I am profoundly grateful that all of my life I have had a simple

Host: The mountains rose like ancient shadows against a pale evening sky, their edges sharp and silent under the fading light. The air smelled of pine and distant rain, and the sound of a small river moved through the valley like a whispered prayer. A wooden cabin stood by the water’s edge, its windows glowing faintly with the amber warmth of a single lamp.

Inside, the room was simple — a fireplace, two chairs, a Bible left open on the table, and the faint hum of wind against the walls.

Jack sat by the fire, his face carved in half by the flicker of flame, a cup of untouched tea cooling beside him. Jeeny sat near the window, looking out at the sky, her eyes reflecting both the light and the stillness beyond.

Host: On the open Bible before them, a passage had been read aloud moments before. But it was another line, printed on a small piece of paper, that hung in the air like a sacred echo:

"I am profoundly grateful that all of my life I have had a simple faith that Jesus is the Christ. That witness has been confirmed to me hundreds of times. It is the crowning knowledge of my soul. It is the spiritual light of my being. It is the cornerstone of my life."
— James E. Faust

Jeeny: (quietly) “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way he calls faith the cornerstone of his life. So simple, and yet… it holds everything up.”

Jack: (leans back) “It’s beautiful, yes. But it’s also… heavy. To live your entire life on something unseen. That takes a kind of strength I don’t understand.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about understanding, Jack. It’s about trust.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s what people say when they’ve stopped asking questions.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’ve found answers too deep for questions.”

Host: The fire crackles, throwing shadows that dance across the walls, like memories moving in slow motion. The wind sighs through the trees outside, and the flame’s light touches Jeeny’s face — soft, earnest, full of quiet conviction.

Jack: “You really believe that kind of certainty exists? To know — not just hope, but know — that something invisible is real?”

Jeeny: “I do.”

Jack: “Because you were taught to?”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve lived it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “That’s what everyone says. Muslims, Christians, Buddhists — even atheists. Everyone’s sure of what they believe. And yet, they all can’t be right.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe rightness isn’t the point. Maybe faith isn’t about being correct — it’s about being anchored.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Anchored to what, though? An idea? A story?”

Jeeny: “To meaning. To love. To something greater than our own noise.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrow, the light in them flickering like the fire. He runs a hand through his hair, thinking, his voice lower now, almost weary.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I prayed once. My father had cancer. I remember kneeling by the bed, whispering words I didn’t really know. I promised God everything — my toys, my books, my voice — if He’d just let him live. He didn’t.”

Jeeny: (softly) “I’m sorry.”

Jack: “Don’t be. It taught me what silence sounds like.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t silence.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Then what was it?”

Jeeny: “A kind of answer you weren’t ready to hear.”

Jack: “That’s convenient.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s faith.”

Host: The room falls quiet, the only sound the soft pop of burning wood. The firelight sways across the floor, reaching for their shadows, and then retreating, like something breathing.

Jeeny: “You think faith is about proof. But it’s not. It’s about presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The presence of something that steadies you when the world turns sideways. The feeling that even when you’re lost, you’re not alone.”

Jack: “That’s psychology, not theology.”

Jeeny: “Maybe psychology is just another language for the soul.”

Jack: “You always find a way to make the intangible sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “And you always find a way to strip poetry down to numbers.”

Jack: (smiles) “Someone has to.”

Host: Jeeny stands, walks to the window, and opens it slightly. The night air moves in — cool, clean, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and pine. She closes her eyes, breathes, and when she speaks, her voice is almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “When Faust says it’s the ‘spiritual light of his being,’ I understand that. Faith feels like light — not the blinding kind, but the one that gently guides you. You don’t see everything, but you see enough.”

Jack: “That’s still darkness, Jeeny. Just a comfortable kind.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the kind that keeps you humble. The kind that says, ‘You don’t have to see everything — just the next step.’”

Jack: “And if the next step leads off a cliff?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to fly.”

Host: Jack laughs quietly, though his eyes betray something deeper — not amusement, but longing. The fire burns lower now, a soft orange pulse in the hearth. Outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall, pattering against the roof in slow rhythm.

Jack: “I envy people like Faust. People like you. To wake up and know there’s purpose in all this… chaos. Must be peaceful.”

Jeeny: “It’s not always peaceful. Faith isn’t peace, Jack. It’s war. Against fear. Against doubt. Against the part of you that wants to quit.”

Jack: “So faith is a fight.”

Jeeny: “Always. But it’s a fight worth having.”

Jack: “Even when it doesn’t answer you back?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s when faith becomes real — when it has to stand on its own, without proof.”

Host: The fire finally settles, glowing like a heartbeat beneath the ash. Jack looks at Jeeny, the reflection of the flame caught in his grey eyes, and for the first time tonight, there’s no argument in them — only a quiet kind of wonder.

Jack: “You really think God speaks to people?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think — I know.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “Not in words. In moments. In mercy. In the way life whispers just when you’re about to break.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you’ve heard that whisper?”

Jeeny: (nods) “More than once. Sometimes through others. Sometimes through silence. Always through love.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. To believe — even when everything falls apart.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminates the room, and for a heartbeat, everything — the Bible, the fireplace, their faces — shines with a strange, sacred clarity. Then the light fades, and the rain takes over, steady, insistent, cleansing.

Jack: “You know, Faust said it was the cornerstone of his life. Maybe that’s the real difference between people like him and people like me. He builds his house on faith. I build mine on reason.”

Jeeny: “And which one keeps the rain out better?”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Touché.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth is, we need both — the stone and the mortar. Faith gives meaning, reason gives direction.”

Jack: “You mean light and structure.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t live by one alone.”

Host: The rain slows to a drizzle, the sound softer now, almost like a lullaby. The lamp beside them flickers once, then steadies again, casting its glow over the open Bible. The page has turned slightly, as if by the wind — to a verse about light overcoming darkness.

Jack: (staring at the page) “Maybe that’s what Faust meant. That faith isn’t about what we see, but about what we choose to live as though we see.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Yes. It’s the act of seeing with your soul.”

Jack: “And the soul doesn’t need evidence.”

Jeeny: “Only experience.”

Host: The fire dies down to its last few embers, each one glowing like a tiny truth refusing to fade. Jack leans back, exhales, and something in his face softens — the lines of skepticism easing into something closer to surrender.

Jeeny: “So, Jack. Do you still think faith is blindness?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “No. Maybe it’s… sight in the dark.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it’s ever been.”

Host: Outside, the clouds part just enough to reveal a faint moon, its light spilling across the mountain peaks, silver and patient. Inside the cabin, that same light finds their faces — two souls framed by the same glow, one of faith, one of doubt — and for the first time, both illuminated by something shared.

Host: The scene holds still — the fire quiet, the air clear, the world suspended in peace. On the table, the Bible lies open beside the faint ink of Faust’s words. And in the hush that follows, the faith he spoke of — that simple, luminous certainty — seems to fill the room itself.

The light burns steady, neither questioned nor proved — only lived.