In my long life I have found peace, joy, and happiness beyond my

Host: The evening settled upon the valley like a prayer whispered in light. The last sunlight slipped over the mountain ridge, leaving a quiet golden afterglow that kissed the rooftops and gilded the windows of the small house tucked beneath the trees. The faint hum of crickets began their nightly hymn, and the air smelled of pine, hearthwood, and rain that had long since passed.

Inside, the fireplace burned low, its flames steady, slow — like an old heart still beating with warmth. Jack sat before it, his hands clasped loosely, his face lined not with age but with the kind of weariness that comes from too much distance from tenderness. Across from him, Jeeny sat near the window, her eyes reflecting the glow of the fire, the light turning her gaze into something both tender and eternal.

A single page — creased, weathered — rested on the wooden table between them. Jeeny had read it aloud moments before, her voice quiet, reverent.

“In my long life I have found peace, joy, and happiness beyond my fondest hopes and dreams. One of the supreme benedictions of my life has been my marriage to an elect daughter of God. I love her with all my heart and soul.”
— James E. Faust

Host: The words lingered like incense in the air, their warmth heavier than silence, their faith older than time.

Jack: (softly) “Peace, joy, and happiness.” Funny how he says it like they’re all separate things.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe because they are. Peace quiets the soul, joy stirs it, and happiness… happiness simply holds it.

Jack: (leans back, looking into the fire) You talk like someone who’s felt all three.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe I’ve felt them in fragments. Enough to believe they can exist together — if you love deeply enough.

Jack: (half-smiles) Love deeply enough. That sounds like a sermon, Jeeny.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe sermons aren’t always meant to preach — maybe they just remind.

Host: The flames flickered, catching briefly on the dark log, sending a scatter of sparks upward — tiny stars fleeing gravity. The room glowed, and the quiet between them deepened into something intimate, something holy.

Jack: (after a long pause) You know, I’ve always envied people like Faust. To look back on a whole life and say, “I’ve found joy.” Most people die still searching for it.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe it’s not something you find, Jack. Maybe it’s something you build. Brick by brick. Day by day.

Jack: (dryly) With what? Hope? Faith?

Jeeny: (smiling) With love. The only tool that repairs as it builds.

Host: A log in the fire split with a soft crack, scattering embers like glowing dust. Jack’s eyes followed them — those tiny bursts of light that burned fiercely, then faded quickly. He wondered if that was what love was — small, brief illuminations against the dark.

Jack: (thoughtful) He says his wife was an “elect daughter of God.” That kind of reverence… I can’t decide if it’s beautiful or terrifying.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it’s both. Real love always carries reverence. It demands humility — the courage to see someone as sacred.

Jack: (looks at her) Sacred. That’s a word people don’t use much anymore.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe because they’ve forgotten how to mean it.

Host: The firelight trembled as the wind moved outside, brushing against the old wooden walls like the sigh of a memory passing by. Jack rubbed his hands, the warmth grounding him, pulling him inward.

Jack: (low) You think love like that still exists? The kind that lasts through decades — where peace and joy aren’t separate accidents but constants?

Jeeny: (smiles gently) Yes. But it doesn’t happen by accident. It’s chosen — over and over again. Even when the feeling fades, the choice remains.

Jack: (scoffs softly) Sounds exhausting.

Jeeny: (warmly) So does living without it.

Host: A moment passed. Then another. The clock on the wall ticked steadily — small, steady proof that time itself believed in persistence.

Jack: (sighs) You know, my father used to say that happiness was for people who didn’t think too much. That love was just a trick of biology — a survival mechanism wrapped in poetry.

Jeeny: (with quiet conviction) Then he never saw what love becomes after survival.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) What’s that?

Jeeny: (softly) Gratitude. The kind that humbles you every morning you wake beside someone who still chooses you.

Host: The fire popped again, the light reflecting in Jeeny’s eyes — brown and steady, like earth after rain. Jack looked at her for a long moment, something shifting behind the cynicism, something small and vulnerable stirring awake.

Jack: (slowly) You make love sound like a miracle.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) It is. But miracles aren’t magic. They’re just truth noticed.

Host: The wind outside eased, and the night deepened — velvet, quiet, eternal. A distant owl called, its voice stretching across the forest like a question.

Jack: (leans forward) Maybe that’s what Faust meant when he said he found peace. Not perfection — just quiet acceptance of a life shared.

Jeeny: (nodding) Peace isn’t the absence of struggle. It’s the presence of purpose.

Jack: (softly) And love gives it that purpose.

Jeeny: (gently) Yes. Love takes the chaos of two separate lives and teaches them rhythm.

Host: She stood, crossed the room, and placed another log on the fire. The light caught her hands — small, steady, graceful. Jack watched her movements, the way she fit into the space, the way her presence softened it.

Jack: (quietly) You ever think about what it means to love like that — with all your heart and soul?

Jeeny: (turns toward him, eyes bright) Every day. It means to love without defense. To love without strategy. To love knowing you might lose everything — and still saying, “Yes.”

Host: Her words settled like ashes in the warm air, weightless but real. Jack looked down, then back into the fire, the reflection dancing across his eyes.

Jack: (softly) Maybe I’ve been afraid of that kind of love. The kind that asks for all of you.

Jeeny: (gently) Most people are. Because it requires the one thing we spend our lives avoiding — surrender.

Jack: (half-smiles) I’ve surrendered before. It didn’t end well.

Jeeny: (walks closer) Then maybe it wasn’t surrender. Maybe it was compromise. They look the same, but they taste different in the soul.

Host: The air between them pulsed — not with tension, but with something deeper, like recognition. The fire’s light softened their faces into warmth, into truth.

Jack: (after a pause) You think peace and joy can really come from just one person?

Jeeny: (smiling) Not from one person — from what two people create together. That’s the benediction he spoke of. The blessing that multiplies when shared.

Host: Outside, the moon rose fully now, its pale light spilling through the window, mixing with the golden glow of the fire — heaven and earth sharing one small space.

Jack: (quietly) I used to think love was meant to complete you. But maybe… it’s meant to remind you that you were already whole.

Jeeny: (smiles softly) Exactly. The right love doesn’t fill emptiness. It celebrates fullness.

Jack: (after a long pause) You think that’s what Faust meant by “beyond my fondest hopes”? That he didn’t expect happiness — he grew into it.

Jeeny: (nods) Happiness doesn’t arrive. It unfolds. And when it does, it looks like gratitude, not excitement.

Host: The flames dimmed to soft embers now, glowing like quiet hearts resting after a lifetime of burning bright.

Jack: (whispers) Peace, joy, happiness. Three words that don’t feel separate anymore.

Jeeny: (gently) Because in their truest form, they’re all born from love.

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that doesn’t need filling. Outside, the night exhaled softly over the sleeping world, and inside, two souls sat before the dying fire, illuminated by something far greater than flame.

Host: And as the final embers glowed like the pulse of a timeless truth, Jack understood — perhaps for the first time — what Faust had meant:

Host: That true happiness is not earned through ambition, but received through devotion. That peace is not the absence of struggle, but the quiet within it. That love, when it is real, does not complete us — it consecrates us.

Host: The fire gave one last sigh and settled into stillness. The room was warm, and so were they — two hearts reflecting a truth that had burned through centuries.

Host: In that hush of golden silence, the world, for a moment, felt eternal — and love, divine.