I'm not perfect. I'm never going to be. And that's the great

Host: The gym smelled of chalk, sweat, and late-night redemption. The hum of the overhead lights echoed faintly, a low electric lullaby over the empty space. On one side, the weights glimmered with the dull sheen of effort; on the other, a worn Bible rested on a bench — pages folded, edges softened by hands that had gone there often.

Jack sat on the edge of the bench, still catching his breath, towel draped around his neck. His forearms were streaked with chalk dust, his pulse still steady from the last set. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, arms folded, a bottle of water in one hand, her eyes following him quietly — the way one watches someone wrestling with more than iron.

The sound of a single drip from a leaky pipe marked the rhythm of the silence between them.

Jeeny: “Tim Tebow once said, ‘I’m not perfect. I’m never going to be. And that’s the great thing about living the Christian life and trying to live by faith — you’re trying to get better every day. You’re trying to improve.’”
She smiled softly. “It’s rare to hear someone talk about imperfection without shame.”

Jack: “That’s because most people still believe perfection is the goal,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Faith or no faith, everyone wants to look spotless — even if it’s just for the camera.”

Host: His voice was steady, low, but the exhaustion beneath it wasn’t physical. It was the kind that comes from being relentlessly honest.

Jeeny: “You think he really believed that? That imperfection is part of the point?”

Jack: “I think he had to,” Jack said. “The man lived under a microscope. Every throw, every prayer, every loss — public property. If you don’t learn to make peace with imperfection under that kind of scrutiny, it’ll break you.”

Jeeny: “Or harden you.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he nodded, “but that’s the difference between faith and ego. Faith lets you fail and still call it progress.”

Host: Jeeny walked slowly toward him, her shoes soft against the worn floor. “You talk like someone who’s made peace with their flaws.”

Jack: “I talk like someone who’s trying,” he said. “That’s all Tebow was saying — trying counts. Not pretending to be fixed.”

Jeeny: “So trying is faith?”

Jack: “Trying is faith. Every rep, every day, every prayer that feels unanswered — it’s all repetition. You keep lifting even when it hurts, even when it doesn’t look like anything’s changing.”

Host: The lights flickered overhead. The air between them pulsed with a kind of quiet conviction — not the roaring fire of certainty, but the warm ember of persistence.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think faith was belief,” she said. “Like, unwavering certainty that something greater was in control. But now I think it’s more like… resilience. The choice to start again after disappointment.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said softly. “Faith isn’t about not falling. It’s about not staying down.”

Host: She smiled faintly. “So what about perfection? You think people should stop chasing it altogether?”

Jack: “Depends what kind you mean,” he said. “If you’re talking about moral perfection — good luck. But if you’re talking about the kind of perfection that comes from surrender, that’s different. There’s something perfect about admitting you’re not.”

Jeeny: “That sounds paradoxical.”

Jack: “Faith always is,” he said, half-smiling. “It’s the art of chasing what you’ll never catch, just to prove the chase itself matters.”

Host: The drip from the pipe stopped for a moment — a small, surprising pause in the stillness. Jeeny walked to the bench where the Bible rested, tracing the thin edge of its pages.

Jeeny: “You ever envy people who believe easily?”

Jack: “All the time. But easy faith doesn’t build muscle.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Tebow now.”

Jack: “Maybe he’s right. Perfection’s not the prize — it’s the pursuit. You get stronger from the trying.”

Host: The clock on the far wall ticked quietly. The sound of it was almost soothing — the measured beat of time reminding them that progress is slow by design.

Jeeny: “You know what I like about that quote?” she said finally. “He doesn’t romanticize perfection. He humanizes improvement. There’s humility in that.”

Jack: “Humility’s the only currency that holds its value,” Jack replied. “You lose that, and all your victories start to feel counterfeit.”

Host: She turned toward him, her expression softened. “You ever think faith’s just another word for hope?”

Jack: “Hope’s lighter,” he said. “Faith’s heavier. Hope’s wishing things will get better. Faith’s getting up and acting like they already can.”

Jeeny: “Even when the evidence disagrees?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The air grew warmer — not in temperature, but in presence. There was something raw and quiet about the moment, as though the gym itself understood the theology of trying.

Jeeny: “You ever think imperfection’s sacred?” she asked.

Jack: “It has to be,” he said. “Otherwise, none of us would deserve to breathe.”

Jeeny: “So faith is what lets you love the mess?”

Jack: “No,” he said. “Faith is what lets you keep cleaning it up, knowing it’ll get messy again.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly — the sound like glass breaking into light. She looked down at the Bible, then at him.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s not far from what grace really is.”

Jack: “Grace,” he repeated, tasting the word. “It’s like the rest period between sets — the moment you breathe before lifting again.”

Jeeny: “And perfection?”

Jack: “That’s the finish line no one reaches but everyone needs.”

Host: Outside, the first hint of dawn brushed against the windows, pale gold cutting through the darkness. Jack picked up the towel, threw it over his shoulder, and stood.

Jack: “You can spend your whole life chasing perfection, Jeeny. Or you can spend it getting a little better each day. One builds ego. The other builds character.”

Jeeny: “So which one are you building?”

Jack: “Depends on the day,” he said, smiling. “Some days I lift the wrong weight. Some days I lift myself.”

Host: She smiled back, quietly, knowingly. The light from the rising sun slipped through the blinds, falling across the open Bible. Its pages fluttered slightly, as if exhaling.

Jack reached down, closed it gently, and said — almost to himself:

Jack: “I’m not perfect. I’m never going to be. But maybe that’s what makes the story worth reading.”

Host: The camera would pull back then — the gym bathed in dawn, two figures framed by light and fatigue, the quiet hum of effort filling the air.

And as the day began, Tim Tebow’s words settled like a prayer that required no church:

That perfection isn’t the proof of faith —
progress is.

That grace lives not in being flawless,
but in the daily, humble act
of trying again.