I pray to be a good servant to God, a father, a husband, a son, a

Host: The morning sun rose through a haze of mist, pouring soft gold over the quiet streets of Boston. The church bells echoed faintly in the distance, their sound folding into the rhythm of the city waking.

In a small park by the river, where the trees dripped with dew and the benches wore a film of light rain, Jack sat in his usual spot, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. His grey eyes were focused, not on the sky, but on the reflection of it in the water — as if searching for answers beneath the surface.

Jeeny approached, her footsteps soft against the wet path, a cup of coffee in one hand and a rosary in the other. She handed him the coffee, her voice calm but tender.

Jeeny: “Mark Wahlberg once said, ‘I pray to be a good servant to God, a father, a husband, a son, a friend, a brother, an uncle, a good neighbor, a good leader to those who look up to me, a good follower to those who are serving God and doing the right thing.’”

Jack: (sighing) “Yeah. I’ve heard that one. Sounds like the laundry list of a saint, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the confession of a man who’s trying.”

Host: The river rippled, catching the light like a broken mirror. A distant gull cried, and the wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of salt and diesel from the harbor.

Jack took a sip of his coffee, his brow furrowing as if the warmth couldn’t quite reach the cold within.

Jack: “You think anyone can really live up to that list? Good servant, good leader, good follower — it’s like trying to be everything to everyone. No human being can do that without breaking somewhere.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about being perfect, Jack. It’s about trying to be present in each of those roles — not for image, but for faith. Wahlberg didn’t say he is all those things. He said he prays to be.”

Jack: “Prayer. That’s the part I can’t swallow. You pray, and then what? Hope the universe rearranges itself around your intentions? Seems like a way of outsourcing accountability.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but her tone remained soft, the kind that carries conviction without anger.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not outsourcing — it’s anchoring. When you pray, you’re not asking the world to change; you’re asking yourself to be strong enough to face it.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Strong enough to keep losing, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Strong enough to keep loving.”

Host: A moment of silence hung between them. A leaf fell from the tree, landing on the river’s surface, floating slowly away — like a tiny surrender.

Jeeny watched it, her voice now quieter, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Think about what he said. A servant to God — that means humility. A father, husband, son, friend — that means devotion. A leader and a follower — that means balance. It’s not a list, Jack. It’s a map.”

Jack: “A map that leads where? Into a life of endless obligation? You know what happens when people try to be everything good? They burn out. You can’t pour from an empty cup, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the cup was never yours to fill alone.”

Host: The light through the trees shifted, dancing across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes glowed with the kind of faith that didn’t need proof, the kind that radiated like a quiet flame in a storm.

Jack’s jaw tightened; his fingers clenched around the cup. There was a weariness in him — not just doubt, but a longing he couldn’t name.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve got it all figured out. But what about when you fail at it? When you’re not a good friend, or you snap at someone, or you turn away from what’s right because you’re just… tired?”

Jeeny: “Then you pray again. You start again. That’s the point.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So it’s a loop? A never-ending circle of trying and failing?”

Jeeny: “It’s a journey, not a loop. Every time you try, you’re a little closer to who you’re meant to be.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting a few fallen leaves into a spiral, swirling around their feet before scattering into the distance. The world seemed to echo her words, softly, almost sacredly.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to light candles every night, even after my grandfather died. Said she was praying for him. I told her it didn’t make sense. He was gone. She said, ‘You don’t pray for God to listen, Jack. You pray so your heart doesn’t forget how.’”

Jeeny: (smiling) “She was right.”

Jack: (looking down) “I never understood her until now.”

Host: His voice cracked just enough to betray the armor he’d been wearing. The river shimmered, reflecting the first true blue of the sky. The city’s noise began to stir behind them — a car horn, a dog bark, a bus engine rumbling awake.

Yet here, on this bench, the world felt paused.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, being a good leader doesn’t mean commanding. It means listening. Being a good follower doesn’t mean obedience — it means trusting those who walk with purpose. And being a good servant to God doesn’t mean kneeling; it means serving what’s good in others.”

Jack: “And what if the good in others is hard to see?”

Jeeny: “Then you look harder.”

Host: She turned toward the river, her eyes tracking the ripples as if reading them. Her breath was steady, her expression serene — but there was a tremor beneath her calm, the vulnerability of someone who believes, even when belief hurts.

Jack: “You really think prayer can make someone a better man?”

Jeeny: “Not prayer alone. It’s what prayer makes you see. It’s the mirror you hold up to your own soul.”

Jack: “And what if you don’t like what you see?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where you begin.”

Host: The sunlight broke fully now, casting long shadows over the bench and illuminating the steam from their cups like rising incense.

For the first time, Jack didn’t look away. His eyes followed the light, catching in the edges of his own reflection on the river’s surface.

There was no grand revelation, only a quiet shift — a man unclenching, exhaling, listening to something beyond his own reason.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe I’ve been leading too much and following too little.”

Jeeny: “That’s how most of us lose balance. Even leaders need to kneel sometimes.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And followers need to stand.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind died down, and in its absence, the church bell rang again — clear, measured, and steady. The river stilled, reflecting the sky with perfect clarity.

Jeeny rose, her hand brushing the bench as if to erase the weight of the conversation, but Jack remained seated, eyes closed, lips moving in silence — not to her, not to himself, but to something larger.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — two souls in the stillness of a morning, the city awakening behind them, the river reflecting their resolve.

And though no one could hear what Jack was saying, the words were clear in their essence — a man, finally praying, not for forgiveness, not for miracles, but for the strength to be good in the small, imperfect ways that make a life holy.

The bell tolled once more, and the scene faded, bathed in the warm light of grace.