I'm ashamed to say, but as a teen, there were times when I had

Host:
The night pressed close against the windows, its silence broken only by the soft hiss of rain on the pavement. A flickering streetlamp outside threw its trembling light into the small diner, making the chrome edges of the countertops gleam like forgotten memories.

The neon sign above the door buzzed faintly — Open — though the place felt like it had stopped belonging to time. The smell of coffee, rain-soaked jackets, and faint loneliness filled the air.

Jack sat in a corner booth, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, staring into the dark surface as if it could show him something he’d lost. Across from him, Jeeny watched quietly, her face soft, her eyes alive with that kind of empathy that feels like confession before words are even spoken.

Jeeny:
“You’ve been quiet all night,” she said softly. “Not the usual kind of quiet — the kind that feels like you’re somewhere else.”

Jack:
He glanced up, half-smiling, half-deflecting. “Somewhere else is safer sometimes.”

Host:
Her fingers played idly with the handle of her cup, tracing slow circles — the gesture of someone who knows that silence often holds the heavier truths.

Jeeny:
“John Rzeznik once said, ‘I’m ashamed to say, but as a teen, there were times when I had to go to the church and get help.’”

Jack:
He chuckled — not from amusement, but the reflex of someone trying to disguise a wound. “Yeah,” he said. “I know that feeling.”

Host:
Outside, the rain softened into a mist, wrapping the world in blurred edges.

Jeeny:
“Tell me,” she said.

Jack:
He leaned back, the booth leather creaking beneath him. “There were nights when we didn’t have enough,” he said quietly. “Food, money, warmth — take your pick. The church was the only place that never turned us away. I’d sit in the back pew, pretending I was praying, just to feel like I belonged to something.”

Jeeny:
“Did it help?”

Jack:
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes it just made me feel smaller. Like I was this... shadow of a person, asking for crumbs of light.”

Host:
Her eyes glistened, but she said nothing — only listened, as though her silence itself was a form of reverence.

Jack:
“I was ashamed,” he continued. “Not just because we were poor — but because I thought needing help meant I’d failed. I thought I was supposed to be strong.”

Jeeny:
“And now?”

Jack:
He paused, his voice low, almost breaking. “Now I think strength is overrated. Survival’s what matters. The people who helped me weren’t heroes — they were human. And that’s enough.”

Host:
The diner’s jukebox hummed to life unexpectedly, a soft melody crackling through the old speakers — something hauntingly close to a prayer.

Jeeny:
“Is that why you stopped believing?” she asked.

Jack:
He looked out the window, where the streetlight shimmered against the wet asphalt. “I never stopped believing,” he said. “I just stopped expecting. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny:
“But you still walked through those doors back then. You still asked.”

Jack:
“Yeah,” he said. “Because even when you stop believing in the answers, sometimes you still need the silence of the question.”

Host:
The rain returned — soft, steady, rhythmic — like forgiveness falling from somewhere unseen.

Jeeny:
“When I was young,” she said quietly, “my mother used to take me to the church basement on Fridays. Not for service — for soup. We’d sit with strangers, and for an hour, it didn’t matter who was poor or proud. It just mattered that someone cared enough to feed us.”

Jack:
He looked at her, really looked — his expression softening. “You never told me that.”

Jeeny:
“It wasn’t something I was proud of. Back then, I thought needing help meant I was weak.”

Jack:
“And now?”

Jeeny:
“Now I think weakness is just another name for being human.”

Host:
The lights in the diner flickered again, and for a moment the two of them sat in half-darkness — two faces caught between shadow and warmth.

Jack:
“Funny,” he said after a pause. “All those sermons about God helping the humble, but when you’re actually kneeling — it feels more like shame than salvation.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s what salvation really is,” she said. “Not light from above — but the courage to keep showing up in the dark.”

Jack:
He smiled, faint but real. “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny:
“It’s not poetry,” she said. “It’s survival.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked softly, marking the small, stubborn passage of time.

Jack:
“You know,” he said, “I used to promise myself that once I made it, I’d never ask for help again. But now I think maybe that was the worst promise I ever made.”

Jeeny:
“Because needing others doesn’t make you small,” she said gently. “It makes you part of something larger.”

Jack:
He nodded. “Yeah. But it took me half a lifetime to understand that pride can starve you faster than poverty ever could.”

Host:
The rain slowed again, the last few drops sliding down the window, leaving behind a streak of faint moonlight.

Jeeny:
“Do you ever go back?”

Jack:
“To church?” He smiled, wistful. “Sometimes. Not to pray. Just to sit. To remember that even when I had nothing, I wasn’t alone.”

Jeeny:
“That sounds like faith to me.”

Jack:
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s gratitude wearing faith’s clothes.”

Host:
The diner was empty now except for them. The radio whispered its last note, and the neon sign buzzed once more before dimming to a dull glow.

They sat in the quiet — two grown souls remembering the children they once were: hungry, afraid, but still reaching for warmth in places where the light was kind.

And in that stillness, the words of John Rzeznik seemed to echo softly in the air — fragile, honest, and human:

“I’m ashamed to say, but as a teen, there were times when I had to go to the church and get help.”

Because sometimes shame is only the shadow of need,
and what we call weakness is just another form of survival —
the hand reaching out in the dark,
the quiet courage to ask,
the small act of believing,
even when there’s nothing left to believe in
but the hope that someone will answer.