God continues to work miracles in my life.

Host: The sunset burned like a quiet promise behind the hills, spilling molten amber across the sky. The lake below shimmered, mirroring the last light of day — a glassy expanse of reflection and stillness. Cicadas sang from the reeds, their rhythmic hum like a prayer that didn’t need words.

On a weathered dock, Jack sat with his legs dangling over the edge, tossing small stones into the water, watching the ripples fade into infinity. Jeeny sat beside him, barefoot, her hair lifted gently by the breeze, a soft smile curving her lips. Between them lay a worn journal, its pages open to a single handwritten line:

“God continues to work miracles in my life.”
— Willie Aames

Host: The light on the water shimmered like grace made visible, the kind that doesn’t shout — it whispers.

Jeeny: softly, gazing at the horizon “It’s such a simple line. And yet… it feels like the whole meaning of life fits inside it.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Simple, yeah. Maybe too simple. Miracles aren’t exactly part of my daily schedule.”

Jeeny: turning to him “You say that as if miracles are supposed to arrive with lightning and choirs.”

Jack: “Aren’t they? The Red Sea didn’t part quietly, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: smiling “No, but the heart does.”

Host: A long silence fell — the kind filled with meaning that doesn’t need to be spoken. The water lapped against the wood. The light softened to gold, then rose, then memory.

Jack: “You really believe in miracles, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Not in the theatrical sense. In the ordinary one. Every morning I wake up and remember who I am — that’s a miracle.”

Jack: chuckling quietly “That’s just biology.”

Jeeny: “No. Biology is breathing. Miracle is wanting to.”

Host: Her words hung in the warm evening air, carried by the wind and the distant scent of rain. Jack picked up another stone, turning it over in his hand as if it were a question.

Jack: “So what — you think God’s out there tinkering with our days? Steering fate like a captain?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not steering. Maybe staying. Maybe miracle isn’t about intervention, but presence. The kind that doesn’t fix — it accompanies.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but it’s not much comfort when life breaks you.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe the miracle is that you’re still standing after it does.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the low, rolling sound of thunder from somewhere far beyond the hills. The world around them felt alive — as if creation itself was listening.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray for things — outcomes, answers, rescues. But they never came. At least, not the way I expected.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you were asking God to perform, not to be present.”

Jack: frowning “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Performance ends. Presence transforms. Willie Aames wasn’t talking about grand spectacles. He meant the quiet redemption that keeps showing up when you think it’s over.”

Host: The sun finally slipped below the edge of the world. A thin band of violet light lingered — the soft afterglow of something holy.

Jack: “You talk about God like He’s not somewhere up there, but right here.”

Jeeny: “He is. In you. In me. In the space between what hurts and what heals.”

Jack: quietly “That’s faith?”

Jeeny: “That’s relationship. Faith’s the miracle that keeps it alive.”

Host: A breeze rippled through the water, sending small waves breaking against the dock — rhythmic, eternal. The sky dimmed, stars beginning to bloom one by one.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought miracles were proof of God. Now… I think they’re reminders.”

Jeeny: “Reminders of what?”

Jack: softly “That maybe He never left.”

Host: Jeeny smiled then — the kind of smile that isn’t joy or amusement, but quiet recognition. The night deepened around them, and fireflies began to spark in the grass like fragments of creation still being written.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. Miracles aren’t interruptions in the laws of nature — they are the laws of love.”

Jack: “So… every time I forgive, or hold on, or try again — that’s a miracle?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every time you choose hope in a hopeless world, you’re rewriting the ending.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, closer now, but soft — like an echo of something vast and kind. Jack looked out at the horizon, the storm-light flickering faintly behind the clouds.

Jack: “You know, maybe I’ve been expecting too little from God — and too much from proof.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Proof is for scientists. Miracles are for the broken.”

Host: The moon rose — pale, immense, painting the lake in silver. The world had turned from gold to grace.

Jack: after a long pause “So what about you, Jeeny? What’s the last miracle you saw?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “This.”

Jack: “What — this moment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You. Sitting here, believing again — even just a little. That’s God’s favorite kind of miracle.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence between them became a living thing — not empty, but full of peace, of awe, of something ancient rediscovered.

The first raindrops began to fall — slow, heavy, deliberate. Neither of them moved. The water from the lake and the sky merged into one shimmer of light and sound, washing the world clean.

And as the storm came alive, Willie Aames’s words glowed quietly in the mind’s ear — not as a proclamation, but as a prayer:

That miracles are not rare —
they are constant;
that God is not absent —
He is enduring;
and that sometimes, the greatest miracle of all
is the simple survival of faith,
one trembling evening at a time.