God's got something for me. I have faith it'll be OK.

Host: The hospital corridor hummed with the soft whir of machines and the distant rhythm of monitors — a quiet symphony of waiting and endurance. The light was pale, not cruel, just honest — that sterile brightness that leaves no room for illusion. Somewhere, the smell of antiseptic mingled with the faint sweetness of lilies from a nearby room.

Jack sat by the window, a plastic cup of coffee cooling in his hand, his jacket wrinkled, his eyes heavy but awake. Outside, rain traced silver trails down the glass, streaking the city in blurred, trembling reflections. Jeeny stood beside him, her hands folded, her voice low — soft enough to sound like comfort, strong enough to sound like truth.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Chubby Checker once said — ‘God’s got something for me. I have faith it’ll be OK.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s easy to say when things are OK.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s exactly when it means the most — when they’re not.”

Jack: (staring at the rain) “Faith feels like guessing in the dark. You call it trust, but it’s really just not knowing what else to do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes that’s all faith is — choosing to keep breathing even when you can’t see the point yet.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming softly against the window. A nurse passed by pushing a cart, her shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum. The air carried the smell of coffee and fear and quiet courage — that strange blend unique to waiting rooms.

Jack: “You ever think faith’s overrated? People use it like duct tape — slap it on everything broken and hope it holds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Not that it always fixes things, but that people still reach for it when nothing else works.”

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not in miracles. In resilience.”

Host: Jack rubbed his hands together, the tension visible in the small movements — the kind that come when a heart’s trying to stay busy while the mind’s trying not to break.

Jack: “You know, I’ve prayed before. Bargained, even. Promised things I didn’t mean if it meant someone I loved would make it through.”

Jeeny: “Everyone has. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s hope negotiating with fear.”

Jack: “And if God doesn’t hold up His end?”

Jeeny: “Then faith becomes acceptance. The belief that even pain has a place in the plan.”

Host: The sound of distant thunder rolled faintly through the rain, a low, steady rumble that felt less like threat and more like reminder. Jack glanced at her, his voice quieter now, his edge softened.

Jack: “You think God really has something for everyone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s rarely what we expect. We keep asking for answers, but God tends to hand us lessons instead.”

Jack: “Lessons don’t comfort much.”

Jeeny: “They do later. When the hurt’s turned into understanding.”

Host: The lights flickered once, just a blink — enough to make the world pause before continuing its quiet hum. The rain softened again, falling like forgiveness.

Jack: “You think Chubby was right? That it’ll all be OK?”

Jeeny: “Not in the way people mean when they say it. Not tidy, not painless. But yes — in the sense that even heartbreak has a horizon.”

Jack: (leaning back) “That’s not faith. That’s realism with better lighting.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Maybe faith and realism are the same thing — except one adds courage.”

Host: The intercom crackled overhead, the sterile voice of a nurse announcing a name, a room number. Life went on in slow motion around them — the sound of footsteps, the whisper of pages turned, the murmur of people holding onto something invisible.

Jack: “You ever lose faith?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Once. When I thought prayer was supposed to fix things. But then I learned prayer isn’t a repair shop. It’s a lifeline.”

Jack: “A lifeline to what?”

Jeeny: “To stillness. To remembering that being human doesn’t make you alone.”

Jack: “And if no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: “Then you listen. To yourself. That’s where faith usually hides anyway.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind that post-storm silence where every sound feels new again. The clouds began to break, thin rays of gold finding their way through. Jack watched them quietly, the light reflecting in his tired eyes.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I think faith might just be stubbornness dressed in grace.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The refusal to let despair have the last word.”

Jack: “Then maybe I still have some left in me.”

Jeeny: “You always did. You just call it resilience.”

Host: The sunlight grew stronger, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. Somewhere, a monitor beeped steadily — the sound of life continuing, quietly, faithfully.

Jack: “You ever notice how the light always finds a way in? Even through hospital glass, even through storms.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith is, Jack. Not blindness. Just remembering that light always travels — even when you can’t see where it’s coming from.”

Host: The camera would pull back, capturing the two of them framed by the window — Jack still holding his empty coffee cup, Jeeny watching the sunlight unfold like a promise. The city shimmered below them, washed clean, alive again.

And as the screen faded to quiet gold, Chubby Checker’s words would rise — simple, steadfast, and unshakably human:

That faith is not a map but a compass,
a steady pulse in the dark,
whispering that even the unknown belongs to a plan.

That sometimes the miracle
is not deliverance,
but endurance.

And that to believe — truly believe —
is not to expect the pain to disappear,
but to trust that the dawn will still come after it.

For God’s got something for each of us,
and though the path bends,
the heart that keeps walking
will find, at last,
that “OK” was never the ending —
it was the faith to begin again.