I don't think there's such a thing as a selfish prayer. Prayer

Host: The night was a quiet cathedral of stars. Down below, in a small mountain cabin, a single lamp burned — its light golden, trembling, as if it too was part of the conversation. The air outside smelled of pine, of rain-soaked soil, and the faint smoke of an old fireplace.

Jack sat at the table, a journal open before him, pen untouched. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hands resting against the wood like he’d been holding a thought for too long. Across from him, Jeeny knelt by the fire, her hair loose, catching the light in ripples of black silk.

Jeeny: “Iyanla Vanzant said, ‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as a selfish prayer. Prayer puts you in communication so you can talk about whatever you want to talk about.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Sounds like an excuse for being self-centered.”

Host: The fire cracked — a sharp, sudden pop that filled the pause between them. Outside, a wind sighed through the trees, brushing the windows with its cold fingers.

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That prayer should only be about others? About world peace and sick children?”

Jack: “If it’s not about something bigger than yourself, then what’s the point? Why waste words on the universe asking for a better job or a lost love back? It’s… indulgent.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s not about the universe giving you what you want. Maybe it’s about you learning to speak what’s hidden inside. That’s what she meant — prayer isn’t a transaction; it’s a conversation.”

Host: The firelight wavered, painting both their faces — Jack’s sharp and shadowed, Jeeny’s calm, earnest, and faintly luminous. The room seemed to listen. Even the rain, starting up again, fell in a slow rhythm, as though eavesdropping.

Jack: “You can call it a conversation, but who’s really listening, Jeeny? The sky? Some invisible spirit? Feels like people pray just to hear themselves think.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. To hear yourself think. To listen to your own heart, maybe for the first time in months. Prayer doesn’t need an answer, Jack — it needs presence.”

Jack: (leaning back, voice low) “Presence won’t pay the bills. Or stop a war. Or save a life.”

Jeeny: “No. But neither does silence. And yet people still sit in therapy, talk to strangers, scream into pillows — all just to be heard. Prayer is the same, only simpler, softer, maybe even braver. You talk to something that can’t talk back, and somehow, that’s enough.”

Host: The lamp flickered, as though agreeing. Jack’s eyes softened, but only slightly — like a man standing on the edge of understanding, afraid to fall.

Jack: “You sound like one of those self-help authors — the kind that tell people to ‘manifest abundance’ while selling signed copies for fifty bucks.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I said communication, not commerce. Don’t twist it.”

Jack: “I’m serious, Jeeny. People use prayer as a crutch. They pray for success, for revenge, for love they never earned. If that’s not selfish, I don’t know what is.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s human. And there’s nothing wrong with being human in prayer. Even Jesus, at Gethsemane, begged not to die. Even the Buddha prayed under the bodhi tree for release from suffering. The sacred doesn’t demand we be saints; it just wants us to be honest.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the firelight catching the lines of his face, the tension in his jaw softening. He looked like a man trying to argue with his own ghosts.

Jack: “But what about the people who pray and get nothing? The ones who cry into the void and never hear a word back? What does ‘communication’ mean then?”

Jeeny: “It means you were heard, even if you didn’t realize it. Sometimes prayer changes you, not the world. You don’t pray to control life, Jack. You pray to learn how to stand inside it.”

Host: The storm outside grew stronger, branches scraping the roof, raindrops hammering the tin gutters. The fire hissed, then swelled, flaring orange against the walls.

Jack: (with a small laugh, half bitter) “You talk like prayer is therapy with better lighting.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the one place where you can be naked and not be judged. Where you can say, ‘I want, I need, I hurt,’ and it’s okay. Where you don’t have to pretend to be humble, or noble, or wise.”

Host: Her voice carried something — a tremor, faint but unmistakable. Jack noticed it, that subtle crack where her strength met her vulnerability.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve prayed that way before.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I have. After my brother died, I prayed for anger to stop. For sleep to come back. For the sound of his voice to fade so I could breathe again. Selfish? Maybe. But it was the only thing that kept me from breaking.”

Host: The room went still. The flames curled around the last of the logs, embers glowing like hearts refusing to die.

Jack: “I’m sorry.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “Don’t be. That’s what prayer is — it doesn’t fix, it just holds. And sometimes that’s enough.”

Host: Jack stood, his shadow stretching tall against the wall. He walked to the window, looked out at the rain, his reflection mingling with the storm — one man, two worlds.

Jack: “You know, when my father got sick, I tried praying. Once. I asked for him to live. He didn’t. So I stopped.”

Jeeny: “But you prayed, Jack. You reached out. You spoke what your heart couldn’t bear alone. That wasn’t wasted. That was real.”

Jack: “So you’re saying my prayer wasn’t selfish.”

Jeeny: “No. It was sacred.”

Host: He turned, his eyes wet — not from grief, but from relief. As if some part of him, long buried, had just been forgiven.

Jack: “Then maybe I owe the sky an apology.”

Jeeny: “No. The sky never needed it. You did.”

Host: The lamp dimmed, the fire sank into a soft glow, and the storm outside began to retreat. The mountain air grew still, filled only with the sound of their breathing, steady and human.

Jeeny stood and walked to the window, standing beside him. Together, they watched as the clouds parted, revealing a thin slice of moonlight, pale and forgiving.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what prayer really is — not talking to God, but remembering we’re allowed to speak at all.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And maybe, selfish or not, that’s enough.”

Host: The fire flickered one last time, a small flare of light before rest. Outside, the night breathed again — wide, open, endless.

And within it, two voices — no longer arguing, just quietly belonging — drifted into the silence, still talking, still heard.

Their prayer was still human — and that made it holy.