I had five brothers and sisters. Four of them older, and some of

Host: The afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the old church hall, painting the dusty air with ribbons of color — gold, blue, and violet. The wooden floors creaked under every footstep, echoing years of laughter, hymns, and the soft weight of memory.

In the corner near the piano, Jack sat tuning an old guitar, its strings glinting like threads of light. Jeeny stood by the window, looking out at the children playing in the churchyard, their voices rising in pure, unfiltered joy.

Host: The air smelled of coffee, old wood, and a faint trace of candle wax — the kind of scent that holds a place’s soul long after the people have gone. It was late Sunday, the hour when everything felt both finished and beginning again.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You ever hear Al Jarreau talk about his childhood? He said, ‘I had five brothers and sisters. Four of them older, and some of them played instruments, and we would get together and have family recitals and raise money for the church. I belonged to a wonderful church community that encouraged me to sing.’”

Jack: (strumming a low note, then letting it fade) “Sounds like a different world. Family, music, faith — all in one sentence. You don’t hear that much anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because people don’t gather to make music together now. They listen to it alone, in headphones. We’ve turned harmony into isolation.”

Host: Her voice floated gently through the room, like a song remembering itself. Jack looked up from the guitar, his grey eyes steady, reflective.

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just evolution. Back then, music was all people had to connect. Now, connection’s everywhere — social media, streaming, live feeds. It’s not the same, but it’s something.”

Jeeny: “Something colder. Something less sacred.”

Jack: “You always want to make everything sacred, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Because not everything is supposed to be disposable. When people sang together, they built community. They felt each other’s breath in the same rhythm. That’s something no algorithm can replicate.”

Host: The light caught the edge of the piano, glimmering softly. The sound of the children outside faded, replaced by the low murmur of the wind against the window panes.

Jack: “But you’re romanticizing it. You think every church choir was harmony and hugs? Half those people probably couldn’t stand each other. Still had to share a hymnbook.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s the point, Jack. They didn’t have to love each other to sing together. They just had to agree on the same note.”

Host: Jack paused, his fingers resting on the strings, motionless. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — not amusement, but recognition.

Jack: “You know… my mother used to play the organ at our church when I was a kid. Every Sunday morning, the whole town would show up. Half of them didn’t believe in God, but they believed in her music. Maybe that’s what kept them coming.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you know exactly what Jarreau meant.”

Jack: “Maybe. But faith back then — it wasn’t about the doctrine. It was about belonging. People didn’t need to agree to be together. They just needed a reason.”

Jeeny: “And music was that reason.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pauses) “But now people need proof before they belong. Proof that they’re understood, that they’re right. Music doesn’t ask for that. It just lets you join in.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, the colors from the stained glass moving slowly across the floor like living paintings. A beam of blue fell across Jeeny’s face, and for a moment, she looked like something caught between heaven and memory.

Jeeny: “Maybe the world needs that again — something that doesn’t demand belief, just participation.”

Jack: “Good luck finding it. These days, everything’s curated. You can’t even sing out of tune without someone recording it, judging it.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “That’s why people sang louder — to drown out their own fear of imperfection.”

Jack: “Or maybe because they knew someone else would cover their off-key notes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The room filled with quiet warmth — not the warmth of heat, but of recognition. Jack strummed again, this time softly, a melody forming almost by accident. Jeeny walked toward the piano, her fingers brushing the keys like a hesitant whisper.

Jack: “You still play?”

Jeeny: “Not really. But I remember.”

Jack: “Play something then. For memory’s sake.”

Jeeny: “Only if you promise to follow.”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: She pressed a single key, the note ringing pure and lonely. Then another. Slowly, the old hall began to fill with sound — fragile, imperfect, but real. Jack joined in, his guitar finding the spaces between her chords, weaving something simple and true.

The music wasn’t polished. It stumbled. It cracked. But it lived.

Jeeny: (smiling through the melody) “See? It’s still there — that feeling. The one that says we’re not supposed to do this alone.”

Jack: “Yeah. I’d forgotten how it felt.”

Jeeny: “That’s what community used to mean. Not agreement. Just shared rhythm.”

Host: The last note lingered in the air, trembling before fading into silence. Outside, the children had gone home, and the sky had deepened to a dusky gold, the edges of evening creeping closer.

Jack: “Maybe Al Jarreau wasn’t just talking about singing. Maybe he was talking about life — how every voice, even the cracked ones, have to show up for the song to exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to show up and sing.”

Host: They sat there a moment longer, watching the light change, the day slip quietly toward night. The old church seemed to breathe around them, as if remembering every song that had ever been sung within its walls.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe we should bring that back — family recitals, not for performance, but for connection. People need that again.”

Jack: “Yeah. A reason to belong that isn’t virtual.”

Jeeny: “A reason to listen.”

Jack: “And to be heard.”

Host: The clock on the wall chimed six times, its sound echoing softly through the wooden hall. Jack set his guitar down, Jeeny closed the piano lid. For a moment, the silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was sacred.

Outside, the last of the sun spilled across the cracked sidewalk, and the faint laughter of the departing children floated back on the wind.

Jeeny: “He said he belonged to a wonderful church community. Maybe belonging isn’t something we find — maybe it’s something we build.”

Jack: “One note at a time.”

Host: As they stepped out into the cooling evening, the sky blushed into twilight, and the sound of their quiet footsteps mingled with the distant hum of the world returning to itself.

Somewhere behind them, the church hall stood — silent, glowing faintly from within — waiting, perhaps, for the next song.