I want to take my focus off myself and focus on God. It's like

Host: The morning was quiet, the kind of stillness that feels deliberate — like the world holding its breath before speaking. A thin mist hovered over the lake, and the sunlight began to break through the trees in soft, trembling rays. The air was cold enough to sting, but gentle enough to wake the heart.

On the wooden porch of a small cabin, Jack sat with a cup of coffee, his hands wrapped tightly around it, as though warmth could anchor him to the moment. Beside him, Jeeny stood barefoot, her hair pulled loosely behind her, her eyes turned to the sky — calm, steady, full of a kind of faith that had nothing to do with certainty and everything to do with trust.

The lake mirrored the heavens in perfect stillness, as if it, too, were listening.

Jeeny: (softly, reading from her journal) “I want to take my focus off myself and focus on God. It’s like setting your spiritual compass, so no matter which way you turn during the day, whatever comes up, then my thoughts go back to Him — and whatever He said that morning.”

(She closes the notebook gently.) Anne Graham Lotz said that.

Jack: (without looking up) A compass doesn’t work without a magnet, Jeeny. What if you’ve lost yours?

Host: His voice was low, his words sharp — not cruel, but weary, like a man who had searched too long for a direction that never appeared. The steam from his cup rose between them, twisting like a fragile prayer not yet spoken.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe it’s not the compass that’s lost, Jack. Maybe it’s the traveler who’s too afraid to look at it.

Jack: (half-smiling) And what if the needle doesn’t point anywhere anymore? What if the world’s just — random?

Jeeny: (turning toward him) Then you set it again. Every morning. That’s what she meant. You wake, you listen, you realign.

Host: The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the leaves like whispered pages of an unseen scripture. Light danced across the lake, each ripple catching the sun and sending it back in a thousand tiny reflections.

Jack: (sighing) You talk like it’s easy — like the soul just knows how to recalibrate itself. But what happens when you’ve spent so long wandering that you don’t even remember which direction is home?

Jeeny: (softly) Then you stop moving — not out of defeat, but to listen. You wait until the quiet tells you what the noise never could.

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from doubt, but from the weight of her own conviction. The air around them seemed to still, as if even the wind knew it wasn’t its turn to speak.

Jack: (bitterly) You really think He’s listening? With everything that’s happening out there? (He gestures vaguely toward the world beyond the trees.) It’s chaos, Jeeny. People pray, they plead, they break — and still, silence.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe silence is the answer, Jack. Maybe we keep waiting for voices when what He’s giving us is peace — not in the world, but inside our hearts.

Jack: (staring at her) Peace feels a lot like absence sometimes.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Only when you’re still trying to fill it.

Host: The sunlight caught her face, and for a fleeting moment, she seemed to glow — not with brilliance, but with a soft stillness, a presence that didn’t need to be loud to be real. Jack’s eyes lingered on her, as though trying to find the faith she carried so easily.

Jack: (after a pause) You ever doubt it? Any of it?

Jeeny: Every day.

Jack: (surprised) And yet you still believe.

Jeeny: (nodding) Because it’s not about certainty. It’s about returning. That’s what she meant by the compass — not perfection, not constant faith, but the discipline of always finding your way back.

Host: A pair of birds broke from the trees, cutting across the sky — their wings catching the morning light as they moved in perfect sync. The ripples they left behind in the lake slowly faded, returning the surface to stillness.

Jack: (quietly) I used to think faith was for people who never got lost.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) No, Jack. It’s for the ones who keep getting lost — and still choose to look for home.

Host: His fingers tightened around the cup, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his face. The air felt lighter now, though neither of them had moved. Sometimes the shift comes not from the world, but from the heart that begins to believe again.

Jack: (murmuring) So it’s not about never drifting… it’s about always turning back.

Jeeny: Exactly. That’s the spiritual compass. Every thought, every choice, every moment — returning to what’s true.

Host: A gentle breeze rippled through the water, sending faint rings outward — endless, soft, unstoppable. The sun had now fully risen, and the mist began to dissolve into light.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound like even the mist knows where it’s going.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe it does. It just has to rise, and the light will take care of the rest.

Host: Her words lingered in the air, a kind of soft prayer the morning itself seemed to echo. Jack set his cup down, his eyes now lifted to the sky, where the clouds had started to part — revealing a pale blue so pure it felt almost sacred.

Jack: (after a long pause) I think I understand now. The compass doesn’t need to point to God because He’s never moved. It’s us who drift.

Jeeny: (gently) Exactly. And every morning is an invitation to turn again.

Host: The lake shimmered under the new light, the trees whispering in a language older than thought. The world, for all its chaos, had settled for a brief, perfect moment into quiet alignment.

And as the camera began to pull back, the scene remained: two souls, sitting in the tender light of the morning, not speaking now, only breathing — their hearts steady, their directions found.

Host (closing):
Because that’s the quiet miracle of every morning — the chance to set your compass again, to realign the wandering soul, and to remember that no matter how far we turn, the true north never leaves us.