I am still far from being what I want to be, but with God's help

Host:
The studio smelled of turpentine and rain, a mingling of sweat, paint, and prayer. The walls were lined with half-finished canvases — fields, faces, skies — each one burning with color but trembling with incompletion. The window was cracked open to the twilight, and a wind, soft but insistent, carried the sound of distant church bells through the air.

Jack sat before an easel, sleeves rolled up, his fingers streaked with ochre and blue. The brush in his hand trembled slightly as though holding it required more faith than strength. Across the room, Jeeny leaned against the wooden table, tracing the rim of a chipped mug with quiet thought.

The light from the oil lamp danced between them — two souls painted in warmth and shadow, suspended in that timeless space where hope and exhaustion meet.

Jeeny: softly “Vincent Van Gogh once said, ‘I am still far from being what I want to be, but with God’s help I shall succeed.’”

Jack: quietly, without looking up “He said that while he was failing, didn’t he?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. When the world called him mad, when his art didn’t sell, when the nights were darker than his prayers.”

Jack: after a pause “It’s easy to believe in success when the light’s bright. It’s harder when all you’ve got left is faith and wet paint.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet he believed anyway.”

Jack: half-smiling “That’s the madness of faith, isn’t it? Trusting what hasn’t happened yet.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its flame stretching long and thin. Shadows rippled across the studio, shifting over the faces of saints on postcards tacked to the wall. The wind outside rattled the glass — a voice without words, whispering of unseen things.

Jeeny: softly “Van Gogh painted because he had to. His art wasn’t ambition; it was survival.”

Jack: quietly “That’s how faith feels too — something you do because not doing it would kill you.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Exactly. His words weren’t pride; they were surrender. ‘With God’s help, I shall succeed.’ He wasn’t claiming greatness — he was asking for mercy.”

Jack: after a long pause “I wonder if he ever really thought he’d succeed.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe not in this world.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So his success was never about fame. It was about endurance.”

Host: The rain began, slow and steady, tapping the roof like a heartbeat. The lamplight shimmered through the droplets on the window, breaking into small fragments — as if the stars themselves had decided to fall and start again.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what I love about that quote? It’s humble. It’s human. He knew he was unfinished — but he also knew he was guided.”

Jack: softly “And that combination — imperfection and faith — that’s where all beauty comes from.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. He wasn’t claiming divinity; he was clinging to it.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s what makes him timeless. Every artist feels that same ache — being caught between who we are and who we hope to be.”

Jeeny: softly “Between despair and grace.”

Jack: quietly “And the only bridge between them is work — and prayer.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly on the wall, the seconds slipping away like brushstrokes — deliberate, imperfect, but moving forward all the same.

Jeeny: after a silence “You ever feel that, Jack? Like you’re still far from the person you were supposed to become?”

Jack: smiling faintly “Every day. But I’m starting to think maybe that’s the point.”

Jeeny: quietly “What do you mean?”

Jack: softly “Maybe we’re not meant to ‘arrive.’ Maybe we’re meant to keep becoming. Maybe the distance itself is sacred.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Like how a painting never really ends — it just reaches a point where you stop touching it.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Exactly. You just put the brush down and hope God signs His name somewhere in the corner.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “The divine as co-artist.”

Jack: quietly “Or the one who holds the light steady while we work.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into mist. The lamp’s flame steadied now, burning calm, as though it too had decided to believe in their conversation.

Jeeny: after a pause “It’s strange, isn’t it? How Van Gogh could see beauty in brokenness — not just in others, but in himself.”

Jack: softly “Yeah. He painted pain until it looked like praise.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s what faith does — turns suffering into color.”

Jack: after a beat “And failure into texture.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “So maybe being ‘far from what we want to be’ isn’t failure — it’s faith in motion.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Becoming as devotion.”

Host: The wind pressed gently against the window now, carrying the smell of earth and rain. The air felt cleaner somehow — renewed by its own imperfection.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think Van Gogh’s greatest success wasn’t his paintings. It was that he kept painting when no one believed in him.”

Jack: quietly “Faith expressed as persistence.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. He didn’t need the world’s permission — only God’s patience.”

Jack: after a pause “And maybe that’s what success really is — not applause, but endurance with purpose.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “The courage to keep creating through uncertainty.”

Jack: softly “To still show up at the canvas, even when you’re bleeding inside.”

Jeeny: quietly “Because maybe that’s what God helps with most — not making it easy, but making it possible.”

Host: The lamp flickered, then grew steady once more. The light touched the unfinished painting on Jack’s easel — a field of color alive with movement, chaos, and something almost holy.

Jack: after a silence “You know, Jeeny, I used to think faith was about certainty. Now I think it’s about motion — about painting while you still can’t see the whole picture.”

Jeeny: softly “And trusting that the colors will make sense in the end.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Even if you never get to see the final canvas.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s the kind of belief Van Gogh had. Not in himself — but in the process.”

Jack: after a long pause “In the hand that guided his own.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving only silence — that vast, sacred silence that follows prayer or creation. The studio glowed in the stillness, as though Heaven had leaned in to listen.

And in that fragile, luminous quiet — between exhaustion and hope — Vincent Van Gogh’s words seemed to echo through the room, timeless and tender:

That we are all unfinished works,
our souls still sketching toward what they might become.

That faith is not certainty,
but the courage to keep painting through doubt.

That success is not the applause of the world,
but the quiet endurance of the spirit —
a daily act of trust between the human hand
and the divine heart.

And that even when we are far from what we wish to be,
if we keep moving,
if we keep creating,
if we keep believing —
then surely, with God’s help,
we shall succeed.

Fade out.