I wouldn't ever say if you're having tough times then there must

Host: The sky was bruised purple, half-swallowed by rainclouds that trembled on the edge of release. A small church stood at the end of the empty road — not grand or gilded, but worn with honesty, its stained-glass windows catching the last gold streaks of the setting sun. Inside, the candles flickered, their flames bowing slightly under the weight of the wind that slipped through the cracked wooden door.

Jack sat near the back pew, his posture heavy, his coat damp from the storm. In the soft glow, his face looked carved from quiet exhaustion — the kind that doesn’t come from labor, but from carrying too many invisible things. Jeeny sat two rows ahead, hands folded loosely on her lap, her gaze fixed on the altar — though her eyes seemed to be searching somewhere far beyond it.

Between them, silence — thick, alive, reverent. The kind that doesn’t break easily.

Jeeny: (softly, without turning) “Joel Osteen once said, ‘I wouldn’t ever say if you’re having tough times then there must be something wrong with you or your attitude. Life’s a fight. It’s a good fight of faith. I encourage people to stay up, stay hopeful, stay faith-filled.’”

Jack: (with a quiet, almost bitter laugh) “Faith. The world’s most overrated anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe its purest medicine.”

Jack: “Medicine doesn’t work if you don’t believe in it.”

Jeeny: (turning now, gently) “That’s the point, Jack. Belief is what activates healing.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t pay bills. It doesn’t cure cancer. It doesn’t stop wars. Tell that to someone drowning in the real world.”

Jeeny: “You think faith is a fantasy?”

Jack: “I think faith is a pretty word we use to dress up powerlessness.”

Host: The rain began, steady and rhythmic, like the world itself exhaling. The sound filled the little church — a thousand tiny taps against the roof, echoing like distant applause for the living.

Jeeny: “You know what I think faith really is?”

Jack: “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Faith is the defiance of despair. It’s not denial — it’s decision.”

Jack: “Decision?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To believe in light when you can only see darkness. To say ‘not yet’ when life says ‘never.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly through the room, almost blending with the rain. Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, the candlelight catching the silver in his eyes.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been broken enough to doubt.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s been broken so long he mistakes the pieces for safety.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s harsh.”

Jeeny: “It’s true.”

Host: The thunder murmured outside — low, distant, like a reminder of something larger than both of them.

Jeeny: “Life’s not easy, Jack. Nobody gets through it clean. But faith — it’s not about pretending the pain doesn’t exist. It’s about refusing to let the pain define you.”

Jack: “Then what defines us?”

Jeeny: “What we choose to rise for.”

Jack: (scoffing) “Rise for what? Hope? Love? Those are luxuries for people who haven’t been disappointed enough.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re oxygen for people who have.”

Host: A candle flickered out near the altar, a small puff of smoke curling upward, vanishing into the dark. Jeeny rose and walked to relight it, her movements slow, deliberate — like a prayer in motion.

Jack watched her, something unspoken stirring behind his sarcasm.

Jack: “You really believe faith is a fight worth fighting?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the moment you stop fighting, despair wins by default.”

Jack: “And what if you’ve got nothing left to fight with?”

Jeeny: “Then you let hope fight for you.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the hardest thing in the world. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat. The candles danced wildly now, their light reaching toward the edges of shadow.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray once.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “Nothing. That’s what happened. I prayed, and the world stayed the same. My mother still died. My brother still left. The company still fell apart. I stopped believing that heaven listened.”

Jeeny: “Maybe heaven was listening — but waiting.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For you to stop expecting it to fix what’s broken — and start asking for the strength to face it.”

Host: A silence followed, heavy but not cruel. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, as if swallowing something sharp.

Jack: “You ever doubt?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “Then why keep believing?”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve seen what happens when people don’t.”

Host: The church doors creaked, wind sweeping in, scattering a few droplets of rain onto the old wooden floor. Jeeny didn’t move — her eyes stayed on the flickering candle she’d just relit.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about knowing the outcome, Jack. It’s about trusting the process — even when the ending looks unfair.”

Jack: “So it’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s courage disguised as surrender.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the stained-glass windows — blues and reds and golds bursting alive for a heartbeat, transforming the humble room into a cathedral of color.

Jack stared at the light on the wall — fragments of holy faces, broken by glass yet still glowing. Something softened in him.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I think I envy you.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you still believe there’s a meaning to all this mess.”

Jeeny: “It’s not that I believe it. It’s that I choose to.”

Jack: “And that choice makes the difference?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the rhythm softening into a gentle drizzle. The church seemed to exhale with them, its silence now tender, not tense.

Jeeny: “Osteen was right — life’s a fight. Not against the world, not against fate, but against the voice inside that whispers ‘give up.’”

Jack: “And faith is the counterpunch.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his shoulders easing for the first time. He looked toward the window, where a faint glimmer of moonlight now broke through the thinning clouds.

Jack: “Maybe faith doesn’t fix life. Maybe it just keeps you standing long enough to live it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes standing is victory.”

Host: The final candle flickered brighter, steady, unwavering — as if it, too, had decided to keep fighting the dark.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to feel faith to have it, Jack. You just need to act like you do — until your heart remembers how.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then borrow mine.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The air smelled clean — reborn. A single beam of moonlight stretched through the stained glass, landing on Jeeny’s face. Her eyes, calm and luminous, carried both peace and pain — the dual truth of the living.

Jack looked at her, then down at his hands. Slowly, he unclenched them.

Jack: “Life’s a fight.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But a good one.”

Jack: “And faith is the weapon.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the shield.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a clear sky dotted with stars. The candles flickered quietly in the soft air, their flames small but undefeated.

And in that fragile, holy stillness, Joel Osteen’s words found their heartbeat — not in sermon, not in certainty, but in the quiet courage of two weary souls remembering that faith,
at its simplest,
is not about winning,
but about staying.

Host: The church bell rang once — soft, distant, hopeful.

Jeeny smiled.
Jack exhaled.

And the night, newly washed and full of quiet promise,
whispered its truth back to them both —

that every storm,
every trial,
every fight of faith,
is not meant to break us,
but to prove that we were never fighting alone.