I can't turn the clock back but I can seek the forgiveness of

Host: The churchyard lay beneath a restless sky — clouds drifting like thoughts unspoken, wind moving through tall grass in uneven sighs. The last light of day pressed itself gently against the horizon, soft and reluctant, as though even the sun understood regret.

The bell tower stood silent, its shadow long and solemn over the cobblestones. Inside the small rectory, candles flickered across wooden pews, throwing trembling halos on the stone walls. At the front, near the altar where faith and frailty always met, sat Jack and Jeeny. Between them lay a folded letter, its edges worn — the kind of letter written not to be read, but to be forgiven.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “Richard Coles once said, ‘I can’t turn the clock back but I can seek the forgiveness of those I’ve wronged.’”

Jack: (staring at the floor) “You ever notice how everyone talks about forgiveness like it’s some kind of redemption, but no one talks about how terrifying it is?”

Jeeny: “Terrifying?”

Jack: “Yeah. To ask forgiveness is to admit you broke something. To say, ‘I hurt you,’ and then stand there while they decide if you’re still worthy of love.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it holy.”

Jack: “Holy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s an act of surrender. Forgiveness isn’t about erasing the past — it’s about laying down your pride before it.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe priests learned it from people like us — people trying to find peace in the ruins of what they’ve done.”

Host: The candles flickered violently as the wind found its way through a crack in the window. The flame bent low, then righted itself — fragile, persistent, trembling but alive.

Jack: “You think forgiveness actually changes anything? The past still happened.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t change the past. It changes the meaning of it.”

Jack: “That sounds like poetry, not truth.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite history. It redeems memory. It’s the difference between pain that punishes and pain that purifies.”

Jack: “But what if the person you’ve wronged doesn’t forgive you? What then?”

Jeeny: “Then you forgive yourself. Eventually. You stop holding the whip. You start tending the wound.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing we ever learn — to live with our mistakes without letting them define us.”

Host: The bell above the church rang once — low, resonant, ancient. The sound filled the air like the heartbeat of time itself. Jack looked up toward the ceiling, his eyes distant, as though searching for something beyond stone and sorrow.

Jack: “You ever wish you could go back? Just one moment. Fix the word that cut too deep, the silence that came too late.”

Jeeny: “Every day. But wishing is just another way of refusing to accept the present.”

Jack: “And forgiving is the opposite?”

Jeeny: “Forgiving is facing the present with grace. It’s looking at the clock and saying, ‘I can’t turn you back — but I can turn myself forward.’”

Host: Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall — soft at first, like whispers. The light dimmed, and the scent of wet stone filled the air. The two of them sat quietly as the rhythm of water deepened — each drop a heartbeat, a reminder that even storms cleanse.

Jack: “You think forgiveness is something we owe others? Or something we owe ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Both. Forgiveness is a bridge — it’s built from both sides, or it falls.”

Jack: “And what if the other side never reaches back?”

Jeeny: “Then you build anyway. Because forgiveness isn’t about reconciliation — it’s about release.”

Jack: “Release from what?”

Jeeny: “From the illusion that punishment can undo what’s been done.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, blurring the world beyond the church windows. The glass shimmered with streaks of silver, and every flicker of lightning illuminated the words carved above the altar: “Mercy renews the soul.”

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think saying sorry was weakness. That owning up meant surrendering control.”

Jeeny: “It is surrender. But not to weakness — to truth. And truth has always been stronger than control.”

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s an act of creation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every time you forgive, something new is born — a relationship, a chance, a version of yourself that isn’t chained to regret.”

Jack: “And when you can’t forgive?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn. You sit with the weight of it until you can carry it differently.”

Host: The candlelight flickered again, painting the room in gold and shadow. The rain softened once more, fading to a whisper. There was a stillness now — the kind that comes not after peace, but before it.

Jack: “You know, Coles was a priest, a pop star, and a sinner — all at once. Maybe that’s why he understood forgiveness so well. He’d seen how easy it is to fall and how hard it is to ask for grace.”

Jeeny: “Because grace isn’t deserved. It’s offered. And that’s what makes it divine.”

Jack: “So you’re saying forgiveness is a miracle.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it’s a choice that becomes a miracle when it’s made.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes glimmered with the soft reflection of candlelight — a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the cynicism.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what redemption really is. Not undoing the past — just being brave enough to face it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t turn the clock back, but you can stop hiding from its hands.”

Jack: “And when you stop hiding?”

Jeeny: “You find forgiveness waiting where shame used to be.”

Host: The last echo of thunder rolled across the distance, fading into silence. The candles burned low now, their flames steady, serene.

And in that gentle hush, Richard Coles’s words seemed to settle not as confession, but as benediction:

That forgiveness is not time reversed,
but consciousness restored.
That we cannot edit the past,
but we can transform its echo.
That to seek forgiveness is to stand unarmed before truth
and trust that grace still recognizes your face.

Host: The rain stopped entirely. The moon broke through the clouds, silvering the world outside.

Jack: (whispering) “You think they’ll forgive me?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe. But first — forgive yourself for not knowing better.”

Jack: “And after that?”

Jeeny: “After that… begin again.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting on his. Outside, the bells began to chime midnight, each note falling like absolution.

And in the quiet that followed,
beneath the ancient hum of mercy and time,
two souls sat still —
not absolved, not erased,
but quietly redeemed by the simple courage
to face what could not be undone
and forgive what still could be healed.