I was probably about 22 years old when I recommitted myself to

Host: The chapel stood alone on the edge of a quiet lake, its wooden frame weathered by years of wind and devotion. The sky above was a dark velvet canvas scattered with faint stars, and the water below mirrored them — an infinite reflection of what was once light.

Inside, candles flickered along the pews, casting trembling halos on the walls. Dust floated in the air, like tiny souls suspended between heaven and earth. It smelled of wax, cedar, and remembrance.

Jack sat near the front, elbows on his knees, his grey eyes fixed on the soft flame of a candle. Jeeny stood a few feet behind him, gazing at a stained glass window where colors of blue and amber told the story of redemption.

On the wooden lectern before them lay a small, leather-bound Bible — open to a passage about mercy, forgiveness, and rebirth. And beside it, scribbled in the margin on a yellowing scrap of paper, were the words that stirred the night’s silence:
“I was probably about 22 years old when I recommitted myself to get off the fence and go all in and get serious about my faith. That’s really when I experienced God’s love and His forgiveness and His true grace.” — Mike Fisher

Jeeny: Softly. “There’s something holy about that moment — the age, the confession, the courage. To say you were on the fence means you knew there was a choice. Most people drift their whole lives pretending they never had one.”

Jack: Quietly, not lifting his eyes from the flame. “Or they make one and regret it. Faith’s not a finish line, Jeeny. It’s a fight between doubt and surrender that never ends.”

Host: The candlelight danced across his face, illuminating both defiance and fatigue — the weary strength of a man who’d seen belief crumble more than once.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Fisher’s words matter. He wasn’t claiming victory — he was claiming a beginning. At twenty-two, he chose to stop standing in the middle.”

Jack: “Middle’s safe, though. No one gets burned there.”

Jeeny: “No one gets saved there either.”

Host: Outside, the wind shifted, brushing against the chapel’s thin walls like a memory trying to return.

Jack: “You know what I don’t get? How faith can demand certainty from creatures built on confusion. We’re designed to question. Every cell in us resists obedience.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t erase questions. It holds them without fear.”

Jack: Scoffs lightly. “Sounds poetic. But faith is just a gamble we take to feel less alone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even gamblers know what it means to risk everything for something unseen.”

Host: She stepped closer, her hand brushing the edge of the pew, her voice softer now, filled with that quiet conviction that always disarmed him.

Jeeny: “Fisher said he ‘got off the fence.’ You ever think about that image? The fence isn’t safety — it’s paralysis. Neither in nor out. Faith isn’t about being right, Jack. It’s about being willing.”

Jack: “Willing to do what? Believe in something invisible?”

Jeeny: “No. Willing to open the door to something greater than yourself — even if you never understand it.”

Host: A faint bell rang from somewhere outside — one, then two slow tolls. The sound hung in the still air, soft yet absolute, like the heartbeat of eternity.

Jack: “You ever have that moment? The ‘all in’ thing he’s talking about?”

Jeeny: Pauses, eyes distant. “Yes. Not in a church. Not even in prayer. It was after my father died. I was sitting by the hospital bed, holding his hand after he was gone. I remember realizing — love doesn’t end just because the body does. That was the moment I stopped needing proof.”

Jack: After a long silence. “That sounds like grace.”

Jeeny: “It was. And grace never arrives with fanfare — it whispers when you’re quiet enough to hear.”

Host: The flames on the candles flickered wildly for a moment, as if stirred by an invisible presence. Jack looked up, the golden light reflected in his eyes.

Jack: “You talk about grace like it’s something tangible — like light, or touch.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s the warmth that remains even when the fire’s out.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I don’t have to believe it. I’ve felt it.”

Host: He leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling beams above — dark wood meeting stone, like heaven meeting earth.

Jack: “I envy that certainty.”

Jeeny: “It’s not certainty, Jack. It’s trust. The difference is everything.”

Jack: “Trust is fragile.”

Jeeny: “So is the human heart. But we still use it.”

Host: The chapel grew quieter — so quiet that the sound of the lake outside, gently brushing the shore, began to seep into the space between them.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think people don’t really lose faith — they just lose the energy to look for it.”

Jeeny: “Then grace finds them anyway.”

Jack: “And forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “That’s when grace waits for you to stop running.”

Host: Her words hung like perfume in the air — soft, sacred, unresisted. Jack exhaled, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.

Jack: “Fisher said he experienced God’s love when he went ‘all in.’ Maybe that’s what faith really is — not the absence of fear, but the courage to move while you’re still afraid.”

Jeeny: Smiling. “Yes. To fall without guarantees, and still call it flying.”

Host: The moonlight crept through the stained glass, spilling color across the pews — gold over blue, violet over white. The chapel glowed like a living heart, its rhythm gentle, eternal.

Jeeny walked to the candle altar and lit another wick. Its flame caught instantly, bright and alive. She turned toward Jack.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about grace? It doesn’t wait for perfection. It just waits for permission.”

Jack: “And what if you never give it?”

Jeeny: “Then it waits anyway.”

Host: A long silence followed, but it was the kind of silence that heals — not the absence of sound, but the presence of peace.

Outside, dawn was starting to bloom — a faint pink edge on the horizon, the first hint of tomorrow.

Jack: “You think faith ever stops testing us?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it tests us until we stop trying to pass.”

Jack: “And what happens then?”

Jeeny: Softly. “Then we finally begin to live.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the chapel bathed in early light, its windows glowing like stained glass hearts. Inside, two souls sat quietly — one learning to let go, the other reminding him how.

The lake shimmered beyond the doorway, mirroring the awakening sky — a reflection of divine forgiveness still unfolding.

Because as Mike Fisher discovered, faith isn’t found in perfection or certainty —
it begins the moment we stop standing in the middle,
step forward, trembling,
and find that grace has been waiting for us all along.