If there's something in your life that you know needs changing

Host: The night was heavy with the smell of motor oil and dust, the low hum of the city whispering somewhere beyond the highway. Inside an old auto repair shop, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, washing the place in a pale, almost divine glow. Tools hung from the walls like relics of old labor; the air carried the echo of effort — sweat, noise, and silence that follows the end of work.

It was nearly midnight. A broken pickup truck sat in the middle of the shop, hood open, its engine still warm from frustration.

Jack stood over it, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that had long since given up trying to be clean. His shirt sleeves were rolled high, revealing forearms marked by labor and years. Jeeny leaned against the open garage door, a paper cup of coffee in her hand, her eyes watching him not as a mechanic but as a man wrestling with something deeper than engines.

Outside, a faint thunder rolled — low, distant, like a warning from far away.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Ray Lewis once said, ‘If there's something in your life that you know needs changing, make sure you change it before God's got to change it. Because if God's got to change it, you ain't going to like it.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly through the hum of the lights, a strange mix of reverence and challenge.

Jack: (smirks) “That’s a hell of a quote to bring into a garage at midnight.”

Jeeny: “Fitting though, isn’t it? You fix everything else but yourself.”

Jack: (chuckles darkly) “I fix things that can be fixed, Jeeny. People aren’t machines. You can’t just change a part and expect the noise to stop.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But if you ignore the noise long enough, the engine dies anyway.”

Host: The wind pushed through the open door, stirring the hanging chains and metal hooks, making them sway like pendulums of truth.

Jack: “You think I don’t know something’s wrong? You think I haven’t tried to change?”

Jeeny: “Trying isn’t changing. It’s procrastination with guilt.”

Jack: (defensive) “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who walks away from things before they fall apart. I stay and fix them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You stay and watch them rot because you’re too proud to admit they’re beyond repair.”

Host: Her words hit like a wrench dropped from height — sharp, metallic, unignorable. He looked up at her, his eyes shadowed by the fluorescent glare.

Jack: “You think God really gives a damn about our messes? About what I do, who I hurt, who I can’t fix?”

Jeeny: “I think He does. But I think He waits. Gives you rope. Gives you time to pull yourself up or hang yourself with it.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you think I’m running out of rope?”

Jeeny: “I think the knot’s already tightening.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow, steady, rhythmic against the metal roof. It filled the silence like a warning dressed as comfort.

Jack: “You talk like change is easy. Like people can just wake up one morning and decide to be different.”

Jeeny: “Change isn’t easy. It’s necessary. Especially when you already know what needs to change.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t?”

Jeeny: (softly) “You do. You’ve just buried it under work and whiskey.”

Host: He laughed — a sound raw and thin. The kind of laugh that comes from someone who’s been running from his own truth long enough to forget what honesty feels like.

Jack: “You always think you’ve got me figured out.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I just listen to what you don’t say.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, each drop drumming against the tin roof like punctuation marks in a sermon.

Jack: “You think God really intervenes like that? Changes things Himself?”

Jeeny: “He does when you won’t. Sometimes He takes away what you won’t let go of.”

Jack: “And you think that’s mercy?”

Jeeny: “It’s correction.”

Jack: “Sounds like punishment to me.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Mercy hurts when you’ve refused it too long.”

Host: The light above them flickered — once, twice — and steadied again. It was enough to make the silence hum differently, heavier.

Jack: “You know what I think? God doesn’t break what’s whole. He just finishes what we start. We ruin our lives, and then we call the fallout divine intervention.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe He ruins your comfort so He can save your soul.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Then my soul’s safe and homeless.”

Host: She moved closer now, setting her coffee down on the workbench. Her eyes softened, though her words stayed sharp.

Jeeny: “You can’t live like this forever, Jack. The long nights, the endless repairs, the pretending you’re fixing things when you’re just hiding. Something’s got to give.”

Jack: “Maybe it already has.”

Jeeny: “Then stop patching it. Replace it.”

Jack: “And if I don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then God will. And you won’t like how He does it.”

Host: Her tone wasn’t threatening — it was certain. Like gravity. Like prophecy. The kind of certainty only someone who has lived through divine correction could speak with.

Jack looked at the truck’s open engine — wires exposed, bolts loosened — and saw something uncomfortably familiar.

Jack: (softly) “I used to believe in that — in warning signs, in fate. But lately, it feels like life’s just one long accident waiting to happen.”

Jeeny: “Accidents happen when you ignore the lights, Jack. You’ve seen enough dashboards to know that.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, sometimes I like the ride too much to stop.”

Jeeny: “And when you crash?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe God will finally have to intervene.”

Jeeny: “And you think He’ll be gentle?”

Jack: “No. But maybe I’ll deserve it.”

Host: The rain softened again, becoming a hush against the metal. Jeeny moved closer, until she was standing beside him, both of them facing the open hood — the broken heart of the machine, laid bare under the light.

Jeeny: “You don’t deserve punishment, Jack. You deserve peace. But peace doesn’t live in denial. It starts where excuses end.”

Jack: “And what if I’m not ready?”

Jeeny: “Then pray God doesn’t decide it’s time for you.”

Host: He looked at her, and for the first time in a long while, the sarcasm fell from his face like ash. His eyes were tired — not from work, but from running.

Jack: “You ever had God change something for you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And it broke me before it saved me.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — each second like a small sermon.

Jack reached for the rag again, wiped his hands, and stared at the engine one last time before lowering the hood. The sound of it closing echoed like punctuation — final, firm, inevitable.

Jack: “You know, maybe I’ll start tomorrow. Change something small. Take back the steering wheel.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Tomorrow’s a dangerous word, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s all I’ve got.”

Jeeny: “Then make sure it comes.”

Host: The rain outside slowed to a whisper, the storm moving on, leaving behind only the sound of dripping water and the soft hum of lights.

Jeeny walked toward the door, pausing under its frame, her silhouette framed by the wet night beyond.

Jeeny: “Change it, Jack. Before God does.”

Jack: “And if He already has?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Then start rebuilding from what’s left.”

Host: She stepped out into the night. Jack stood there a moment longer, his hand resting on the cooling hood, the sound of rain and thunder merging into a quiet, holy silence.

He looked up — not in defiance, but surrender — and for the first time, whispered something that wasn’t a complaint, wasn’t a curse, but a prayer.

A prayer not for rescue, but for the strength to move before heaven had to move him.

And as the storm cleared, the faint light of dawn pressed through the cracks of the garage door — a reminder that mercy often arrives disguised as warning,
and that change, like grace, always demands you act
before you’re forced to.