I believe God takes the things in our lives - family, background

Host: The night had fallen gently over the quiet town, wrapping every street in a blanket of amber light and faint fog. The café sat near the edge of the river, its windows glowing like soft lanterns in the dark. Inside, steam rose from untouched cups, curling through the air like ghosts of old dreams. Jack sat by the window, his profile caught in the reflection of the streetlights — half light, half shadow. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands folded, her eyes shimmering with that strange mix of faith and fire.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving droplets trembling on the glass. The world seemed still, as if waiting for their words to begin.

Jeeny: “I was reading Eugene Peterson today,” she began softly, tracing a circle on the table with her finger. “He said, ‘I believe God takes the things in our lives — family, background, education — and uses them as part of his calling. It might not be to become a pastor. But I don't think God wastes anything.’”

Jack: (leans back, a half-smile curving) “Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Everything has a purpose, every tear and triumph folded into some divine plan. But it’s too… convenient.”

Jeeny: “Convenient?” she echoed, her brows knitting. “You think it’s just wishful thinking?”

Jack: “I think it’s comfort dressed up as faith. People like to believe their pain means something. That all the chaos and loss they’ve endured are part of some grand pattern. But the universe doesn’t care, Jeeny. It just is.”

Host: The sound of a passing train rumbled through the distance, its horn a low, melancholic cry. The light from the street flickered briefly, as if even the world was hesitant to choose a side.

Jeeny: “But if the universe doesn’t care,” she said quietly, “then why does it shape us so precisely? Why do some moments, even the terrible ones, later reveal themselves as necessary? Look at Nelson Mandela — twenty-seven years in prison, and yet he called it the crucible that taught him patience and wisdom. Are you saying that was all just… meaningless coincidence?”

Jack: (leans forward, his voice low) “No, I’m saying he gave it meaning. Humans do that — we build stories around our suffering so we can survive it. That’s what Mandela did. That’s what Peterson’s doing. It’s not God shaping us — it’s us trying to make sense of the wreckage.”

Host: The silence between them thickened. The smell of coffee and wet pavement mingled in the air, while outside the river shimmered with streetlight, a long, trembling mirror of their conflict.

Jeeny: “But even your logic, Jack, admits the pattern exists. If we can find meaning in suffering, doesn’t that suggest there’s something in us — or beyond us — that designed us to seek that meaning?”

Jack: “No. It suggests we’re desperate for control. The brain hates chaos — it’s wired to find order even where there is none. We see faces in clouds, messages in tragedy. It’s just biology, not theology.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain the way certain paths seem to lead us, even against our will? When I lost my mother, I thought everything was ruined. But her death pushed me into the hospital where I met those children — and they changed my life. That’s not random, Jack. That’s grace.”

Jack: (his eyes flicker, pain surfacing) “Grace, or guilt trying to make sense of loss? Maybe you just needed to believe her death wasn’t for nothing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the point? Maybe that need itself is sacred — the part of us that refuses to let pain be wasted.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, marking the beat of their breathing. A light drizzle began again, sliding down the window like tears. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with unshed emotion.

Jack: “You talk like everything happens for a reason, Jeeny. Tell that to the child born in war, to the family wiped out by disease. Are you going to say God doesn’t waste that either?”

Jeeny: (her voice trembles, but doesn’t break) “Yes… even that. Not in the way you think. I don’t believe God causes those things. But I believe He can redeem them — that He turns ashes into something that still breathes. Have you never seen that happen?”

Jack: “I’ve seen people adapt, sure. I’ve seen mothers rebuild their lives after war, orphans grow into leaders. But that’s them, Jeeny — not God. It’s human resilience, not divine recycling.”

Jeeny: “Maybe God is that resilience, Jack. Maybe He’s not in the sky pulling strings, but in the courage that makes us keep going. The miracle isn’t the escape from pain — it’s the transformation through it.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, tender yet heavy. Jack looked away, his fingers drumming against the table, his reflection fractured in the window — one part defiance, one part doubt.

Jack: “If God’s in everything — the pain, the loss, the mess — then He’s also in the atrocities, isn’t He? The Holocaust, the massacres — all part of some beautiful calling?”

Jeeny: (her eyes darken) “No. Evil isn’t His creation, but He never abandons what it touches. Look at Corrie ten Boom — she saw her sister die in a camp, yet she spent her life forgiving the men who did it. That’s not human logic. That’s divine alchemy.”

Jack: (quietly, almost broken) “Maybe she just couldn’t carry the hate anymore.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe love found a way through the hate.”

Host: A long pause followed. The rain grew heavier, a steady rhythm against the roof, as if time itself were listening. Jack’s eyes softened; Jeeny’s hand reached toward him, stopping just short.

Jeeny: “Jack, do you really think everything we’ve been through — your father’s death, your years of searching, my losses — are just accidents in a random universe?”

Jack: “I think they’re lessons we teach ourselves after the fact, so we can keep living. Because if we didn’t, we’d go mad.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the line between what we call ‘self-made meaning’ and what we call ‘divine purpose’ is thinner than you think.”

Host: Her voice was like a whisper of wind through glass — gentle, but cutting. Jack exhaled, a slow surrender flickering in his eyes.

Jack: “You really believe nothing’s wasted?”

Jeeny: “I do. Even our mistakes — they become soil for something new to grow.”

Jack: “And if there’s no God?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Then we’ve still lived as if there was meaning — and that, Jack, is enough.”

Host: The words settled between them like ashes after a fire. Outside, the rain began to ease, the sky clearing to reveal a faint silver glow — not quite moonlight, not yet dawn. Jack’s shoulders relaxed. He looked at Jeeny, and for the first time in a long while, his eyes weren’t just grey — they were human.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe God doesn’t waste anything… not even our disbelief.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then maybe you’ve just taken the first step of His calling.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — out through the window, into the street where rainwater still glistened under the lamps. Two silhouettes remained inside: a man and a woman, both haunted, both hopeful. The light around them flickered, but did not fade. And in that trembling glow, something eternal — or perhaps simply human — was quietly being redeemed.