seemed to breathe with them — every beam and shadow alive with memory. The rain faded to a whisper, and through the silence, one could almost hear the faint echo of laughter — distant, human, healing.

Jack: “You really think pain can save us?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think what we do with it can.”

Jack: “And what if I can’t forgive?”

Jeeny: “Then hold the wound until it teaches you how.”

Jack: “And if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s your cross to carry — not forever, just long enough to learn how to set it down.”

Host: The last of the light caught the curve of the cross, turning it momentarily gold. Jack reached out — almost unconsciously — and brushed his fingertips against the wood. His hand trembled.

He turned to Jeeny, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “You know… maybe forgiveness isn’t letting go. Maybe it’s just choosing to stop fighting ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And letting the light in where the fire once was.”

Host: The camera would rise now, slowly, gently, catching the rainlight spilling over the two figures standing before the altar — both scarred in their own ways, both learning that even destruction can lead to grace.

The church bells began to ring — faint, cracked, imperfect — but still music.

And as their sound filled the hollow space, it was as though the world itself exhaled.

Because sometimes, the very bombs that tear us open
are the same ones that make room for God to enter.

And in that wreckage, faith — trembling, flickering, but unbroken —
begins to heal.