Humble souls are fearful of their own strength.

Host: The library was nearly dark — only the faint hum of a single lamp on an oak desk broke the stillness. Outside, rain pressed against the tall windows, smearing the light from passing cars into thin, liquid streaks. The smell of old paper and dust hovered in the air like memory — soft, fragile, eternal.

Jack sat in the circle of lamplight, his elbows on the desk, his face half-buried in his hands. The books around him looked like sentinels — their worn spines whispering things about faith, fear, and forgotten courage.

Jeeny stood at the far end of the room, her voice echoing lightly through the silence — low, reverent, like a prayer disguised as thought.

Jeeny: “William Gurnall once said, ‘Humble souls are fearful of their own strength.’”

Jack: (lifting his head slowly) “Sounds like a warning dressed as wisdom.”

Jeeny: “Or a truth hiding in humility.”

Jack: “You think fear is humility?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. People confuse them — think self-doubt is modesty, when really it’s just the heart afraid of its own light.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And dangerous. A little too much light, and you start believing you’re divine.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. A little too little, and you forget you’re human.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping the glass in rhythmic confession. Somewhere deep in the stacks, the sound of an old radiator hissed — the whisper of time turning the air warm.

Jack: “I’ve met humble people who shrink from every compliment like it’s a curse. They say they don’t deserve it. You call that fear?”

Jeeny: “Yes. They mistake smallness for virtue. But humility isn’t about thinking less of yourself — it’s about thinking of yourself truthfully.”

Jack: “And truth is what? That we’re capable of more than we allow ourselves to be?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Gurnall’s line — it’s not pitying the weak. It’s grieving the strong who hide.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe they hide because they’ve seen what strength can do — to others, or to themselves.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they hide because they know the moment they stand up, they’ll be responsible for the light they carry.”

Host: Her words landed like the soft closing of a book. The rain continued its delicate percussion, and Jack looked down at his hands — calloused, restless, uncertain.

Jack: “You talk like strength’s a gift. I’ve always thought it was a burden.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Gifts always are.”

Jack: “And what if someone doesn’t want it?”

Jeeny: “Then life will find a way to force it out of them. Strength isn’t optional. It’s inevitable.”

Host: She walked closer, her footsteps muffled by the carpet, the lamplight catching on her face as she spoke.

Jeeny: “You know what I think humble souls fear most? Not failure. Impact. They fear the moment their voice changes the air — the moment they realize they matter.”

Jack: (a long pause) “Because mattering means responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And responsibility means risk.”

Host: The air between them seemed to pulse — the quiet electricity of two people circling truth without quite touching it.

Jack: “You ever been afraid of your own strength?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “And what do you do about it?”

Jeeny: “I remind myself that silence is safer — but it’s also smaller. And I wasn’t made for smallness.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, making the shadows around them dance. The rain eased, as if listening.

Jack: “You think humility and courage can live in the same soul?”

Jeeny: “They have to. Humility keeps courage honest. Courage keeps humility alive.”

Jack: “That’s a tightrope.”

Jeeny: “So is existence.”

Host: The wind outside brushed against the old stone walls — the sigh of something ancient trying to speak. Jack stood and walked toward the window. His reflection merged with the dark, rain-streaked glass, a ghost of contemplation and regret.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent years downplaying everything — every victory, every bit of talent. I thought it was virtue. Maybe it was just fear disguised as grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Gurnall meant. Humble souls fear their strength because they mistake their power for pride. But pride isn’t strength — it’s absence of reverence.”

Jack: “So reverence isn’t hiding your strength — it’s using it wisely.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The truly humble don’t deny the fire. They tend it.”

Host: The silence returned — not the heavy kind, but the kind that feels like listening. The old clock on the far wall ticked softly, marking moments that would never come again.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what humility really is, Jack? It’s power under discipline. A lion walking softly so the lambs don’t scatter.”

Jack: “And fear?”

Jeeny: “Fear is the lion forgetting it was ever meant to roar.”

Host: Her words sank deep — the kind that don’t end, but echo. Jack turned from the window, his expression changed, not lighter, but clearer.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all terrified of what we could become if we ever stopped apologizing for it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the first step toward real humility — acknowledging that you’re strong, but you serve something greater than your own strength.”

Host: She stepped closer, the two reflections — man and woman, skeptic and believer — merging into one shared silhouette on the glass.

Jack: “You think God fears humble souls will forget how to roar?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s waiting for them to remember.”

Host: The rain began again, gentler now — rhythmic, cleansing, a quiet kind of applause for the revelation unfolding in that dim, book-scented room.

And as the light dimmed, William Gurnall’s words took on their truest shape — no longer a warning, but an invitation:

That humility is not weakness,
but restraint.

That the soul’s nobility lies not in silence,
but in knowing when to speak,
and why.

And that the fear of one’s strength
is not virtue,
but hesitation before the divine duty
to use it for good.

Host: The lamp flickered once more.
Jeeny smiled — faintly, knowingly.
And for the first time that night,
Jack stood a little taller —
not proud, not proud at all,
but ready.