I believe God is managing affairs and that He doesn't need any

Host: The evening sky burned low over the fields, its color somewhere between rust and gold — the hue of endings that still believe in beginnings. The old barn workshop was alive with the hum of machines, the soft rattle of metal tools, and the faint smell of oil, timber, and dust.

Inside, Jack sat by the open window, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun slipped behind a line of black trees. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded letter in the other — creased, worn, read too many times. His expression was steady, but there was something underneath, a quiet storm waiting for permission to pass.

Jeeny stood nearby, her hands stained with grease, her hair tied back with a piece of torn cloth. She was checking the engine of an old tractor, the kind her father used to call “a loyal beast.” Her movements were calm, but her eyes kept flicking toward Jack — as though she sensed the silence he was carrying wasn’t peace, but something heavier.

The radio in the corner crackled to life, static giving way to a calm, vintage voice reading a quote:
"I believe God is managing affairs and that He doesn't need any advice from me. With God in charge, I believe everything will work out for the best in the end. So what is there to worry about?" — Henry Ford

The words drifted through the air like smoke. Jack exhaled slowly.

Jeeny: “That’s a good one. Ford was always the practical philosopher.”

Jack: “Practical’s one word for it. Convenient’s another.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You don’t believe him?”

Jack: “I believe in engines. Not invisible management.”

Host: The wind outside stirred the fields, a slow rustle of corn stalks moving like waves. The air smelled of rain that hadn’t fallen yet — tension waiting to become surrender.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to see the manager to trust the system.”

Jack: “You really think life runs like one of your engines? Balanced gears, perfect timing, all under control?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s built with purpose, even when it rattles.”

Jack: “Purpose. There’s a dangerous word.”

Jeeny: “Dangerous because you stopped believing in it.”

Jack: “Because I stopped mistaking comfort for meaning.”

Host: She closed the hood of the tractor, wiping her hands on a rag. The last light of the sun caught her face — soft, amber, and unwavering.

Jeeny: “Ford wasn’t talking about comfort. He was talking about surrender. About knowing when to stop wrestling the world into your shape.”

Jack: “And just trust it’ll work out?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “That’s lazy faith.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s faith without arrogance. The idea that we’re not running the show — we’re just part of it.”

Jack: (dryly) “Tell that to a man who’s lost everything.”

Jeeny: “I would. And I’d tell him that loss isn’t proof of God’s absence — it’s proof that life keeps moving whether you approve or not.”

Host: The barn lights flickered as the generator groaned to life, a low hum filling the air. Outside, the first raindrops began to fall, soft and hesitant. Jack leaned back in his chair, the letter still clutched in his hand.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “Is that from your brother?”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Last one he sent before the accident. He wrote that same thing — that everything would ‘work out for the best.’”

Jeeny: “And you think he was wrong?”

Jack: “He died three weeks later, Jeeny. Tell me how that worked out.”

Host: Her breath caught. The rain grew heavier, its rhythm syncing with the sound of the ticking clock on the wall. She walked closer, slowly, as if crossing through something sacred.

Jeeny: “Maybe the ending wasn’t what you wanted. But maybe it still meant something.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t bring him back.”

Jeeny: “No. But it can bring you back.”

Jack: “You really think there’s some divine plan behind all this chaos?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s order even in what looks like ruin. You see parts; God sees patterns.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy — to just hand it all over, pretend the universe knows better.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s terrifying. But so is believing everything depends on you.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming against the tin roof like thousands of small hands. Jack’s eyes darkened, not with anger, but with the slow ache of memory.

Jack: “I used to pray, you know. Back when I thought it mattered. Every night before bed, like a ritual. I’d tell God what needed fixing, like I was filing reports to headquarters.”

Jeeny: “And when nothing happened, you stopped?”

Jack: “Yeah. Because maybe He wasn’t listening.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe He just didn’t need your advice.”

Host: Her tone wasn’t mocking — it was tender, the kind of truth that only love could carry without shattering. Jack let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like surrender.

Jack: “You sound like the radio now.”

Jeeny: “No. The radio quotes men like Ford. I’m quoting the part of you that still believes, whether you admit it or not.”

Jack: “What makes you so sure I still believe?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re angry. And you can’t be angry at something you don’t believe in.”

Host: The light from the window flickered as lightning flashed in the distance. For a moment, the room glowed — bright, harsh, holy. Jack turned his face away.

Jack: “So you’re saying I should just… stop worrying?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you should stop pretending your worry controls anything.”

Jack: “And what if the world falls apart anyway?”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild what you can, and trust the rest to the One who knows why it broke.”

Host: The rain softened again, falling in silver sheets that shimmered under the barn lights. The storm had moved closer — but inside, something gentler was forming.

Jack stared at the letter one last time, then folded it carefully, sliding it into the pocket of his coat.

Jack: “You know… maybe Ford had it easy. He could look at machines and see order. People are messier.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even machines break to teach you how to build better ones.”

Jack: “You think that’s what faith is? A kind of spiritual engineering?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Except the blueprint isn’t ours.”

Host: A small smile crept onto Jack’s lips — tired, reluctant, but real. He looked toward the rain, then at her.

Jack: “You really think everything works out in the end?”

Jeeny: “No. I think everything becomes what it’s meant to. That’s not the same thing.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what am I meant to be?”

Jeeny: “Someone who finally learns to let go.”

Host: The storm broke — thunder rolling low across the fields, the scent of wet earth rushing through the open window. Jack leaned back, eyes half closed, the weight in his chest easing slightly.

Jeeny walked over, setting a hand on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fight the plan, Jack. Just live inside it.”

Jack: “And if I lose my way?”

Jeeny: “Then trust that someone wiser knows the map.”

Host: The thunder faded. The rain slowed to a whisper. A soft light glowed behind the clouds — the kind that doesn’t promise clear skies, but something better: peace.

Jack picked up his coffee, raised it slightly — a small, ironic toast.

Jack: “To God the manager.”

Jeeny: “And to us — the messy employees.”

Host: They laughed softly, the sound blending with the rain’s dying rhythm. Outside, the world shimmered — washed, alive, forgiving.

And as the night deepened, the machines quieted, and the storm moved on, Jack found — for the first time in years — a strange, unexplainable calm.

Not certainty. Not control.
Just trust.

And in that quiet surrender, something beautiful returned:
the courage to let life run — even when he wasn’t driving.