In the light of faith I am strong, constant, and persevering.

Host: The chapel was small — a forgotten stone structure tucked at the edge of a quiet monastery garden. The walls were rough and ancient, breathing out the cool scent of time. Through a high, narrow window, a single beam of sunlight poured in, slicing the dimness into a column of gold. Dust motes danced in it — like small spirits of faith, visible only to those who pause.

The candles burned low along the altar, their flames thin but unwavering. Beyond the door, the wind carried the smell of lavender and wet earth, remnants of the afternoon rain. Inside, it was still — the kind of stillness that asks for reverence rather than silence.

Jack knelt in the back pew, his hands clasped loosely, not in prayer but in thought. His eyes were sharp even in shadow, reflecting the flicker of candlelight like the glint of questions unspoken. Jeeny sat nearby, her hands resting on the polished wood before her, her head bowed — not in submission, but in peace.

Jeeny: softly “Catherine of Siena once said, ‘In the light of faith I am strong, constant, and persevering.’”

Jack: quietly “Faith. Always faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The one thing that builds us without demanding proof.”

Host: The sunlight shifted slightly, stretching across the worn flagstones, illuminating the faded carvings of saints and angels. The old walls seemed to listen — as if they’d heard this conversation a thousand times across centuries.

Jack: “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Faith demands something more dangerous than proof — surrender. To believe without evidence is to gamble with your soul.”

Jeeny: “Or to trust your soul more than evidence.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never doubted.”

Jeeny: “I have. That’s how I know what faith is. Doubt’s the soil where it grows.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but steady — the way light persists even behind clouds.

Jeeny: “Catherine wasn’t naïve. She didn’t mean faith as blind devotion. She meant it as a flame. Something that burns not because it’s easy, but because it must.”

Jack: “Strong, constant, persevering.” He repeated the words like a skeptic trying to decode a secret. “I wonder if anyone’s ever really managed that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not perfectly. But strength isn’t perfection. It’s endurance. It’s waking up and choosing to believe again, even when yesterday’s belief failed you.”

Host: The bell outside the chapel tolled the hour — slow, resonant, filling the air like the sound of time itself taking a breath.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Faith isn’t an answer. It’s an act. Catherine knew that — she lived through war, plague, corruption, and still believed in light. Not because it erased the dark, but because it endured beside it.”

Host: The flame of the nearest candle trembled, then steadied again, casting shadows that danced across the carved crucifix above the altar.

Jack: “You think that’s what she meant by light? Hope?”

Jeeny: “Hope, yes. But deeper. It’s not optimism. It’s presence — the awareness that even in pain, you’re not alone.”

Jack: “That sounds like poetry, not faith.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Maybe poetry is faith translated into language.”

Host: A moment of silence passed. The sound of dripping water echoed faintly — somewhere near the back wall, a leak perhaps, but it sounded like rhythm, like heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like Catherine. People who can hold conviction through chaos. I’ve seen what faith looks like in the real world — fanaticism, greed, control. The institutions always ruin the idea.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s fear dressed in sacred robes.”

Jack: grimly “And yet fear runs the world.”

Jeeny: “It does. But faith rebuilds it after.”

Host: She rose from the pew and walked slowly toward the front, the wooden boards creaking beneath her. She stood beneath the window where sunlight fell the brightest. The light touched her face, turning her eyes to gold.

Jeeny: “Catherine’s faith wasn’t born in comfort. It was born in confrontation. She faced the same rot in the world you see now — and instead of despairing, she turned inward and said, ‘I will not break.’”

Jack: “That’s strength. But is that faith?”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing when you’ve lost everything else.”

Host: Jack stood, his shadow merging with the light stretching from the window. He looked up at the crucifix — his eyes caught not on the suffering carved there, but on the serenity in the face of it.

Jack: “So faith isn’t certainty. It’s persistence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Persevering, as Catherine said. Faith isn’t about seeing the end — it’s about continuing even when you can’t.”

Jack: softly “Constant… when the world isn’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s light. Because light doesn’t fight the darkness. It just refuses to stop shining.”

Host: The words hung in the still air. The candles flickered in agreement. The beam of sunlight seemed to stretch, reaching further into the shadowed corners of the chapel — reclaiming space inch by inch.

Jack: “You ever think faith is less about God, and more about us? About remembering our own capacity to endure?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe faith is the bridge between the two — the part of us that refuses to die even when the world burns.”

Host: Outside, the last of the sunlight faded, leaving only the glow of the candles. Jeeny turned, her silhouette a quiet outline against the dim window.

Jeeny: “That’s what Catherine meant — In the light of faith I am strong, constant, persevering. She wasn’t boasting. She was reminding herself. Because faith isn’t inherited. It’s chosen — over and over again.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So strength isn’t something we find. It’s something we practice.”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Host: The bell tolled again — once this time, soft and final. The light from the last candle flared briefly, then steadied into calm.

Jeeny walked back to Jack, her hand brushing the wooden pews as she passed, her voice quieter now, almost a prayer.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about avoiding the dark. It’s about walking through it — steady, constant, believing that light still exists even when you can’t see it.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, his cynicism quieted by something humbler — not belief perhaps, but understanding. He glanced around the chapel one last time, as if seeing it anew.

Outside, the first stars began to appear — small, fragile lights across the dark sky, each one a mirror of Catherine’s creed.

And as they stepped into the cool night, her words — ancient yet alive — lingered between them like breath in the air:

That in the light of faith,
we do not escape the world’s storms —
we simply learn to stand through them,
strong, constant,
and persevering,
until the dawn returns.