Hope is trust in God's promises, faith that if we act now, the

Host: The chapel was almost empty — only the faint scent of wax and cedarwood lingering in the air, and the soft glow of candles trembling against the stained-glass windows. The light filtered through in quiet colors — blues, reds, and golds dancing across the old pews, painting the dust motes with sacred patience.

Outside, the rain fell steadily, tapping against the tall windows like a heartbeat that refused to fade. Inside, it was still — reverent, but human. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand prayer, but invites it.

Jack sat near the back, coat damp, hands clasped, his eyes fixed on the altar though he wasn’t really looking at it. Jeeny sat beside him, her posture calm, her gaze soft but unwavering. Between them, a Bible lay open — not because they were reading it, but because sometimes hope feels more like presence than words.

Jeeny: (softly, as if afraid to disturb the quiet) “James E. Faust once said, ‘Hope is trust in God’s promises, faith that if we act now, the desired blessings will be fulfilled in the future.’”

(She traced her finger along the edge of the pew.) “I’ve always loved that — how he makes hope feel like an action, not a waiting room.”

Jack: (without looking up) “An action, huh? Sounds nice. But hope’s not that easy, Jeeny. Sometimes it feels like throwing prayers into a void.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “And yet you still throw them.”

Jack: (pauses, sighs) “Habit. Or desperation. Hard to tell the difference anymore.”

Host: The candlelight flickered gently across his face — the hard edges softened, the tired eyes taking on a glint of something unspoken. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly, a slow, distant drumbeat that sounded like the world remembering to breathe.

Jeeny leaned back, her voice tender but steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what hope is, Jack — not proof, but persistence. You don’t believe because it’s guaranteed. You believe because it’s right.”

Jack: “Right? You think faith is about being right?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about choosing trust over certainty. Hope’s not blind optimism. It’s work. You plant kindness, you act with courage, and you believe that somewhere down the line, something good will grow.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “And what if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then at least you became someone who planted.”

Host: Her words fell like rain — soft, consistent, reshaping the air one drop at a time. Jack looked at her then, not with argument, but with weariness that had started to crack open into thought.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the rows of candles flickering near the altar.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never had her faith tested.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Oh, Jack. Every day it’s tested. I just stopped seeing pain as proof that God’s forgotten me.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s hard to believe.”

Jeeny: “I know. But maybe faith isn’t about believing something’s easy. Maybe it’s about trusting that it’s worth it.”

Host: The rain softened into a mist, barely audible now, like a lullaby outside the stained glass. A single beam of light cut through the window — thin, deliberate — landing across the open pages of the Bible between them. The verse it touched read simply: “For I know the plans I have for you.”

Jack noticed, his expression shifting — not to awe, but to something quieter. Something like surrender.

Jack: (softly) “You really think God keeps His promises?”

Jeeny: (with a small, certain nod) “Every one of them. Just not always the way we expect.”

Jack: “That sounds like a loophole.”

Jeeny: “It’s grace. The kind that rewrites your story instead of ending it.”

Host: He let out a breath — the kind that carries the weight of years. The chapel creaked as the old wood settled. A candle sputtered, then steadied again. The whole room felt alive with stillness — the kind of quiet that doesn’t suppress sound but listens to it.

Jack: “You make hope sound like discipline.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It is. You think it’s easy to keep expecting good in a world that keeps disappointing you? Hope is defiance. It’s standing in the ruins and deciding to rebuild anyway.”

Jack: “And faith?”

Jeeny: “Faith is the muscle that lets you lift the first brick.”

Host: A long silence. Outside, the sky began to lighten faintly — a sliver of dawn pushing back against the rain clouds. Jack rubbed his palms together, staring at the candle’s flame.

He spoke quietly, almost to himself.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to pray before every exam. Every crisis. Every heartbreak. Back then, I thought prayer was a transaction. Do good, get good. Be faithful, be rewarded. But the older I get, the more I realize... the answer isn’t always yes. Sometimes it’s ‘not yet.’ Sometimes it’s just silence.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Silence isn’t rejection, Jack. It’s God saying — trust Me still.”

Jack: (after a beat) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything in me.”

Host: The words hung there, fragile and golden. The rain had stopped. The city beyond the windows had begun to glow faintly with morning. Jeeny reached forward and gently closed the Bible. The sound of the pages coming together echoed softly — final, but peaceful.

She turned toward him, her voice lower now, filled with that unshakable gentleness that hope wears when it’s been tested and still survives.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to understand the promise, Jack. You just have to walk toward it.”

Jack: “And if the promise never comes?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll still find purpose in the walking.”

Host: He stared at her for a moment, and then something in him broke — not in pain, but in recognition. His shoulders eased. His breath came slower. It wasn’t peace, not yet. But it was its beginning.

The candles flickered once more, their flames small but steady, like hundreds of tiny hearts refusing to give up. The first light of dawn spilled through the stained glass now, painting the walls in color — the soft hues of resurrection.

Jeeny smiled, watching the light move across the floor.

Jeeny: (whispering) “There it is — the future He promised.”

Jack: (quietly, almost reverently) “And the act of believing it into being.”

Host: Outside, the world woke to the scent of wet earth and forgiveness. Inside the chapel, two figures sat in the glow of faith reborn — one learning how to hope again, the other remembering why she never stopped.

And as the light filled the room, the air seemed to whisper the truth of Faust’s words —

that hope is not waiting in the dark,
but trusting the dawn will come,

and that faith, when lived in the now,
is what bridges the distance
between promise and fulfillment.

The candle flames wavered once, as if nodding,
and the world — briefly, beautifully —
felt holy again.