I stopped going to Kingdom Hall, the church, when I was 11 years

Host: The apartment was small and dimly lit — the kind of space that felt suspended between yesterday and survival. Outside, the city moved with its usual indifference — cars honking, sirens murmuring in the distance, rain whispering against the windowpane.

Inside, the faint glow from a single lamp threw long shadows across the cracked walls. On the coffee table, there were two mugs of coffee — one half-drunk, one untouched — and a stack of old photographs, edges curling, their colors faded to memory.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the worn couch, flipping through the photographs. Jack leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring out the window as if the city could answer the questions neither of them could ask.

On the counter behind them, taped to the wall, was a printed quote that Jeeny had found online earlier that day — a voice from another life, another struggle:

"I stopped going to Kingdom Hall, the church, when I was 11 years old, so I was very young. They don't celebrate birthdays, you get no Christmas, so it's a very difficult religion for children to get into. And they do a lot of finger-pointing among the Jehovah's Witnesses." — Ja Rule

The quote hung there, heavy as truth.

Jeeny: softly, holding up a photo “That’s me. Nine years old. Kingdom Hall picnic.”

Jack: turning from the window, his voice low “You look... happy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I was told I should be. I thought happiness was obedience back then.”

Host: The rain tapped faster against the window, the sound like an anxious metronome keeping time with her words.

Jack: quietly “You don’t talk about that much.”

Jeeny: shrugging “What’s there to say? It’s a strange kind of childhood when joy feels like rebellion.”

Jack: sitting down across from her “You mean because of the rules?”

Jeeny: nodding “Because of the absence. No birthdays, no Christmas, no celebrations. Just this constant... restraint. You learn early that love has conditions. That acceptance is something you earn by silence and obedience.”

Host: The light flickered, the shadows shifting across her face — revealing not pain exactly, but that quiet ache of someone still deciphering her own upbringing.

Jack: gently “That must’ve been lonely.”

Jeeny: after a pause “Lonely doesn’t even cover it. It’s like growing up in grayscale while the rest of the world lives in color. You see everyone else celebrating life — candles, laughter, noise — and you start wondering if joy is a sin.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice soft but steady.

Jack: “So why’d you leave?”

Jeeny: quietly, looking at the photo again “Because I realized faith isn’t supposed to feel like fear.”

Host: The words lingered, filling the room like incense — slow, spreading, unignorable.

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s brave.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “No, it’s survival. I was eleven, Ja Rule was right — that’s too young to question eternity, but too old to keep pretending.”

Host: She set the photo down, face-up on the table: a little girl in a white dress, smiling under a gray sky.

Jeeny: “They used to say the world was wicked, and that everyone outside was lost. But the older I got, the more I realized — the lost ones were the people who couldn’t imagine a world beyond their walls.”

Jack: quietly “You think they meant well?”

Jeeny: without hesitation “Of course they did. Most people trapped in judgment do. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a soft drizzle. The lamp light warmed, and for the first time, the room felt like a confessional — not for sin, but for truth.

Jack: “You ever miss it? The community?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Sometimes. The certainty. The feeling of belonging, even if it was borrowed. But I don’t miss the guilt. Or the pointing fingers. Or the idea that God’s love could be rationed like bread.”

Host: The silence that followed was full — not awkward, but sacred. The kind of silence that holds space for the child who once believed and the adult who had to unlearn.

Jack: softly “It’s funny — people think rebellion starts with shouting. But most of the time, it starts with silence. With one quiet choice to stop saying amen.”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “Exactly. You don’t leave a religion like that in a moment. You unlearn it over years. Every decision, every smile, every piece of yourself you reclaim — that’s another step out.”

Host: Jack looked at the photo again, the image of the small girl, her grin so wide it seemed almost painful now.

Jack: softly “That little girl — she still in there?”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “She is. But she’s louder now. She laughs without permission.”

Host: A small chuckle escaped both of them — quiet, human, defiant.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You know, what Ja Rule said — it’s not just about the religion. It’s about any place that makes you feel small for wanting joy. Any system that tells you your light is arrogance.”

Jack: nodding “So you left the doctrine but kept the discipline.”

Jeeny: grinning faintly “Yeah. I still believe in faith. Just not the kind that punishes questions.”

Host: The rain stopped, and the city light slipped through the blinds — warm, soft, forgiving.

Jack: after a moment “You ever talk to your family about it?”

Jeeny: sighing, thoughtful “Sometimes. It’s... complicated. They think I lost my way. I think I finally found mine. I guess faith means different things to different people.”

Jack: “And maybe both can be true.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe. But I’ll tell you this — the day I stopped being afraid of hell was the first day I started feeling alive.”

Host: The lamp’s glow caught her face — not illuminated, but radiant. Not in holiness, but in truth.

They sat there for a while longer, the quiet wrapping around them like peace.

And on the wall, Ja Rule’s words remained — raw, honest, unfiltered — a confession from one soul to another:

“They don’t celebrate birthdays, you get no Christmas, so it’s a very difficult religion for children to get into. And they do a lot of finger-pointing among the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Host: But in that little apartment, surrounded by the hum of life outside and the warmth of reclaimed belief, Jeeny whispered something soft — almost a benediction:

“Maybe faith isn’t about obedience or fear. Maybe it’s just about learning how to forgive the people who taught you both.”

And the rain started again — gentle this time —
like the world itself was washing the doctrine clean,
leaving only what mattered:
a heart free enough to believe in joy again.