In God's world, for those who are in earnest, there is no

Host: The chapel stood on the edge of the harbor, where the sea and the sky met like two mirrors refusing to reflect each other. It was night—soft, still, the kind that hushed even the restless wind. Inside, the candles were almost spent, their small flames trembling in the draught, throwing gentle shadows that danced across old wooden pews and the faded faces of saints in stained glass.

At the altar, a cross of wrought iron caught the faint glow of candlelight. Before it sat Jack, shoulders slightly bent, hands clasped, as though trying to remember how prayer worked.

Jeeny entered quietly, the sound of her steps swallowed by the thick, ancient air. She watched him for a long moment, the man who always faced life with reason and logic, now silent in a place that asked for faith.

On the pulpit, an old Bible lay open to a small, marked page. A line, underlined in pencil, caught her eye:

“In God’s world, for those who are in earnest, there is no failure. No work truly done, no word earnestly spoken, no sacrifice freely made, was ever made in vain.” — Frederick William Robertson

Host: The words seemed to breathe through the air, like the quiet voice of something eternal.

Jeeny: “You came back here,” she said softly, her voice echoing faintly. “I didn’t think you believed in this anymore.”

Jack: “I don’t.” He glanced at the Bible. “But he did. Robertson, whoever he was, sounds like he never lost hope.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just refused to call it by the wrong name.”

Jack: He looked up at her, tired but curious. “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “People confuse failure with waiting. Just because you can’t see the result yet doesn’t mean it’s not coming.”

Jack: “Or it’s never coming, and you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

Host: She walked closer, her hand brushing the back of a pew, the old wood warm from candlelight.

Jeeny: “You think everything has to pay off in your lifetime. But maybe the point isn’t that we see the fruit—it’s that we planted the seed.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way of excusing disappointment.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a faithful way of surviving it.”

Host: The wind moved through the cracks of the chapel, and for a moment, the flames on the candles leaned, as if bowing to something unseen.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That nothing done in earnest is wasted?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen too many people give everything and still be forgotten—and yet, somehow, their goodness remains. Like warmth in a room long after the fire’s gone out.”

Jack: “You’re talking about faith.”

Jeeny: “I’m talking about meaning.”

Host: His jaw tightened, that old reflex of skepticism surfacing like a scar.

Jack: “Meaning’s what people create to protect themselves from emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what emptiness creates to protect people from despair.”

Host: The candles flickered, light and shadow playing across their faces—his hardened by logic, hers softened by conviction.

Jack: “I’ve worked for twenty years, Jeeny. Fought, built, failed, started again. You’re telling me none of it was in vain if I just—what—‘meant well’?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying that your effort mattered even if it didn’t win. Robertson said ‘no work truly done.’ Truly done, Jack. That means work born from integrity, from love, from truth. The kind that leaves fingerprints on the soul, not just numbers on a ledger.”

Jack: “And what about when it all collapses anyway? The project, the plan, the marriage? You think intention saves the ruins?”

Jeeny: “No. But it sanctifies them.”

Jack: “Sanctifies failure?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because what’s sacred isn’t the outcome—it’s the offering.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall, gentle but unrelenting. Each drop tapped against the stained glass like a metronome keeping time for a quiet symphony of regret and revelation.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say every prayer counts, even the ones that go unanswered.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was right.”

Jack: “She prayed for my father to quit drinking. He didn’t. He died with a bottle in his hand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe her prayer wasn’t for him to change, but for you to see what not changing costs.”

Host: His eyes narrowed, the anger there sharp but wounded—the kind that belongs to grief pretending to be logic.

Jack: “You twist words like they’re scripture.”

Jeeny: “No, I just listen to what pain tries to say before we shut it up.”

Jack: “And what’s my pain saying?”

Jeeny: “That you’re tired of calling your losses failures. That maybe they were just lessons dressed in disappointment.”

Host: The storm outside grew, the sound of wind and rain rising like a chorus. The candles bent under it but refused to die.

Jack: “You really believe there’s no failure for those who try?”

Jeeny: “Not in God’s world.”

Jack: “And what about this one?”

Jeeny: “It’s the same world, Jack. The difference is how we look at it.”

Jack: “You think He sees meaning in my mess?”

Jeeny: “I think He sees your heart—and that’s what He measures, not the mess.”

Host: He laughed, quiet, not cruel. The sound of disbelief meeting something too beautiful to mock.

Jack: “So, what? Every effort counts? Every heartbreak has a purpose?”

Jeeny: “If it was done with love—yes.”

Jack: “Then love’s a terrible investment.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the only one that never devalues.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The candles burned lower. In the stillness, there was a weight—not sorrow, but recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Just trust that no word, no deed, no sacrifice was ever wasted. But how do you know?”

Jeeny: “Because even when I was broken, something still grew in me. A quiet strength I didn’t plant myself. That’s how I know.”

Host: She looked toward the altar, the iron cross now glimmering faintly in the dim light.

Jeeny: “Every act of love changes the fabric of the world a little, even if no one sees it. That’s what Robertson meant. God keeps the score we can’t.”

Jack: “And if there is no God?”

Jeeny: “Then we still live as if there were one—because that’s how we become human.”

Host: The silence stretched, long and full, the kind that doesn’t ask for an answer because the truth has already arrived.

Jack: After a while. “Maybe he was right—this Robertson. Maybe nothing’s in vain if you gave it everything.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what it means to be earnest. To do the work for its own sake, not the reward.”

Jack: “So the trying matters more than the triumph.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: He rose, looking at the altar one last time. The light flickered, reflecting in his eyes, no longer just weary, but quietly awakened.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the only way to fail—by not trying honestly.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the only way to succeed—by trying even when it hurts.”

Host: They stood together, two silhouettes against the candlelight, the soft rainlight glistening on the windows like tears the world had already forgiven.

The candles finally died, one by one, leaving only the faint glow of dawn breaking over the harbor.

And as they stepped out into the new morning, Frederick William Robertson’s words lingered in the quiet air, steady and eternal:

“In God’s world, for those who are in earnest, there is no failure. No work truly done, no word earnestly spoken, no sacrifice freely made, was ever made in vain.”

Host: Because perhaps the real victory is not in winning, but in giving.
Not in being remembered, but in remaining true.

And for the earnest heart, even silence becomes a kind of Amen.