Forgiveness is the answer to the child's dream of a miracle by

Host: The rain had just stopped. The streets glistened like wet glass, reflecting the fractured neon of a sleepless city. It was the hour between yesterday and tomorrow — when the world held its breath, unsure whether to keep aching or start again.

Inside a small, dim apartment, the air smelled of damp paper and black coffee. The walls were cluttered with half-finished paintings, and the faint hum of an old radiator filled the silence like a heartbeat refusing to die.

Jack sat by the window, staring out at the city’s scattered lights. His grey eyes were calm, too calm — the kind that hides a storm long after it’s passed. Jeeny sat across from him at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling up like ghosts between them.

Host: It was a heavy night — the kind that presses down, whispering memories you’d rather forget.

Jeeny: “Dag Hammarskjöld once said, ‘Forgiveness is the answer to the child’s dream of a miracle — by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is made clean again.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it filled the room like a candlelight — trembling, yet impossible to ignore.

Jack didn’t look up.

Jack: “Miracles,” he muttered, “are for people who can’t live with consequences.”

Jeeny: “You think forgiveness is an escape?”

Jack: “No. It’s anesthesia. It numbs people into pretending the past never happened.”

Jeeny: “That’s not forgiveness, Jack. That’s denial.”

Jack: “Same difference. You can’t make something whole again once it’s broken. All you can do is sweep the pieces somewhere you don’t trip on them.”

Host: The clock ticked. The rain outside returned in a whisper, like a soft correction to his bitterness.

Jeeny: “Then why do we keep longing for it? Even as children, we believed that if we said sorry — truly sorry — the world would reset. That’s the miracle Hammarskjöld was talking about.”

Jack: “Children believe in Santa too. Doesn’t make him real.”

Jeeny: “But belief itself is real. Maybe that’s the point — forgiveness isn’t magic. It’s choosing to love something despite the fracture.”

Host: She looked at him — her eyes dark and deep, searching for the man beneath the armor.

Jack: “You think love fixes damage?”

Jeeny: “No. It accepts it. That’s what makes it whole again.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been betrayed.”

Jeeny: “I have. That’s why I learned to forgive.”

Host: The light flickered, the lamp struggling against the shadows gathering in the corners.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — what do you forgive? The person or the wound?”

Jeeny: “Both. Or neither. Maybe forgiveness isn’t about them at all. Maybe it’s about freeing yourself.”

Jack: “Freeing yourself from what?”

Jeeny: “From the story that keeps you angry.”

Host: Her words fell like gentle blows — each one hitting something deeper in him than he wanted to admit. Jack rubbed his temples, a weary laugh escaping.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Not in a church way — but in a human way. Forgiveness is the closest we come to resurrection.”

Jack: “Resurrection of what?”

Jeeny: “Peace.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. Outside, a sirens wail echoed and faded. Inside, only the ticking of the clock and the slow drip from the kitchen sink marked the time.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? People always say ‘forgive and forget.’ But they never tell you what to do with what’s left after.”

Jeeny: “You live with it. But lighter.”

Jack: “You mean lie to yourself until it stops hurting.”

Jeeny: “No. You let it hurt — until it stops needing to.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly at the end — not from weakness, but from truth carried too long. Jack looked at her then, really looked — at the small tired lines near her eyes, the faint trembling of her hands, the quiet courage she wore like skin.

Jack: “You forgive too easily.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I forgive slowly. Painfully. But I forgive because holding on costs more than letting go.”

Host: The rain picked up again — a steady rhythm against the glass, cleansing, constant.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful. But what about when forgiveness feels impossible? When the hurt becomes part of who you are?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not forgiveness that’s impossible. It’s your fear of who you’ll be without the pain.”

Host: His breath caught. He stared into the window, at his reflection — two faces staring back: the man he’d been, and the man who wanted to stop being him.

Jack: “You ever forgive yourself, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Some days it takes all I have.”

Jack: “And does it work?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But that’s the thing — forgiveness isn’t a moment. It’s a practice.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips — not joy, but grace. She stood, walked toward the window, and traced a finger through the condensation. The city lights blurred behind the streak she made — one small, clear line cutting through the haze.

Jeeny: “See that? The glass isn’t broken. It’s just fogged. Forgiveness is like that — wiping away enough of the past to see through again.”

Jack: “And if the glass is broken?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop pretending it was ever meant to be perfect.”

Host: She turned, her eyes shining with the faint reflection of streetlight — a quiet mirror of mercy.

Jack: “You really think what’s soiled can be made clean again?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because dirt doesn’t mean ruin. It means life happened. And forgiveness is what makes living possible again.”

Host: The room seemed softer now — not lighter, but less heavy. Jack reached for his mug, then stopped. He looked at Jeeny and said, almost in a whisper:

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to break my mother’s things — vases, frames — she’d always say, ‘It’s all right, Jackie. We’ll fix it.’ And she’d glue them back together, smiling, even when they looked ugly after. I didn’t understand then. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now you do.”

Jack: “She wasn’t fixing the vase. She was fixing me.”

Host: The words hung in the air like prayer. Jeeny smiled — soft, understanding, a tear catching in the faint light.

Jeeny: “That’s what Hammarskjöld meant. Forgiveness isn’t the glue for what’s broken. It’s the miracle that reminds us we’re worth fixing.”

Jack: “And you really think that kind of miracle still exists?”

Jeeny: “Every time someone decides to love again, it happens.”

Host: The rain eased into a fine mist. The lamp steadied its glow. Jack stood and moved beside her at the window. Together, they watched the city breathing beneath the drizzle — bruised, imperfect, but alive.

Jack: “So forgiveness isn’t about forgetting what happened.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s remembering without letting it own you.”

Host: A small, tremulous peace filled the space between them. The city lights reflected off their faces — one scarred by skepticism, the other lit by faith — yet both softened by something shared, something quietly reborn.

Jeeny: “What’s broken can still hold light, Jack. Sometimes even more than before.”

Host: He nodded slowly, as if surrendering. The windowpane caught their blurred reflections — not two people divided by pain, but two souls quietly mending.

Outside, the rain stopped completely. A pale moon appeared between drifting clouds, silvering the rooftops.

Host: And for a moment, the city seemed to exhale — as if it, too, had been forgiven.

The broken had not become perfect.
The soiled had not become new.
But both had become whole —
and that, at last, was the miracle.