I had often sought for the peace there is in Christ, but I could

Host: The room is wrapped in hushed stillness, like a chapel at twilight. The candlelight flickers across the walls, bathing the small café in a soft golden glow that feels almost sacred. Outside, snow falls gently, each flake a whisper from the heavens, slow and silent. Jeeny sits by the window, her hands clasped loosely around a steaming mug, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder. Across from her, Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, the lines of his face caught in shadow and light. There is something soulful in the air tonight—a heaviness that feels like memory.

Jeeny: (her voice soft, carrying the tremor of reflection) “You ever felt that kind of ache, Jack? That hunger for peace that won’t come? You try to be good, to do right, to pray, but still feel… unworthy? Like no matter what you do, Heaven’s door isn’t meant for you?”

Jack: (glances up, his grey eyes cool but searching) “Unworthy, huh? I don’t know about Heaven, Jeeny, but yeah… I’ve known that feeling. You chase peace like it’s something you can earn—some prize at the end of a clean life. But it never feels like enough, does it?”

Jeeny: (nods slowly, eyes drifting to the window) “Ellen G. White once said something that’s been echoing in my mind: ‘I had often sought for the peace there is in Christ, but I could not seem to find the freedom I desired. A terrible sadness rested on my heart. I could not think of anything I had done to cause me to feel sad; but it seemed to me that I was not good enough to enter Heaven… that such a thing would be altogether too much for me to expect.’”

(She pauses. The snow outside thickens. Her words hang between them like the breath of ghosts.)

Jack: (leans back, voice measured, skeptical) “That sounds like guilt turned into theology. I get it—she’s talking about humility, faith—but it sounds more like self-condemnation to me. How can anyone find peace when they’re constantly reminded of how small and flawed they are?”

Jeeny: (her tone gentle, but steady) “But that’s the paradox, isn’t it? She’s describing that moment before surrender—the struggle between the human heart and divine grace. The sadness comes from trying to earn what can only be received. It’s not that she wasn’t good enough. It’s that she hadn’t yet realized she didn’t have to be.”

Host: A soft creak as Jack shifts in his seat, the leather sighing beneath him. A gust of wind rattles the windowpane. The candle between them flickers once, then steadies, as though listening too.

Jack: (his voice lower now, less sharp) “So, you’re saying peace isn’t about doing—it's about… letting go? About admitting you’ll never measure up and just accepting grace? That sounds like a kind of freedom, I guess. But also… terrifying.”

Jeeny: (a faint smile, though her eyes glisten) “It is terrifying. To stop striving. To stop defining yourself by your failures or successes. But that’s what she was learning. That peace isn’t earned—it’s allowed. It’s when you finally stop trying to deserve love and start believing you’re already loved.”

Jack: (leans forward, elbows on knees, his brow furrowed) “You make it sound simple. But you know how hard that is? To believe that you’re worthy of something you can’t prove or achieve? Most people spend their whole lives chasing proof of their worth.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And that’s why most people never find peace.”

Host: The snow outside catches the glow of a streetlamp, turning the world into silver dust. Inside, the air feels heavier now, like the moment before a prayer is answered. Jeeny’s hands tremble slightly around her cup. Jack watches her, his face caught between disbelief and longing.

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself) “You think she found it? Ellen White—the peace she was searching for?”

Jeeny: (her voice gentle, but unwavering) “I think she did. But not because she became perfect. Because she finally understood that perfection wasn’t required. That the freedom she wanted was already there—she just had to accept it. That’s what faith really is, Jack. Not certainty, but trust.”

Jack: (sighs, a small smirk curving his lips) “Trust. I’ve trusted people, Jeeny. It never ends well.”

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes, her tone quiet but fierce) “Maybe because people fail. But grace doesn’t. And neither does the part of you that still believes in something better.”

Host: Silence. A deep, living silence. Outside, the snow has stopped, leaving the world blank and still, as if remade. Inside, light trembles on their faces. For a moment, it seems as though they both understand something beyond words—an invisible bridge between doubt and faith, between sorrow and peace.

Jack: (his voice low, roughened by something unspoken) “Maybe faith isn’t about believing in God at all. Maybe it’s about believing that forgiveness—real forgiveness—is even possible.”

Jeeny: (a tearful smile, eyes bright) “Yes. Maybe that’s where Heaven starts—not in the clouds, but in the heart that learns to forgive itself.”

Host: The candle flame dances once, catching the last of the gold light before flickering out. In the stillness that follows, only their quiet breathing remains—a fragile, human sound against the vast silence of the night.

Outside, snowflakes drift across the dark, pure and unjudging. And though no words are spoken, something soft has settled between them—something like peace, fragile but real, born not from certainty, but from the courage to believe that grace might still find them both.