It is not the body's posture, but the heart's attitude that

Host: The church stood at the edge of the town, quiet, old, its wooden beams creaking softly beneath the weight of time. The sunset bled through the stained glass, spilling bands of crimson, gold, and blue across the pews like memories caught in color. Outside, leaves drifted through the autumn air, whispering in the breeze.

Inside, Jack sat near the front, head bowed, hands clasped, not in devotion, but in thought — the kind that lingers like a shadow you can’t quite name. Jeeny entered quietly, her steps light, her eyes soft, carrying the stillness of someone who had come not to pray, but to listen.

Jeeny: “Billy Graham once said, ‘It is not the body’s posture, but the heart’s attitude that counts when we pray.’ I used to think that was just something pastors said to comfort those who’d lost their faith in ritual. But now… I think I finally understand what he meant.”

Jack: (without looking up) “You mean you’ve stopped kneeling?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “No. I still kneel. But not because I have to. Because sometimes my heart needs to remember what humility feels like.”

Jack: “Humility.” (He scoffs, his voice dry.) “Funny word. Half the people who kneel here on Sunday go out Monday and judge everyone else for not doing it right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because they’re kneeling with their knees, not their hearts.”

Host: The light from the stained glass shifted, a slow dance across the floorboards, touching the dust that floated like tiny spirits in the air. A choir rehearsal could be heard faintly from another room — a few voices, fragile, earnest, off-key, but honest.

Jack: “You really think prayer changes anything, Jeeny? You close your eyes, whisper a few words to the ceiling — and what? The universe suddenly rearranges itself because you asked nicely?”

Jeeny: “That’s not what prayer is. It’s not about changing the universe. It’s about changing yourself.”

Jack: “Then why not just call it thinking?”

Jeeny: “Because thinking doesn’t surrender. Thinking tries to control. Prayer is about letting go — not of your problems, but of your illusion that you can fix them alone.”

Jack: (leans back, eyes narrow) “Letting go sounds a lot like giving up.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s trusting.”

Jack: “In what?”

Jeeny: “In what you can’t see, but still feel.”

Host: The wind rattled the windows, filling the silence with a soft howl, as if the world outside had its own sermon to preach. Jack shifted, his jaw tight, his hands fidgeting with his ring, the metal glinting in the fading light.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never doubted a day in your life.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I doubt all the time. That’s part of the conversation. Prayer without doubt isn’t faith — it’s habit.”

Jack: (a low laugh) “So doubt’s part of the ritual now?”

Jeeny: “Doubt’s part of being human. Even Jesus said, ‘Why have you forsaken me?’ on the cross. If the Son of God could ask that, I think we’re allowed to.”

Host: The choir in the next room rose into a crescendo, voices trembling, notes imperfect, but sincere. The sun had nearly set, and the shadows had grown long, stretching across the altar like questions searching for answers.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray. When I was a kid. My mom used to make me kneel beside the bed. I’d close my eyes, mutter a few words. I didn’t know what I was saying. I just wanted her to smile. After she died, I stopped. I figured — if God was listening, He wasn’t very interested.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe He was. Maybe He just answered in a way you didn’t expect.”

Jack: “Or maybe there was no one there to answer.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you sitting here now, in this place?”

Jack: (pauses, eyes drop) “Because… I don’t know. Because sometimes the silence feels different here.”

Host: The candles on the altar flickered, their flames trembling, as if the air itself was holding its breath. The room had grown darker, yet somehow warmer, the kind of warmth that comes not from fire, but from presence.

Jeeny: “That’s prayer, Jack. That feeling. The silence that feels alive. You don’t need to speak for it to count.”

Jack: “So I could just sit here, say nothing, and it still means something?”

Jeeny: “If your heart’s open, yes. Billy Graham wasn’t talking about positions — he was talking about posture of the soul. You can kneel and still be arrogant. You can stand and still be humble.”

Jack: “You make it sound so… simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. We complicate it because we’re afraid to be honest — even with God.”

Host: The choir had stopped, the building now wrapped in a quiet so deep it seemed to hum. A single ray of light, the last of the day, fell through the window and landed on Jack’s face. He blinked, as if surprised by it.

Jack: “You ever wonder… if prayer’s just us talking to ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s how God listens — through the parts of us we try to ignore.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s… something.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “The idea that God might hide inside our own conscience. Like He’s not up there, but in here.” (He taps his chest.)

Jeeny: “That’s what He’s been trying to tell us all along.”

Host: The air in the church seemed to shift, the dust glowing in the light, like tiny stars caught in sacred orbit. Jack’s voice had softened, his shoulders no longer rigid. Jeeny watched him with a quiet satisfaction, like a teacher seeing her student finally understand.

Jack: “So… posture doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “Only if it helps your heart listen. That’s what matters — the attitude inside. You can pray while driving, while washing dishes, while grieving, while laughing. Prayer isn’t a place you go; it’s a state you enter.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t know how?”

Jeeny: “Then start with that. Say, ‘I don’t know how.’ That’s a prayer too.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the moments like drops of grace. The candles burned lower, their light gentle, steady, golden.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, I came here today because I thought I’d forgotten how to believe. But maybe… belief isn’t about certainty. Maybe it’s about conversation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Prayer isn’t answers — it’s the courage to keep asking.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Then maybe I’ll keep asking.”

Host: The bells chimed in the distance, the sound rolling through the evening air, mingling with the rustle of leaves outside. The church glowed in the dimming light, a haven of stillness in a noisy world.

Jeeny stood, her eyes warm, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “See, Jack — you’re already praying. You just don’t know it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

Host: As Jeeny walked toward the door, Jack remained, gazing at the altar, the light now fading into twilight. The church breathed, alive with the echo of their words.

And in that stillness, something shifted — not in the air, but in the heart.

Because, as Billy Graham once said, it was never the knees that moved heaven,
but the attitude of the heart that whispered, quietly,
I am here.