It comes with faith, for with complete faith there is no fear of

Host: The airstrip was a ribbon of silver under the dying sun, stretching toward a horizon swallowed by storm clouds. The wind carried the faint smell of fuel and rain, mingled with the electric hum of engines cooling after battle. A single plane — its metal skin scarred by time and weather — stood alone, its propeller still spinning slowly, whispering the echo of courage long spent.

Jack sat on the wing, his boots dangling, cigarette burning low, his gaze distant. Jeeny stood beside him, her hair whipping in the wind, her eyes lifted toward the sky that had once belonged to dreamers and daredevils.

Jeeny: “Jacqueline Cochran once said, ‘It comes with faith, for with complete faith there is no fear of what faces you in life or death.’”

Host: Her voice was steady, carried by the breeze — like a pilot’s prayer, simple yet absolute.

Jeeny: “She flew through war zones, through storms, through a world that told her women didn’t belong in the sky — and she still believed that faith was stronger than fear.”

Jack: lighting another cigarette “Faith, huh? That’s a nice word to hide behind when you’ve got nothing else left.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t hiding for her, Jack. It was flying. It was freedom.”

Host: The sunlight flickered through the clouds, cutting the runway into strips of light and shadow. The plane’s wings gleamed faintly, as if remembering old battles.

Jack: “Freedom? You think faith gives you that? No — what gives you freedom is control. You learn the machine, you master the risk, you minimize the unknown. Cochran wasn’t brave because of faith — she was brave because of skill.”

Jeeny: “Skill without faith is just calculation. You can measure everything, but when the storm hits, when the instruments fail — what then? That’s when faith takes over. Not blind belief, but the kind that steadies your hands when logic starts to shake.”

Jack: “You think belief can replace fear?”

Jeeny: “Not replace — transform. Fear isn’t the enemy, Jack. It’s the mirror. Faith is what lets you look into it and keep flying anyway.”

Host: A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. Jack’s eyes lifted, scanning the incoming storm, a reflex born of both instinct and memory.

Jack: “You sound like my flight instructor. He used to say courage wasn’t the absence of fear — it was flying with it in the cockpit.”

Jeeny: “He was right. But faith goes one step further — it’s when you stop treating fear as your enemy altogether.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But faith is easy when you’ve got a parachute.”

Jeeny: “And what if you don’t?”

Jack: “Then you pray.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind howled through the hangar, knocking over an old toolbox. The clatter echoed, sharp and metallic, like the sound of fate testing the edges of conviction.

Jeeny walked closer to the plane, tracing the bullet holes that time had softened into shadows.

Jeeny: “Cochran didn’t have faith because she thought she’d survive. She had faith because she accepted that she might not — and that her purpose mattered more than her fear.”

Jack: “You mean she stopped caring whether she lived or died?”

Jeeny: “No. She stopped letting it control her. That’s the difference. Complete faith doesn’t make you reckless — it makes you ready.”

Jack: “Ready for what?”

Jeeny: “For anything. For life. For death. For whatever storm the sky decides to throw at you.”

Host: Lightning flickered again, closer this time — a jagged streak across the darkening clouds. Jack’s fingers twitched against the metal of the wing, his reflection flickering in its dull sheen.

Jack: “You talk like faith is armor. But sometimes, Jeeny, it feels like a lie we tell ourselves to feel brave.”

Jeeny: “And yet the lie still gives us strength. Maybe faith isn’t about knowing something’s true — maybe it’s about needing it to be.”

Jack: “That’s not faith, that’s desperation.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s humanity.”

Jack: quietly “You really think faith can silence fear?”

Jeeny: “Not silence — still it. Like a mother’s hand over a trembling child.”

Host: The rain began to fall — first in thin threads, then in sheets, the kind that blurred earth and sky into one trembling mirror.

Jack slid off the wing, his boots splashing into a shallow puddle. He stood facing her, rainwater streaming down his face, cigarette extinguished.

Jack: “You have faith in a lot of things, Jeeny. God, love, destiny. But have you ever had it tested — really tested? When everything’s stripped away?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “It didn’t save me. It just kept me standing.”

Jack: “Then maybe faith isn’t what I need. Maybe I’d rather sit than stand for something that never answers.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t answer, Jack. It listens.”

Host: Her words hung in the rain, suspended like the tiny drops trembling on the edges of the plane’s wing. Jack’s chest rose and fell, slow, deliberate, as if he were arguing with something inside himself — the ghost of his own courage.

Jack: “You ever think people use faith to avoid fear instead of facing it?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But that’s not real faith. Real faith doesn’t remove fear — it walks beside it. It says: ‘I see you. You’re here. But you don’t get to drive.’”

Jack: “And what if fear refuses to move over?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep flying anyway.”

Host: The thunder cracked above them — a sound that felt more like the sky tearing open than a storm. The plane’s nose gleamed under the lightning, like a spear ready to pierce the unknown.

Jack: “You think Cochran believed that? That faith alone made her fearless?”

Jeeny: “No. She wasn’t fearless — she was faithful. There’s a difference. She once said that when she flew, she felt closer to God — not because she thought He’d protect her, but because she felt seen. That’s what faith is, Jack. Not control, not certainty — just being seen by something greater than your fear.”

Jack: “And if there’s nothing out there to see us?”

Jeeny: “Then the act of believing still changes us. That’s enough.”

Jack: softly “You really think so?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because fear only exists where faith is absent. And if you fill your soul with enough trust, there’s no room left for terror.”

Host: The rain began to ease, dissolving into a faint mist that curled around their feet. The clouds began to part, revealing a thin slice of moonlight breaking through — fragile but unwavering.

Jack lifted his eyes to it — a man who’d long lived under storms, watching, for once, a piece of sky that didn’t threaten him.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t armor, Jeeny. Maybe it’s the courage to take it off.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith doesn’t make you invincible — it makes you open.”

Jack: “And when you’re open, you’re vulnerable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But vulnerability is the birthplace of everything beautiful — love, creation, sacrifice, courage. Even flight.”

Jack: half-smiling “You always turn fear into poetry.”

Jeeny: “And you always mistake poetry for weakness.”

Host: The silence stretched between them, no longer tense — just deep, reflective. The plane, the storm, the night — all seemed to breathe together, as if the world itself was listening to what had been said.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Cochran meant — not that faith erases fear, but that it dwarfs it. That when you believe deeply enough, fear becomes too small to stop you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Complete faith doesn’t destroy fear — it redefines it.”

Jack: “Like clouds around a mountain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying away the last echo of thunder. Jeeny turned toward the plane, touching its metal one last time before walking away. Jack followed, a few steps behind, his eyes no longer on the ground — but on the sky.

The moonlight spilled across the runway, illuminating the path ahead — wet, uncertain, but shimmering with quiet possibility.

And as they walked, neither spoke again. They didn’t need to. Between them, the truth lingered like light after lightning:

Faith does not erase fear — it flies through it.

And in that flight, life and death finally lose their power.