If we have faith in Jesus Christ, the hardest as well as the

Host: The churchyard was empty save for the quiet shimmer of candles flickering in the stained-glass windows. Outside, the world was hushed in late winter air — the kind of stillness that sits between night and dawn, when faith feels closest to breath. Inside the small chapel, the glow of the altar light painted everything in shades of gold and shadow.

Jack sat in the last pew, hands clasped, head bowed slightly. He wasn’t praying — not exactly. He was thinking, in that restless, reverent way only the wounded think. Across from him, Jeeny knelt near the candle stand, her fingers lighting a single small flame, her posture quiet but unwavering.

Jeeny: (softly) “Henry B. Eyring once said, ‘If we have faith in Jesus Christ, the hardest as well as the easiest times in life can be a blessing. In all conditions, we can choose the right with the guidance of the Spirit. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ to shape and guide our lives if we choose it.’”
(she looked up, the candlelight warm against her face)
“Faith as choice — not feeling. That’s what I love about it.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Faith as choice. You make it sound like it’s as simple as picking tea or coffee.”

Host: The air trembled faintly — not with sound, but with presence. The distant wind moved through the stained glass like a sigh through color.

Jeeny: “It’s not simple, Jack. But it’s deliberate. Eyring’s right — faith isn’t what you feel when everything’s easy. It’s what you decide when nothing makes sense.”

Jack: “You mean… belief in the absence of proof.”

Jeeny: “No. Belief despite proof — despite fear, despite loss. Faith doesn’t erase pain; it interprets it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but tell that to someone whose world just burned down. Tell them to choose peace when they’re standing in ashes.”

Jeeny: “You think faith ignores fire?”

Jack: “No. I think it romanticizes it. People say, ‘There’s meaning in suffering,’ but sometimes pain is just pain. Faith feels like forcing order on chaos.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s seeing possibility in the chaos. The difference is perspective — one looks for escape, the other for transformation.”

Host: The candle beside Jeeny flickered, its small flame leaning toward her like an attentive listener. Jack leaned back in the pew, his grey eyes catching the reflection of light in the glossy wood.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never doubted.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “I doubt every day. That’s why I keep choosing faith. It’s not blindness; it’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s easy to be cynical. The world rewards it. But to believe — to really believe in goodness, in purpose, in Christ — that takes defiance.”

Jack: “You make belief sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Against despair.”

Host: A faint chime sounded from the church clock — one long, gentle tone that filled the room with its echo. Jeeny stood and walked toward Jack, the soft click of her shoes on the stone floor like punctuation in a sermon.

Jack: “You really think every hardship can be a blessing?”

Jeeny: “No. Not every hardship is. But every one can become — if it’s held with faith instead of bitterness.”

Jack: “And what about those who can’t believe anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else believes for them — until they remember how.”

Jack: (quietly) “You mean you?”

Jeeny: “Anyone who refuses to let despair win. That’s what it means to be part of faith — we hold each other’s light when our own flickers.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands — strong, but trembling faintly in the half-light. He exhaled, the sound fragile but sincere.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray when I was younger. I wasn’t asking for miracles — just clarity. But it felt like the silence grew louder than the words.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you mistook silence for absence. Sometimes the quiet is the answer — the invitation to trust.”

Jack: “Trust what, though? That things will get better?”

Jeeny: “No. That they’ll mean something. That the pain won’t be wasted.”

Host: The flame of the candle behind her wavered but didn’t go out. Her eyes met his — not filled with naïve certainty, but with a steady, unshaken warmth.

Jack: “You make it sound like the gospel’s a map.”

Jeeny: “Not a map — a compass. The difference is, it doesn’t show you the whole journey. It just tells you which way is right.”

Jack: “And you think the Spirit’s the one pointing it?”

Jeeny: “Always. The hard part is trusting it when every instinct says to turn back.”

Host: The storm outside had quieted completely now. Only the drip of melting snow from the roof could be heard — soft, rhythmic, like the ticking of eternity.

Jack: “So faith doesn’t remove the hardship — it reframes it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith doesn’t ask, ‘Why is this happening to me?’ It asks, ‘Who can I become because of this?’”

Jack: “That’s hard to do when you’re in the middle of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s called faith, not comfort.”

Host: A long pause followed — the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. The candlelight trembled, casting moving shapes across the ceiling, like prayers in motion.

Jack: “You know, when you talk like that… it almost makes sense. The idea that even the hardest things could somehow be redeemed.”

Jeeny: “They always can. Redemption isn’t a myth, Jack — it’s a pattern. The gospel is proof that death and despair never have the final word.”

Jack: (softly) “Resurrection.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And not just of the body — of the heart, of purpose, of peace.”

Host: She sat beside him again, folding her hands. Together they stared at the small altar at the front of the chapel — simple, luminous, unadorned.

Jack: “Maybe I don’t need to understand faith fully to start choosing it.”

Jeeny: “No one does. That’s the beauty of it. Faith doesn’t demand understanding — only willingness.”

Jack: “And if I fail at it?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then you start again. The gospel was never written for the flawless — it was written for the faithful.”

Host: The light from the candles flickered across their faces, softening everything — the fatigue, the doubt, even the distance between belief and uncertainty. Outside, the first hint of dawn glowed faintly over the horizon — pale gold breaking through the long night.

Jack stood, sliding his hands into his pockets, his expression gentler than it had been all night.

Jack: “Maybe the hardest times really are blessings — not because they’re good, but because they make us decide who we want to be.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith — turning suffering into meaning.”

Jack: “And meaning into peace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera would rise slowly, catching the two of them framed in the chapel’s quiet light, the candles still burning steady as the dawn crept in. The cross above the altar gleamed faintly in the new day — not as a symbol of perfection, but of persistence.

And as they stood there, surrounded by silence, by faith, by something greater than reason, the words of Eyring felt not like doctrine but truth —
that even in darkness, faith is the decision to walk forward,
and that every step, guided by Spirit,
is already a kind of grace.