Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble, attempts what is

Host:
The chapel stood small and half-forgotten at the edge of a meadow, its stone walls softened by ivy and time. Inside, the light of candles swayed in quiet rhythm, the flames bending as though bowing to something unseen. Dust floated in the air like tiny stars, drifting through the stillness, suspended between faith and memory.

It was early evening, that sacred hour between gold and shadow, when the world exhales before surrendering to night.

Jack sat alone on one of the wooden pews, his hands clasped, his head slightly bowed. His grey eyes reflected the faint light from the altar — the kind of light that reveals, rather than blinds.

Behind him, the door creaked softly, and Jeeny entered. Her steps were quiet, her dress brushed with the soft smell of rain. She paused, taking in the sight of him — a man who looked as though he were praying not for forgiveness, but for understanding.

She walked to the front, sitting beside him, her hands folded neatly on her lap. The air between them trembled with the kind of silence that carries truth — heavy, gentle, inescapable.

Jack: “‘Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble, attempts what is above its strength, pleads no excuse of impossibility; for it thinks all things lawful for itself, and all things possible.’” His voice was low, echoing faintly against the stone. “Thomas à Kempis wrote that. It sounds noble until you’ve actually loved someone.”

Host:
The flames on the candles flickered as he spoke, throwing long shadows that seemed to breathe.

Jeeny: “You think he was wrong?”

Jack: “I think he never had to carry love that didn’t love him back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. That’s why he called it strength.”

Jack: “Strength?” He laughed softly — not cruelly, but like a man confessing exhaustion. “Love doesn’t make you strong. It empties you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But emptiness can be holy.”

Jack: “Holy?”

Jeeny: “When you love beyond your limits, you touch something divine — even if it hurts.”

Host:
Her voice was soft but steady. She turned her gaze toward the altar, where a single cross hung against the light.

Jack: “You talk like pain’s a sacrament.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Real love asks for everything — pride, comfort, logic — and gives nothing guaranteed in return.”

Jack: “That’s not love. That’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
A faint wind slipped through the open door, brushing against the flames. For a moment, all the candles bent in unison, as if listening.

Jack: “You really believe love can make the impossible possible?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love doesn’t measure cost the way fear does. It doesn’t count miles or mistakes — it just moves forward.”

Jack: “Blindly?”

Jeeny: “Faithfully.”

Host:
Her eyes lifted toward the altar — calm, unwavering. The light touched her face like reverence itself.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It is. Even in its ruin.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Kempis meant — that love transcends reason?”

Jeeny: “No. That love is reason, when reason remembers the soul.”

Host:
He sat back, exhaling. The sound echoed faintly, a sigh that seemed to belong to both of them.

Jack: “You know, I used to think love was mutual — an exchange, a fairness. I give, you give. That’s how we keep it alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s affection, not love. Affection looks for balance. Love doesn’t care about the scales.”

Jack: “And what happens when one person keeps giving?”

Jeeny: “Then they’ve entered the divine territory — where giving itself becomes the reward.”

Jack: “That sounds like martyrdom.”

Jeeny: “It is — the kind that saves the heart, not the body.”

Host:
A single tear rolled down her cheek, slow and luminous in the candlelight. She didn’t wipe it away. Jack saw it, and for the first time in a long while, his own eyes softened — not in pity, but in recognition.

Jack: “You’ve loved like that.”

Jeeny: “I have.”

Jack: “And did it make you happy?”

Jeeny: “No. It made me human.”

Host:
Her voice trembled slightly at the edges, but her expression was steady — serene, almost sacred.

Jack: “You think there’s strength in loving someone who doesn’t love you back?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because you loved honestly, without bargaining.”

Jack: “But it still hurts.”

Jeeny: “Pain is proof you felt something worth feeling.”

Host:
He turned toward her then, his face caught between defiance and surrender.

Jack: “You sound like love’s priestess.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s learned that love isn’t supposed to make sense — it’s supposed to make meaning.”

Jack: “And if meaning isn’t enough?”

Jeeny: “Then you weren’t ready for real love.”

Host:
The words fell like petals, quiet but heavy. The light from the candles pulsed, each flame alive in its trembling.

Jack: “You know what scares me? That Kempis was right. That love really doesn’t care about limits — and that terrifies people like me who build walls around everything.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe love’s purpose is to ruin the architecture of fear.”

Jack: “And what’s left after the ruin?”

Jeeny: “The foundation. The soul.”

Host:
The wind slipped through again, and one of the candles went out. The flame gave a brief shimmer before surrendering to smoke. Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jack: “You think love can live forever?”

Jeeny: “Yes — if you stop asking it to last, and start asking it to mean.”

Jack: “And when it ends?”

Jeeny: “Then it turns into prayer.”

Host:
He looked at her, long and silent. The cross above them cast a faint shadow on the wall, the light around it warm and steady.

Jack: “You really believe love can do the impossible.”

Jeeny: “It already does. Every time it survives us.”

Host:
The camera would pull back — the two figures small before the altar, their silhouettes framed by flickering light. The candles trembled but did not die, their glow reaching toward the ceiling like soft declarations of faith.

And as the scene faded to gold and shadow, Thomas à Kempis’s words would linger — not as philosophy, but as living prayer:

That love carries no burden,
because to carry is its nature.

That it knows no limits,
because to give beyond measure
is its only truth.

For in the end,
love is not the refusal of impossibility —
it is the quiet, burning belief
that everything sacred is worth the cost.