It makes me sad when I find sisters who aren't joyful. They might

Host:
The morning light filtered gently through the high windows of a small convent garden, touching everything it met with gold. The roses swayed slightly in the breeze, the bells from the chapel ringing faint and distant — a sound that carried both peace and melancholy.

Jack sat on a weathered stone bench, his hands clasped loosely, his coat draped beside him. He looked out across the courtyard — quiet paths lined with lavender, a marble fountain whose water caught the light like liquid glass. Jeeny stood near the garden wall, her hair loose in the sunlight, her eyes thoughtful.

The world around them seemed wrapped in prayer — not loud, not formal, but silent and human.

Jeeny: (softly, almost reverently) “Pope Francis once said, ‘It makes me sad when I find sisters who aren’t joyful. They might smile, but with just a smile they could be flight attendants!’”

Host:
Her voice carried a small laugh at the end, light but touched with compassion. Jack glanced at her, one eyebrow raised — that familiar mix of cynicism and curiosity.

Jack: “That’s... oddly blunt for a pope.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s why I like it. He’s not scolding them — he’s mourning the loss of something pure. Joy, when it’s real, isn’t a performance.”

Jack: “You mean, the kind of joy that doesn’t need an audience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind that glows quietly from somewhere honest.”

Host:
The wind brushed past the fountain, scattering a few petals across the stone. They landed near Jack’s shoes, small bursts of color against the grey.

Jack: “I’ve seen that kind of smile — the polite one. The smile people wear like a mask, so no one sees the emptiness behind it.”

Jeeny: “We all wear it sometimes. But I think what Francis was saying is deeper — that joy, especially spiritual joy, can’t be faked. You can’t just curve your lips and call it faith.”

Jack: “You think joy’s proof of belief?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s the fruit of it. You don’t force it — it grows.”

Host:
The sunlight shifted slightly, glinting off the water. Somewhere beyond the walls, the faint hum of life continued — footsteps, laughter, the creak of wooden doors. But here, in this small garden, time seemed slower, gentler.

Jack: “See, that’s where I struggle. Everyone says joy is a choice, but what if it isn’t? What if some people just… don’t have the chemistry for it?”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about happiness. That’s fleeting. Joy’s different. You can be sad and still joyful.”

Jack: (scoffing) “Sounds contradictory.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Happiness lives on the surface; joy lives underneath. It’s what stays when everything else is gone.”

Host:
She turned, walking slowly toward him, her steps light on the stone path. Her shadow stretched across the bench before she sat beside him.

Jeeny: “You know what’s tragic? We’ve turned smiles into armor. We flash them so the world won’t ask questions.”

Jack: “Maybe because the world doesn’t want the answers.”

Jeeny: “True. But joy isn’t armor. It’s the opposite — it’s vulnerability that says, ‘I’ve seen pain, but I’m still here.’”

Host:
Jack’s hands tightened on his knees. He looked down, watching the sunlight ripple across the fountain’s surface.

Jack: “You really think that’s possible? To be joyful in a world like this?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s exactly why it’s necessary.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the good kind — the kind whispered to yourself when you’re trying to keep going.”

Host:
A small smile tugged at his lips — real this time, not polite. He exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something heavy.

Jack: “So what do you think the Pope meant about the sisters? That they forgot how to laugh?”

Jeeny: “Not just laugh. To feel alive. To remember that service isn’t suffering, it’s love made visible. He wasn’t mocking them; he was mourning the dimming of their light.”

Jack: “Maybe holiness got mistaken for solemnity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. As if sorrow were somehow more sacred than joy.”

Host:
Her words lingered like incense — soft, fragrant, true. The garden was still except for the murmur of the fountain, a sound that felt ancient and comforting.

Jack: “So what does joy look like to you, Jeeny? The real kind.”

Jeeny: “It’s quiet. Unforced. Like sunlight sneaking through a window when you’ve stopped expecting it. It’s forgiveness. It’s grace in motion.”

Jack: “And for me?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “For you, it’s when you stop pretending you don’t care.”

Host:
He laughed — a low, rough sound, but genuine. The sound startled a bird from the roses; it fluttered up, wings flashing white in the light.

Jack: “You really think I’m capable of joy?”

Jeeny: “I think you already have it — you just confuse it for irony.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host:
The wind picked up again, scattering more petals into the air. They drifted between them like confetti from an invisible celebration.

Jeeny: “Pope Francis was right — there’s nothing sadder than someone who’s forgotten how to mean their own smile. Maybe joy’s not a reward. Maybe it’s a responsibility.”

Jack: “A responsibility?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To remind others that hope still exists — even when it’s quiet, even when it trembles.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe. But imagine how beautiful the world could be if everyone carried even one honest smile.”

Host:
He turned to her — the sunlight catching his eyes now, softening them.

Jack: “You make it sound like joy’s a kind of defiance.”

Jeeny: “It is. To be joyful in a broken world — that’s rebellion at its purest.”

Jack: “Then maybe the saints weren’t solemn after all. Maybe they were just hiding laughter behind their prayers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine doesn’t just whisper through sorrow. It dances through laughter too.”

Host:
The bells began again, their sound deeper now, echoing through the air like the heartbeat of faith. Jeeny stood, her dress brushing against the bench, and looked toward the chapel.

Jeeny: “You hear that, Jack? Even the bells sound joyful today.”

Jack: “Or maybe they always did — I just wasn’t listening.”

Host:
He rose beside her. Together, they watched the last few petals drift into the fountain, spinning gently on the water’s surface like tiny blessings.

Jeeny: “That’s all joy is, really — noticing what’s already beautiful.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe the world’s not a tragedy after all. Maybe it’s just waiting for us to look up.”

Host:
She smiled — a full, unguarded smile — and this time, he matched it. The kind of smile that reached the eyes, that needed no explanation, no witness.

The sunlight brightened, the bells faded into the distance, and for a fleeting moment, the garden felt like a small piece of eternity.

And in that stillness, it became clear —

that real joy isn’t the absence of sorrow,
but the courage to keep loving life
in spite of it.