If you believe in God, He will open the windows of heaven and

Host: The church was nearly empty, its great wooden beams arching like ribs over a body of silence. Candles flickered in the dim air, their small flames swaying like souls caught between faith and doubt. The faint scent of wax, old wood, and rain drifted through the open doors. Somewhere outside, thunder rolled low — not threatening, but steady, as if the sky were breathing.

Host: Jack sat in the second pew, shoulders hunched, hands clasped together but not in prayer. The light from the stained-glass window painted his face in fractured color — reds, blues, and soft golds. Across the aisle, Jeeny stood near the altar, lighting one last candle. The match flared briefly, illuminating her eyes — quiet, determined, full of warmth.

Host: The church bell chimed once, slow and deep.

Jeeny: (softly) “Mahalia Jackson once said, ‘If you believe in God, He will open the windows of heaven and pour blessings upon you.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You think it’s that simple? Believe — and the sky starts throwing down miracles?”

Jeeny: “Not throwing down. Pouring. There’s a difference. Throwing implies distance. Pouring means closeness.”

Jack: “Closeness to what?”

Jeeny: “To grace.”

Host: Jack leaned back in the pew, letting his eyes trace the flickering light on the ceiling.

Jack: “Grace. That’s a word people use when they’ve run out of explanations.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Or when they’ve stopped needing them.”

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “I am. But not in the way you think.”

Jack: “You believe there’s someone up there keeping score?”

Jeeny: “No. I believe in something that moves quietly beneath everything — like light under the ocean. You can’t always see it, but it’s there.”

Jack: “You mean faith.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean relationship. Faith is believing in something you can’t prove. Relationship is trusting it even when you’re broken.”

Host: The thunder rumbled again, closer this time, followed by the sound of rain against the stained glass — a soft percussion, like applause for the earth.

Jack: (sighing) “You know, I used to believe. When I was a kid, my mom would pray every night at the kitchen table. She’d ask God to bless us — and then she’d go back to double shifts. The blessings never came.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they did. Just not in the shape you expected.”

Jack: “A hard life isn’t a blessing, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But a heart that keeps giving in the middle of hardship — that’s divine strength. Your mother didn’t get wealth. She got endurance. And she gave it to you.”

Jack: “You call that a window of heaven?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because heaven doesn’t always open with gold light and choirs. Sometimes it opens in the smallest human act — one that keeps love alive.”

Host: A drop of rain trickled down the windowpane, carving a slow, luminous path through the colors of the glass — red through blue through gold.

Jeeny: “Mahalia Jackson didn’t just sing that — she lived it. Every note she sang came from a wound. But when she said ‘believe,’ she wasn’t promising wealth. She was promising meaning. A kind of wealth the world can’t measure.”

Jack: “You mean joy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t depend on what you have, but who you are while you wait.”

Jack: “So blessings aren’t what we get. They’re what we become.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. That’s belief — not a transaction, but a transformation.”

Host: The lightning flashed through the high window — just for an instant — lighting the entire church in white brilliance. For a heartbeat, it felt like revelation, then darkness returned, gentle and familiar.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like you. You still think there’s a hand guiding all this. I see randomness — cause, effect, coincidence.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re here. In a church. In the rain.”

Jack: “Habit.”

Jeeny: “Or hope.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe both.”

Jeeny: “Hope is faith’s little sister. It walks behind belief, but it always shows up.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat growing louder. Jeeny sat beside Jack, her presence calm, unhurried.

Jack: “You know, if there really are windows of heaven, I don’t think they’re somewhere above the clouds. I think they’re in people. The ones who refuse to stop caring.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And believing in God isn’t about waiting for blessings. It’s about becoming one.”

Jack: “That sounds like something Mahalia would’ve sung.”

Jeeny: “She did. Every time she opened her mouth, she built a bridge between heaven and earth.”

Jack: “And she made people believe they could cross it.”

Jeeny: “Because she already had.”

Host: The candles flickered harder as the draft moved through the church — little golden flames leaning together like a choir.

Jack: (softly) “So maybe belief isn’t about expecting miracles.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about seeing the ordinary as miraculous.”

Jack: “And gratitude is the language heaven understands.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The more you speak it, the more the windows open.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to slow, the thunder fading into distant murmurs. The candles steadied. The silence between them grew warm, forgiving.

Jack looked toward the altar, then toward Jeeny — and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone.

Host: The camera lingered on them — two silhouettes framed by flickering light, surrounded by quiet faith and the scent of wet air.

Host: And as the final candle trembled, Mahalia Jackson’s words seemed to hum in the air — not as sermon, but as song, carried softly by the rain:

Host: “If you believe in God, He will open the windows of heaven and pour blessings upon you.”

Host: Because faith is not an equation; it’s an opening.
Because heaven’s windows don’t pour gold — they pour grace.

Host: And when the world feels heavy,
sometimes the greatest blessing
is the quiet strength to lift it,
and the courage
to keep believing that love still moves unseen —
like rain through the soul.