I'm not a practicing Jew but my great-grandparents were. It's

Host: The airport terminal shimmered beneath the pale fluorescence of midnight, a place suspended between destinations, between belonging and departure. The air smelled faintly of coffee, metal, and the quiet exhaustion of travel. Overhead, the intercom mumbled in a dozen tongues, and the great clock above Gate 23 kept indifferent time.

At a window overlooking the tarmac, Jack sat with his jacket folded neatly beside him, staring out at the motionless airplanes bathed in light. Jeeny arrived with two paper cups of tea, her suitcase humming quietly behind her. She looked at him, then at the night beyond the glass — a night that felt neither here nor there.

Host: It was the kind of setting where past and present blurred, and identities — like flights — felt perpetually in transit.

Jeeny: [handing him a cup] “You look like you’re thinking about something that’s already gone.”

Jack: [half-smiling] “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m thinking about something that never really arrived.”

Jeeny: [sitting down] “You’ve been reading again?”

Jack: “Yeah. An interview with DeAndre Yedlin — the footballer. He said, ‘I’m not a practicing Jew but my great-grandparents were. It’s part of our family history.’”

Jeeny: [quietly] “That’s simple. And yet, not.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s like he’s carrying an echo — not faith, not doctrine, just memory.”

Jeeny: “The inheritance of belonging.”

Jack: “Or the burden of it.”

Host: A plane drifted down the runway, its lights flickering through fog — a distant ghost with purpose.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe heritage can survive without practice?”

Jack: “I think heritage survives in spite of practice. We confuse rituals with roots. The rituals fade, but the roots grow silently — deep, invisible.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying faith becomes history.”

Jack: “And history becomes identity.”

Jeeny: [softly] “And identity becomes…?”

Jack: “A story you didn’t choose but can’t forget.”

Jeeny: [looking out at the runway] “You sound like you’re talking about more than religion.”

Jack: [nodding] “Maybe I am. Every family carries something sacred — whether it’s God, struggle, language, or loss. And even if you stop practicing it, it keeps practicing you.”

Host: The lights dimmed for a moment, and the sound of distant luggage carts filled the pause — the music of motion without destination.

Jeeny: “So you think we’re all haunted by ancestry?”

Jack: “Not haunted. Guided. Even when we pretend we’re free of it.”

Jeeny: “But there’s freedom in forgetting too.”

Jack: “Maybe. But forgetting cuts both ways. You lose pain — but you also lose the map.”

Jeeny: [sipping her tea] “And some maps lead to places that no longer exist.”

Jack: “That’s what makes them sacred.”

Jeeny: “You think Yedlin feels that way? About his great-grandparents?”

Jack: “Maybe not consciously. But every time he says ‘it’s part of our family history,’ he’s keeping something alive. A whisper. A root memory. It’s like acknowledging the embers even after the fire’s gone.”

Host: The window reflected their faces, faint and overlapping — two silhouettes layered over the night sky, belonging to nothing and everything.

Jeeny: “You know, I think about that sometimes — how belief transforms over generations. My grandmother prayed. My mother questioned. And I… observe.”

Jack: [smiling] “That’s faith evolving — or adapting.”

Jeeny: “Or fading.”

Jack: “Not fading — refining. Each generation sheds a layer of certainty until what’s left is pure wonder.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jack: “It is. Beauty and loss usually are the same thing, aren’t they?”

Host: The intercom crackled, announcing a delayed flight to Tel Aviv. Jeeny glanced at the board. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: [softly] “You ever think about where you come from, Jack?”

Jack: [chuckling] “Every time I fill out a passport form.”

Jeeny: “No, I mean deeper. Beyond names and paperwork.”

Jack: “Sometimes. But my family didn’t leave stories behind — just habits. Silence, restraint, maybe a little pride. No religion. No legend.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe silence was their faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In endurance. The belief that surviving is meaning enough.”

Jack: [smiling faintly] “That’s as holy as anything written in scripture.”

Host: The loudspeaker hummed again, and the rain began to blur the world outside, smearing light into watercolor memory.

Jeeny: “You know, Yedlin’s words — they remind me of how fragile identity is. We inherit it without instructions.”

Jack: “And still we try to keep it intact — like holding onto smoke.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all heritage is. The smoke of what once burned bright.”

Jack: [softly] “And yet, it still leaves a scent.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost nostalgic for belief.”

Jack: “Not belief. Continuity. The idea that we come from something that mattered.”

Jeeny: “Maybe just remembering that it mattered is enough.”

Jack: [nods] “Maybe remembering is the practice.”

Host: A child’s laughter broke the quiet, echoing briefly, then fading — a sound that belonged to the living world, untouched by reflection.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what you’ll pass down?”

Jack: “Hopefully more empathy than cynicism.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith too, in a way.”

Jack: “Faith in people, maybe.”

Jeeny: “That’s where all real religion begins.”

Jack: “And ends.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “So we’re both believers after all.”

Jack: [grinning] “In something invisible, yes — call it grace, call it memory.”

Host: The announcement board flickered, and their reflections rippled in the glass — transient, like lineage itself.

Because as DeAndre Yedlin said,
“I’m not a practicing Jew but my great-grandparents were. It’s part of our family history.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat watching planes lift through the night sky,
they understood that faith doesn’t always survive as prayer —
sometimes it survives as remembrance,
as quiet continuity between what was and what remains.

Host: The plane lights vanished into the clouds,
and in their place lingered the faint glow of inheritance —
not belief, not burden, but belonging.