I grew up in a very fundamentalist, evangelical Christian

Host: The bar was half-empty, its air thick with the scent of smoke, cheap whiskey, and the faint hum of an old jukebox playing a song that had forgotten its ending. The neon light above the counter flickered like a broken memory — blue, then red, then dark again.

Rain pressed softly against the windows outside, washing the city in streaks of grey and gold.

At a corner table sat Jack, a half-empty glass before him, a notebook beside it. His fingers drummed absently, each tap like a heartbeat against the wood.

Jeeny entered, shaking off her umbrella, her hair damp, her eyes bright but tired — the kind of tired that comes from years of asking the right questions and finding no easy answers.

When she sat across from him, Jack looked up, the shadows under his eyes catching the light like bruises.

The silence between them was heavy — sacred, even. And then, as if to break it gently, Jeeny spoke.

Jeeny: “Craig Thompson once said, ‘I grew up in a very fundamentalist, evangelical Christian household. Both my parents were born-again — their faith infused every aspect of my childhood. I’ll probably spend most of my life working through that.’”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Working through it — yeah. That’s one way to put surviving religion.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, but not mocking. There was history there — a scar beneath the sarcasm.

Jeeny: “You sound like you know what he meant.”

Jack: “I do. I grew up in a house where God was louder than laughter. You learn fast that sin has more rules than love does.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet… you’re still here, talking about it. So maybe some part of you didn’t give up on belief.”

Jack: “Belief in what, Jeeny? In guilt? In judgment? Faith was the air we breathed — but it was suffocating. Every thought was filtered, every dream checked for holiness. You don’t grow up from that — you claw your way out.”

Host: He leaned back, eyes catching the dim light, a faint trail of smoke curling upward from his cigarette. The jukebox skipped; the silence in its wake felt biblical.

Jeeny: “You think escaping faith makes you free?”

Jack: “It makes you honest. At least you stop pretending that fear is holiness.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that just another kind of cage — hating what raised you?”

Host: Her words landed gently but carried the weight of a lifetime. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “It’s not hate. It’s… exhaustion. When you grow up believing you’re broken unless someone saves you, you start confusing love with rescue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith wasn’t the cage — maybe interpretation was.”

Jack: (laughs dryly) “You sound like a pastor’s daughter.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I am. But I also think faith isn’t about control — it’s about surrender. People like your parents, or Thompson’s, they didn’t mean harm. They were trying to build meaning in a world that constantly falls apart.”

Host: The rain intensified outside, a rhythmic drumming against the glass. Jack stared into it like a man trying to see beyond his reflection.

Jack: “Meaning? They built an entire life around the fear of eternal fire. I remember being six, Jeeny — six — and crying because I thought I’d burn for lying about breaking a glass. You call that meaning?”

Jeeny: “I call that distortion. But isn’t that what Thompson meant — spending his life ‘working through it’? You don’t escape faith by rejecting it. You escape it by understanding it.”

Jack: “You sound too forgiving.”

Jeeny: “Maybe forgiveness is the only way to stop the past from dictating who you are.”

Host: Her words seemed to pull something loose in him — not a full surrender, but the beginning of one. He rubbed the side of his temple, the way a man does when old memories start to ache.

Jack: “You ever wonder why religion hits kids the hardest?”

Jeeny: “Because children believe everything adults tell them. And when you tell a child they’re born sinful, they spend the rest of their life trying to earn innocence back.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Yeah. That’s it. You spend decades trying to feel clean. And when you finally realize you never needed to be, it’s too late — the guilt’s already part of you.”

Host: The air grew thick again, the sound of glasses clinking faintly from the bar counter. The bartender wiped down the wood, eyes disinterested, as if this was just another conversation lost in smoke.

Jeeny: “But maybe guilt isn’t the end of the story. Look at Thompson — he turned it into art. Blankets wasn’t a rejection of faith; it was a confession, a dialogue. Sometimes the most spiritual act is to question.”

Jack: “You think drawing his pain made him free?”

Jeeny: “No. But it made him real. That’s what matters.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette had burned to its end. He didn’t light another. The silence between them was almost tender now — as if the storm outside had softened something inside, too.

Jack: “I used to envy people who believed without doubt. The kind who could pray and actually feel someone listening.”

Jeeny: “Maybe someone was. Just not the one you expected.”

Jack: (looks up) “You mean who?”

Jeeny: “Yourself. Maybe prayer is just the voice we use when we’re too afraid to listen to our own thoughts.”

Host: The words lingered like the aftertaste of truth. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a brief second, his defenses faltered.

Jack: “You ever pray, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For understanding — not forgiveness. Forgiveness is for things I regret. Understanding is for the things I don’t.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. The rain outside began to ease, tapering into a soft drizzle. Somewhere down the street, a church bell rang — faint, distant, unintentional poetry.

Jack: “You think there’s redemption in all this? In breaking away?”

Jeeny: “Redemption isn’t about returning to what you left. It’s about carrying its lessons without letting them own you. You can honor what made you and still walk away from its shadow.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly. The tension in his shoulders released, his posture no longer defensive but reflective — as though the word shadow had reminded him of something tender, something lost.

Jack: “I used to draw, you know. Like Thompson. When I was a kid. Sketches of angels — I thought if I drew them enough, maybe they’d protect me.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And did they?”

Jack: (pauses) “No. But maybe they kept me from forgetting how to hope.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The jukebox picked up another song — a quiet, almost sacred melody that hummed through the empty bar.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you never lost faith, Jack. You just changed its language.”

Jack: “Changed it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You stopped praying with words and started praying with drawings, with silence, with questions. That’s still belief — just… rewritten.”

Host: The light flickered once more, softer this time, like a benediction. Jack looked down at his notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up a pen.

Jeeny watched him, a faint smile curving her lips.

Jack: “You think it’s worth it — working through it, like Thompson said? Even if it takes a lifetime?”

Jeeny: “Especially if it takes a lifetime. Some things aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to be carried — carefully, honestly — until they stop hurting.”

Host: Jack’s pen touched the page, the ink spreading like memory. The sound of writing filled the space where argument once was.

He looked up, eyes tired but softer now — the kind of soft that comes only when the storm has passed and the soul is still breathing.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t something you lose. Maybe it’s something you outgrow — like a skin that no longer fits.”

Jeeny: “And outgrowing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means becoming.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a sliver of moonlight. It slipped through the window, laying a pale ribbon across their table — over the glass, the notebook, the untouched drinks.

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, as if in prayer — though not the kind he’d been taught.

Jeeny watched him quietly, her expression tender, almost maternal, almost divine.

Host: And in that still, silver moment — surrounded by the quiet ruins of belief — two souls found not answers, but peace in the asking.

Because faith, in the end, was not about obedience or rebellion. It was about the courage to keep looking — even when the light flickers, even when the rain falls.

And as the night thinned toward dawn, Jack kept writing, the ink trembling but alive — each word a small resurrection of the child who once drew angels to feel safe.

And somewhere deep inside, in that quiet space where pain and hope touch,
he finally began to work through it.