It was seldom that I attended any religious meetings, as my

Host: The room was filled with the scent of old wood and burning oil — a cabin lost in another century, somewhere between wilderness and civilization. Outside, the wind whispered through pine and shadow; inside, the fire’s slow crackle stitched sound into the silence.

Jack sat at a heavy oak table, turning an old book over in his hands — its spine cracked, its pages yellowed, its title faded to almost nothing. Jeeny stood near the small window, the last light of dusk brushing her face.

The book was open to a page that held the quote she’d written down earlier.

Jeeny: “Orson Pratt once said, ‘It was seldom that I attended any religious meetings, as my parents had not much faith in and were never so unfortunate as to unite themselves with any of the religious sects.’”

Host: Her voice was quiet — not reverent, but thoughtful, like someone speaking not to quote scripture, but to summon memory. Jack looked up, the firelight flickering across his gray eyes, sharp and reflective.

Jack: “That’s a polite way of saying, we didn’t belong anywhere.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they didn’t want to. Maybe faith wasn’t something they could inherit.”

Jack: “Or something they could afford.”

Jeeny: “You think faith’s a privilege?”

Jack: “No. I think belonging is.”

Host: The wind pressed softly against the window, rattling the glass. The light dimmed further, and for a moment, it felt as though the world outside had drawn its breath to listen.

Jeeny turned from the window, her face half in shadow.

Jeeny: “You know, when I first read that quote, it didn’t sound bitter to me. It sounded... liberated. Like someone who was raised without a template for belief — who had to build it from scratch.”

Jack: “Or someone who never found it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think doubt is faith in disguise?”

Jeeny: “I think doubt is where real faith begins. The rest is just habit.”

Host: The fire shifted, sending a warm glow through the room — moving like slow, liquid light across the wood.

Jack: “Pratt grew up in the early 1800s, right? In that world, faith wasn’t optional. It was the architecture of identity. To be without a church was to be without a home.”

Jeeny: “And yet, his parents chose that exile. They’d rather wander outside the walls than kneel in a place that didn’t fit them.”

Jack: “Sounds familiar.”

Jeeny: “It should. We do it every day — with politics, with religion, with family. We unlearn what doesn’t fit, even if it leaves us standing alone.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer to the fire, her hands outstretched toward its warmth. The glow caught her eyes, turning them amber, alive.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it means to grow up without faith, Jack?”

Jack: “Sure. It means you learn to pray to yourself.”

Jeeny: “And do you ever answer?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But it’s not the same as being heard.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it’s the beginning of listening.”

Host: The flames flickered higher, painting the walls in dancing gold. Outside, the wind howled briefly — not cruelly, but with the sound of distance.

Jeeny: “I think what Pratt was really saying is that faith, like identity, isn’t something you join — it’s something you encounter. His parents didn’t have less faith; they had a different kind. One that didn’t fit in pews or creeds.”

Jack: “You sound like you envy that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. Imagine growing up in silence and having to decide for yourself what holiness sounds like.”

Jack: “And if you never find it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you realize holiness isn’t sound — it’s space.”

Host: Jack turned that over in his mind. The fire cracked again, releasing a small ember that glowed briefly before vanishing into ash.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought people need religion because they can’t stand the randomness of life. They want patterns. Cause and effect. Comfort.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t?”

Jack: “I want truth. Even if it’s empty.”

Jeeny: “But emptiness can be sacred too.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I think silence is the truest temple we’ve got.”

Host: The room was quiet again — the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full of invisible presence. The firelight danced on their faces, revealing something gentle in the contrast between them: his rational doubt, her quiet conviction.

Jack: “You know, Pratt ended up joining the early Latter-day Saints later in life. He found his faith eventually.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he learned how to live without it first.”

Jack: “You think you have to lose faith to find it?”

Jeeny: “I think you have to lose certainty.”

Host: She sat down across from him, her voice softer now — not the voice of debate, but of reflection.

Jeeny: “Faith without choice isn’t faith, Jack. It’s inheritance. His parents refused the comfort of belonging so he could choose his own meaning later.”

Jack: “You make their doubt sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It was. Doubt’s not the opposite of belief. It’s belief stretching its wings.”

Host: The rain began — slow, steady, the sound of grace meeting the earth. Jeeny’s eyes followed the window, where the glass quivered under droplets.

Jeeny: “You know, I think every generation has to decide what to worship. For Pratt, it was God. For us, it’s truth. But the longing — the ache for something greater — that’s the same.”

Jack: “And when that ache never goes away?”

Jeeny: “Then you live in the sacred tension between knowing and not knowing. That’s the real faith.”

Host: The fire dimmed. The last logs collapsed inward, their embers glowing like quiet heartbeats in the dark.

Jack: “You ever wish you had that kind of faith? The kind that makes the world simple again?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather have the kind that keeps me searching.”

Jack: (softly) “Even when there’s no answer?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The wind outside eased, and the silence that followed was so deep it almost hummed. Jack closed the old book and set it aside.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room was filled only with the small, steady crackle of flame and the breathing of two people who had found something holy in uncertainty.

Host: Because Orson Pratt’s words weren’t just about religion — they were about the courage to exist between convictions.

To grow up without certainty, and still seek meaning.
To live outside the temple, and still call the world sacred.

And as the fire faded into embers, the two of them sat together in that truth —
not believers, not unbelievers —
just human beings,
still learning how to listen to the silence between their questions.