Get up tomorrow early in the morning, and earlier than you did

Host: The sky hung heavy with dawn, painted in shades of ash and crimson. The field stretched endlessly — dew trembling on the blades of grass like a thousand tiny prayers waiting to be answered. In the distance, a church bell tolled, solemn and slow, its sound carrying over the cold air like a voice from another world.

A campfire burned low, its embers dimming beneath the weight of morning. Jeeny sat beside it, wrapped in a coarse blanket, her dark hair unbound, her eyes reflecting both fire and fatigue. Across from her, Jack stood near the edge of the firelight, the silhouette of his armor catching faint light — not a soldier’s armor, but that of a man weighed by history, by prophecy, by devotion to a cause he no longer understood.

The air carried the smell of iron, smoke, and something sacred — the scent of inevitability. Between them, a small parchment lay unfolded, the ink still fresh, written by a trembling hand that had already made peace with death.

Jeeny’s voice trembled as she read it aloud:

“Get up tomorrow early in the morning, and earlier than you did today, and do the best that you can. Always stay near me, for tomorrow I will have much to do and more than I ever had, and tomorrow blood will leave my body above the breast.”
— Joan of Arc

Jeeny: (softly) “She knew. She always knew.”

Jack: (quietly) “A soldier knows when the war is over. Even if the battle hasn’t been fought yet.”

Host: The wind stirred the ashes, sending sparks into the pale morning. Somewhere, a horse neighed — uneasy, sensing the sorrow that lived in the camp. The soldiers slept nearby, their breaths rising like smoke, unaware that tomorrow would become legend.

Jeeny: “She wrote that before her execution. The night before the fire. Imagine knowing your fate so precisely — not through despair, but through conviction.”

Jack: “Conviction can carry you past fear. Or it can blind you to mercy.”

Jeeny: “You think she was blind?”

Jack: “No. I think she saw more clearly than anyone — and that’s what terrified them.”

Host: He sat beside her now, the armor creaking softly as he lowered himself to the earth. The firelight caught his face — lined, shadowed, human.

Jack: “She told them God spoke to her, and they called her a heretic. But when kings claim the same thing, they call it destiny.”

Jeeny: “Because she was a woman.”

Jack: “Because she was right.”

Host: The sky was turning lighter now, streaks of gold breaking through the horizon, fighting to be seen through the fog. Jeeny looked at the parchment again, her fingers tracing the words as if touching the edge of something holy.

Jeeny: “What courage — to write about tomorrow knowing it would be your last sunrise. And yet she doesn’t sound afraid. Just… ready.”

Jack: “Readiness is the rarest form of faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what faith is — not believing you’ll be saved, but accepting you might not be and still doing what’s right.”

Host: Jack watched her closely, the flicker of the fire reflected in his grey eyes.

Jack: “You admire her.”

Jeeny: “How could I not? She changed the course of France — of history — not with armies, but with a heart too pure to surrender.”

Jack: “And yet they burned her for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what they do to truth when it threatens the order of things.”

Host: The wind blew stronger now, tugging at Jeeny’s blanket, rattling the trees at the edge of the field. A flock of blackbirds burst into flight, their wings slicing the morning air — a living omen.

Jeeny: “She was nineteen. Nineteen. And her words sound older than time.”

Jack: “Because pain ages the soul faster than years.”

Jeeny: “And faith preserves it.”

Host: He nodded slowly, looking toward the faint glow of the rising sun.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought faith was about comfort. About assurance. But people like Joan… they teach you that real faith hurts. It demands. It bleeds.”

Jeeny: “Faith that never suffers is just agreement.”

Jack: “And agreement never saves the world.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the fire burning lower, the sound of dawn filling the spaces between their thoughts. In the distance, a church bell tolled again — louder this time, closer.

Jeeny: “You think she knew she wouldn’t be remembered for victory, but for sacrifice?”

Jack: “She didn’t care how she’d be remembered. She cared how she’d be faithful.”

Jeeny: “Faithful even to death.”

Jack: “Especially to death.”

Host: Jeeny leaned closer to the parchment, her eyes wet with something that wasn’t just sorrow, but reverence.

Jeeny: “Look at this part — ‘Always stay near me.’ She wasn’t talking to soldiers. She was talking to those who believed with her — the ones who doubted themselves but not her.”

Jack: “She was telling them how to survive after she was gone.”

Jeeny: “She was teaching them to rise — even after watching her fall.”

Host: The sunlight now touched their faces — fragile and gold, brushing against the exhaustion in their eyes. The first birds began to sing. The moment felt both infinite and ending.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I wonder if Joan’s greatest miracle wasn’t the voices she heard — but the voice she gave to others. The courage to listen to their own.”

Jeeny: “That’s how revolutions begin — not with armies, but with one soul that refuses to be silent.”

Jack: “And that’s why she had to die.”

Jeeny: “And why she never will.”

Host: The fire died completely now, leaving only smoke curling up toward the waking sky — a thin, sacred thread rising to wherever faith goes when it’s tested.

Jeeny: “You think you could do what she did? Walk knowingly toward the flames?”

Jack: “No. But I’d hope to walk beside someone who could.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then stay near me.”

Host: He looked at her, startled — but in her eyes, there was no jest. Only the same fierce stillness that lived in the words on the page.

Jack: “Always.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ll both be brave.”

Host: The sun broke fully through now, blinding in its purity, setting the dew ablaze. The parchment fluttered once in the wind, then settled, its words illuminated in the light — a relic of courage written in mortal ink.

And as the two sat in the quiet aftermath of revelation, Joan of Arc’s prophecy seemed to echo not through centuries, but through their very breaths:

that faith is not passive belief,
but action, born from certainty deeper than fear;

that to be faithful is to walk willingly toward the impossible,
knowing the body may burn,
but the truth will not;

and that the truest martyrdom
is not death itself,
but the courage to rise each dawn,
knowing what awaits —
and still saying,
with grace,
“Tomorrow, I will have much to do.”