Joy is the serious business of Heaven.

Host: The city was sinking into evening, its skyline painted in violet haze and gold smoke from the setting sun. The air outside the old bookstore café smelled faintly of dust and ink, a scent caught between centuries. Inside, the lights glowed low and amber, reflecting off shelves lined with forgotten philosophy and theology books. Somewhere, a piano played faintly — a melody that sounded like a memory trying to find its way home.

At a table by the window, Jack sat with his usual stillness, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. He looked out the window as if searching for something he’d once lost in the noise of the world. Across from him, Jeeny sat, her brown eyes full of quiet light, her hair falling softly over her shoulders. She was smiling at a page she’d been reading — one marked by an old fold and faint underlines.

Host: The moment was tender and deliberate, like a frame from a forgotten film. Outside, rain had begun to whisper against the window, each drop a small heartbeat of the world’s endless motion.

Jeeny: (closing the book) “C. S. Lewis once said, ‘Joy is the serious business of Heaven.’”

Jack: (without looking at her) “I’ve always wondered why joy would need to be a business at all.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Because it’s not a game, Jack. Maybe joy is the most serious thing we ever take for granted.”

Jack: (turning to her now) “Joy? You mean happiness. Pleasure. Comfort. You think Heaven — if it exists — runs on sentimentality?”

Jeeny: “No. Joy isn’t sentiment. It’s truth. Lewis wasn’t talking about comfort — he was talking about the kind of joy that pierces you. The kind that makes you cry while you smile. The kind that demands honesty.”

Host: Jack’s brows furrowed, the faint crease of skepticism forming like an old scar. He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under the weight of his resistance.

Jack: “You sound like you think joy’s a virtue. I think it’s an accident — a side effect of distraction. People chase it, spend lifetimes trying to recreate it. Then it fades, and they’re left emptier than before.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they confuse joy with escape. Real joy doesn’t fade, Jack. It transforms. It’s the echo of something eternal.”

Jack: “Eternal? You’re starting to sound like Lewis himself. You think there’s a Heaven somewhere keeping accounts of our smiles?”

Jeeny: (gently) “No. But I think Heaven might be the state of being where joy finally makes sense — not as a break from life, but as the language of it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drawing silver lines down the glass. Jack’s reflection shimmered beside hers — two blurred silhouettes caught between cynicism and faith.

Jack: “You talk about joy like it’s sacred. But look around — people are exhausted. They laugh online, post their ‘happiness,’ but they’re miserable. You think Heaven would bother with this world’s kind of joy?”

Jeeny: “Heaven doesn’t need our filters. It wants our hearts. Even the broken ones. Especially those. Joy isn’t the absence of pain — it’s what grows through it. You remember Lewis wrote ‘Surprised by Joy’ after losing his wife, right? He found joy in grief. That’s why he called it serious — because it survives what happiness can’t.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — a brief break in the armor. He looked at her, then down at the table, where a thin pool of light reflected the trembling candle flame between them.

Jack: (quietly) “Surviving joy… sounds like an oxymoron.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind worth trusting.”

Jack: (leaning forward slightly) “Then tell me — where does this kind of joy come from? Faith? Illusion? Or do you just decide to smile while the world burns?”

Jeeny: “No. You find it when the world burns, and you still love something inside it.”

Host: The rain slowed, the rhythm turning delicate, almost shy. The faint piano inside the café shifted to a minor key, echoing the weight in their voices.

Jack: “You make it sound like joy is defiance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The purest kind. Think of the people in concentration camps who still sang. Or the nurses during the plague who still laughed while holding the dying. That wasn’t ignorance — it was transcendence. That’s what Heaven must look like, Jack — people who refuse to let despair be the final word.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “So Heaven isn’t some place above us — it’s a way of standing up in the ashes.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. And joy is the work of it. The serious work.”

Host: The light shifted again as a passing car’s headlights brushed across their faces — a flash of illumination, gone as quickly as it came. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened.

Jack: “You think joy is holy. I think it’s fragile. And I think people like you mistake fragility for faith.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Fragility is faith. To feel joy knowing it might vanish — that’s courage. That’s Heaven breaking into Earth.”

Host: The rain outside had thinned to mist, a quiet haze on the streets. Inside, the café lights flickered against the ceiling beams. Jeeny leaned forward slightly, her voice low but fierce.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when your father died, you told me you couldn’t feel anything? That you didn’t cry because you thought grief was weakness?”

Jack: (stiffening) “You don’t have to bring that up.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because that’s when you stopped believing in joy. You thought pain meant absence. But maybe pain was the door.”

Jack: (whispering) “The door to what?”

Jeeny: “To the same place joy comes from.”

Host: The silence between them grew thick, heavy — not awkward, but alive. The candle’s flame swayed slightly, casting small shadows across Jack’s face. His eyes glistened, though he tried to hide it.

Jack: “If that’s true… then joy and pain are siblings.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Twins, actually. One reminds you you’re alive. The other reminds you why.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked softly — the only sound now besides the faint breath of rain and the echo of the piano’s last note.

Jack: (softly) “I used to think Heaven was peace. No more questions, no more loss.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe it’s what you said — a place where joy finally makes sense. Where it doesn’t have to fight to exist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe Heaven is just the moment when joy stops being a visitor.”

Host: The light from the candle danced once more, then steadied. Jack smiled faintly — not a cynical smile, but the kind that breaks open quietly, like dawn through fog.

Jack: “If joy is Heaven’s work… then I suppose despair is Earth’s business.”

Jeeny: “And maybe every time we choose joy — even in small ways — we’re stealing business from despair.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely now. Through the window, the streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement like threads of gold. The sound of laughter from a distant alley drifted faintly through the cracked door — a small, human reminder that even the night was still alive.

Jack stood, reaching for his coat. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft with understanding.

Jack: “You know… I think Lewis was right. Maybe joy really is Heaven’s serious business.”

Jeeny: “And maybe we’re its apprentices.”

Host: They stepped outside together, into the glistening quiet. The city was alive again — not in noise, but in light. Each puddle shimmered like a mirror, each breath visible in the cool night air. And as Jack and Jeeny walked down the narrow street, their footsteps echoed softly — not hurried, not heavy — just present, like two notes from the same unfinished hymn.

Above them, the sky had cleared, revealing the faint shimmer of stars — not many, but enough to remind them that even the smallest lights carry the weight of Heaven’s work.