He who has faith has... an inward reservoir of courage, hope

Host: The rain fell in quiet, deliberate strokes—each drop tracing a glimmer of light down the windowpane, as if time itself were sighing. Inside the room, dimly lit by a single lamp, dust floated like tiny stars suspended between thought and memory.

It was a small apartment overlooking the city, with the faint glow of streetlights stretching across the wet asphalt below. The world outside seemed exhausted—neon signs flickered, cars hissed through puddles, and people hurried through the storm as though running from something unseen.

Jack sat by the window, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped tight. The newspaper lay open before him, its headline shouting of layoffs, protests, collapsing banks.

Across the room, Jeeny stirred two cups of tea, her movements slow, gentle, deliberate—as if she feared breaking the silence.

The clock ticked. The wind sighed through the narrow gap of the window frame.

Jeeny: softly, as she hands him a cup “You’ve been staring at that headline for twenty minutes.”

Jack: “It’s worth staring at. We’re on the edge again. Everything’s falling apart—markets, jobs, plans. It’s like the whole world’s been built on sand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the world that’s falling apart, Jack. Maybe it’s just our illusion of control.”

Jack: snorts “That’s a poetic way of saying we’re screwed.”

Jeeny: “B. C. Forbes once said, ‘He who has faith has an inward reservoir of courage, hope, confidence, calmness, and assuring trust that all will come out well—even though to the world it may appear to come out most badly.’”

Jack: bitterly “Faith doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. Courage doesn’t stop eviction notices.”

Host: The light from the lamp caught the edge of Jack’s face, half in shadow, half in flame. His jaw was set, but his eyes—those cold, grey eyes—betrayed something deeper: not anger, but exhaustion.

Jeeny sipped her tea, her gaze calm, her voice quiet as rain.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about avoiding storms, Jack. It’s about believing the sun still exists when you can’t see it.”

Jack: “Believing doesn’t make it rise faster.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from drowning while you wait.”

Jack: leans forward, voice hardening “You think I don’t want to believe? I’ve tried, Jeeny. I’ve prayed, hoped, worked my hands raw. But every time, the world gives me another punch in the gut. So tell me—what kind of faith survives that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that stops being a transaction.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning faith isn’t a deal you make with God or fate—‘I believe, so bless me.’ It’s the decision to keep walking when there’s no guarantee of ground.”

Host: The rain drummed harder now, like distant applause or quiet warning. A bolt of lightning flashed across the window, throwing both their faces into momentary clarity—his lined with cynicism, hers luminous with conviction.

Jack: “You sound like one of those people who smile at funerals and say it’s all part of some divine plan.”

Jeeny: “No. I cry at funerals. But I also hold the hands of those who still live. That’s faith too.”

Jack: quietly “You really think everything ‘comes out well’? Even when it ends in ashes?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes ‘well’ doesn’t mean what we think it does. Sometimes the ruin is the road.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say until it’s your life burning.”

Jeeny: “It was, Jack. Don’t you remember?”

Host: Jack’s head lifted slowly. The room fell into stillness, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the soft hiss of rain against glass.

For a moment, the memory returned—Jeeny’s trembling hands two years ago, the hospital corridor, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the unbearable quiet after the doctor’s words.

He looked away.

Jack: roughly “That’s different.”

Jeeny: “No, it isn’t. You asked then how I could still believe. I didn’t have an answer. I just… refused to let despair be the only truth left.”

Jack: “And did it ‘come out well,’ Jeeny? Because from where I stand, the world didn’t keep its promises.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world doesn’t make promises. Maybe only faith does.”

Jack: rubs his temple “You talk like it’s something you can store in a jar. ‘An inward reservoir,’ Forbes said. But reservoirs run dry.”

Jeeny: “Not if you know where to refill them.”

Jack: “And where’s that?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “In gratitude. In love. In every tiny moment that didn’t destroy you.”

Host: The lamp light flickered as if nodding in agreement. Jack looked down at his cup, watching the ripples shimmer like small galaxies caught in tea.

Outside, thunder rolled, long and low, like the growl of some cosmic beast.

Jack: “You make it sound… easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Faith’s never easy. It’s the hardest thing—to trust when everything you see screams not to.”

Jack: “So it’s blindness.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s vision of another kind.”

Jack: “Then show me. What do you see right now, Jeeny? Because all I see is a world caving in—people hungry, angry, hopeless.”

Jeeny: “And I see people still helping strangers. Doctors still fighting for patients. Parents still telling bedtime stories. Even in the ruins, Jack, there’s still light.”

Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s stubbornness.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: The lamp hummed. The rain softened. The city outside was still restless, still imperfect—but something in the air had shifted, quieted.

Jack leaned back, staring at Jeeny. The argument had drained him, but there was something oddly comforting in her certainty.

Jeeny: “Do you remember what your father used to say when the crops failed?”

Jack: grins weakly “Yeah. ‘Next year, the rain will come.’ Even when it didn’t.”

Jeeny: “And he still planted.”

Jack: “Because he didn’t have a choice.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Because he had faith.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He could still see the image—his father, in the dry field, pushing seeds into cracked soil, sweat on his back, hope in his hands. The sun scorching above, the earth refusing, yet he planted anyway.

It wasn’t madness. It was defiance—the holy kind.

Jack: quietly “You think faith is defiance?”

Jeeny: “Of despair, yes. Of cynicism, yes. Of everything that tells you to quit.”

Jack: “And if the harvest never comes?”

Jeeny: “Then faith becomes the harvest.”

Host: The room fell utterly silent. Even the rain paused, as if listening. Jack’s breath trembled as he looked at her, something between surrender and awe flickering in his eyes.

For the first time that night, his shoulders eased. He reached for his cup, took a long sip, and let out a slow, steady exhale.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? For the first time in weeks… I actually believe you.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe me, Jack. Just believe in what’s left inside you. That’s enough.”

Jack: smiling faintly “The reservoir.”

Jeeny: “Yes. You don’t see it, but it’s there. It always was.”

Host: The lamp dimmed slightly, casting their shadows across the wall—two silhouettes sitting in quiet companionship, surrounded by storm and stillness.

Outside, the clouds began to part. A faint silver moonlight spilled through the window, soft and patient.

It fell across Jack’s face like a benediction.

Host: The city below continued its restless hum—sirens, laughter, engines—all the noise of human struggle and survival. But inside that small apartment, peace had found a home.

Faith hadn’t solved anything. The headlines still screamed. The world was still broken.

But in the gentle quiet between two souls, there was courage again. Hope again.

That inward reservoir—once dry—had begun to fill.

And as the camera slowly pulled away, the last sound was Jeeny’s voice, barely above a whisper:

“Even when it looks most badly, Jack… it will come out well.”

Host: The rain stopped. The light lingered. The faith remained.