I was blessed with certain gifts and talents and God gave them to

Host: The sun dipped low over the track field, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and violet. The faint sound of a whistle echoed through the still evening air, followed by the rhythmic thud of shoes striking the ground. It was the last practice of the season—empty bleachers, a scattering of leaves on the lane, the smell of grass, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of autumn chill.

Jack stood at the edge of the track, hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn jacket, his eyes narrowed as he watched a group of young runners disappear into the twilight. Jeeny was beside him, a clipboard in hand, her dark hair pulled back, her eyes bright even as the cold crept in.

The floodlights flickered on, one by one, bathing the field in pale gold light—a man-made dawn beneath a dying sun.

Jeeny: “Bryan Clay once said, ‘I was blessed with certain gifts and talents and God gave them to me to be the best person I can be and to have a positive impact on other people.’”
(She smiled, watching the runners.) “I like that. It’s simple, but it’s true. Every gift means a responsibility—to lift someone else.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters people hang in classrooms.”
(He smirked faintly.) “You really believe every talent has divine purpose? Maybe some people are just lucky, Jeeny. Genetics, timing, chance.”

Jeeny: “And where do you think those come from, Jack? Luck doesn’t shape a soul. Gifts aren’t accidents—they’re invitations.”

Host: A breeze rustled through the trees, scattering leaves across the track like fading applause. The runners slowed to a jog, their breaths clouding the air. Jack turned, his face half-lit by the glow of the floodlights, half-shadowed by his own doubt.

Jack: “Invitations? You make it sound poetic. But most people don’t get to use their gifts for good. Some spend their whole lives digging trenches, not discovering purpose.”

Jeeny: “And yet purpose finds them anyway. Not everyone’s meant to run a race or write a book. Sometimes the gift is patience, or kindness, or endurance. The world doesn’t only need champions—it needs caretakers.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’ve never watched talent rot. I’ve seen men with genius waste away in obscurity because no one noticed them. You think God plans that too?”

Jeeny: “Maybe He does. Or maybe He waits. Every gift left unused is still sacred. It doesn’t vanish—it waits for the courage to be shared.”

Host: The sound of footsteps faded. The runners dispersed, laughter echoing faintly in the distance. The track was empty now except for Jack and Jeeny, the lights buzzing softly above them, their shadows long and thin on the worn red lanes.

Jack rubbed his hands together, his voice lower now, almost reflective.

Jack: “When I was young, I wanted to be a musician. I practiced every day, thought I could make something of it. But life... it didn’t agree. Bills, work, obligations. Now my guitar’s collecting dust somewhere in a closet. Tell me, Jeeny, what kind of divine plan wastes that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the music wasn’t meant for fame. Maybe it was meant to teach you how to listen. Or maybe one day, someone will need to hear you play again, and it’ll mean more than you can imagine.”

Jack: “You talk like everything fits together perfectly.”

Jeeny: “Not perfectly. But purposefully. Even broken notes can become part of a greater song.”

Host: Her words lingered, light but heavy, like smoke in cold air. Jack looked away, toward the far end of the field where the goalposts stood silhouetted against the dusk. His jaw tightened, his eyes distant, as though trying to see a memory still hidden in the dark.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say God gives you gifts not to make you proud, but to make you useful. I used to laugh at that.”

Jeeny: “Do you still?”

Jack: “I don’t know anymore.”
(He paused, his tone softening.) “She was a nurse. Worked double shifts at the hospital. Barely slept. I asked her once why she kept doing it. She said, ‘Because healing’s the only thing I know how to give back.’ I never understood it until she was gone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that was her gift, Jack—her hands. Her heart. The way she made pain smaller by sharing it.”

Jack: “And mine? A guitar collecting dust?”

Jeeny: “Not if it taught you to feel. Not if it taught you how to listen when someone’s breaking.”

Host: The lights buzzed louder, a faint hum filling the silence between them. The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint echo of laughter from the locker room.

Jack glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused. He flexed his fingers slowly, as though remembering old chords.

Jack: “You think it’s prideful to want more? To want your gift to mean something grand?”

Jeeny: “Not prideful. Just human. But sometimes, the grandest things happen quietly. A word said at the right time. A gesture no one sees. Bryan Clay ran his race before a crowd, but the real race—his faith, his humility—that happened in silence.”

Jack: “So what—you’re saying even the unnoticed victories count?”

Jeeny: “Especially those. The unseen sacrifices are often the ones holding the world together.”

Host: The sky darkened, the stars beginning to appear, faint but stubborn. A plane passed overhead, its light blinking, the sound of its engine fading into the horizon. Jeeny sat on the low bench by the track, her hands clasped around her knees, her eyes following the movement of the clouds.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Bryan Clay meant. That gifts aren’t medals—they’re mirrors. They reflect who we can be when we give beyond ourselves.”

Jack: “And what if someone’s mirror is cracked?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe light can shine through the cracks.”

Host: A moment of stillness passed. The cold deepened, the field quiet, except for the distant chirp of a lone cricket. Jack sat beside her, his voice soft, almost an apology.

Jack: “Sometimes I feel like I’ve missed my chance. Like my gifts expired the moment I stopped chasing them.”

Jeeny: “Gifts don’t expire, Jack. They evolve. They wait for when you’re ready to use them differently. You may not play to crowds anymore, but maybe your music now is in how you show up for others.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything I am.”

Host: The lights dimmed, one by one, leaving only the glow from a nearby streetlamp. A chill wind swept through, carrying with it the scent of rain and the faint promise of renewal. Jack rose, his breath visible in the cold air.

He looked down the empty track—the starting line gleaming faintly under the lights, stretching forward into shadow.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time I dust off that guitar.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe it’s time you remember what it feels like to give without expecting applause.”

Jack: “And what about you? What’s your gift?”

Jeeny: “Faith. And the stubbornness to keep believing in others until they believe in themselves.”

Host: He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “So is grace. But it keeps finding us anyway.”

Host: A light drizzle began to fall—soft, cleansing, like the sky whispering its own quiet benediction. The sound of rain on the track filled the silence, rhythmic, forgiving.

Jack and Jeeny stood together under the lamplight, two silhouettes against the silver veil of night—one rediscovering his purpose, the other embodying hers.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, it’s not about being the best. It’s about being a blessing.”

Jack: “And maybe… that’s the same thing.”

Host: The rain fell harder, soaking the earth, blurring the edges of the world into a watercolor of gold and grey. But beneath it all, something in the air felt lighter—like a beginning.

And somewhere deep in the silence that followed, the echo of a long-forgotten chord stirred again—soft, alive, and waiting.