Many people mistake our work for our vocation. Our vocation is

Host:
The night lay still over Calcutta, thick with heat and the faint scent of burning incense from the narrow streets below. The city breathed like a tired child — slow, uneven, heavy with the weight of both suffering and song. From a small balcony above the crowded alleys, the faint glow of candles spilled through open shutters. Inside, the room was dim and sparse — a wooden table, two chairs, a crucifix, and the faint hum of a fan turning lazily in the air.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands stained with ink and fatigue. He looked out at the flickering city lights, his grey eyes reflecting something distant — the restless mind of a man who had built too much and understood too little.

Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her fingers resting on the edge of a Bible, her eyes calm, her posture humble but unyielding — like someone who carried peace not as comfort, but as burden.

The air between them was still — not empty, but sacred, the silence of people who had begun to hear what words could no longer say.

Jack: “‘Many people mistake our work for our vocation. Our vocation is the love of Jesus.’” He said it slowly, as if testing the weight of each word. “Mother Teresa said that. I don’t know if it’s wisdom or a warning.”

Host:
The fan turned overhead with a low, rhythmic hum. Jeeny looked up at him, her expression serene but knowing — the look of someone who had already wrestled with the meaning and paid its price.

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Jack: “You really think love is a vocation?”

Jeeny: “I think for her, it was the only one worth living for.”

Jack: “But she called it work, didn’t she? Feeding the poor, holding the dying — it was labor.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “That was the evidence. The work was her proof of love. The vocation was the love itself.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the work doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “It matters — but only if it’s born of love. Without love, work is just noise.”

Host:
Her words settled in the space like dust in sunlight. Jack rubbed his temples, his brow furrowed. The sound of children laughing faintly in the alley below drifted up through the window — a strange, fragile harmony against the heaviness of the night.

Jack: “You ever think that’s naive? Love doesn’t feed people. It doesn’t build houses. It doesn’t keep lights on.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s why anyone bothers to do those things at all.”

Jack: “You think she believed that when she held someone dying?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host:
The candlelight trembled, casting shadows that danced across the walls — small, flickering spirits. Jack stared at them as if they might offer a simpler answer.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s an occupation. But most of us can barely afford compassion, let alone divine devotion.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem. We treat love like charity — something we do when we have time. But she lived it as purpose.”

Jack: “And what did it cost her?”

Jeeny: “Everything. But that’s what makes it sacred.”

Host:
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. The sound of a distant church bell carried faintly through the night — soft, tired, but unwavering.

Jack: “You ever wonder if she doubted it? The calling, I mean.”

Jeeny: “Of course she did. She wrote about it. That’s what made her human. Faith without doubt is arrogance.”

Jack: “And love without exhaustion?”

Jeeny: “Fantasy.”

Host:
The fan creaked softly above them. The city’s hum returned — low, alive, breathing.

Jack: “You make it sound like love’s supposed to hurt.”

Jeeny: “Not hurt — stretch. Real love stretches you until you think you’ll break, and then somehow you don’t.”

Jack: “You think that’s divine?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s what divinity feels like when it lives in us.”

Host:
Her eyes glistened in the candlelight, but not with tears — with conviction. Jack looked at her, and for the first time, there was something in his expression that resembled awe.

Jack: “You ever think people like her — the saints, the visionaries — are just wired differently? Built to love in ways the rest of us can’t?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they just refuse to stop trying.”

Jack: “That’s not courage, that’s obsession.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But obsession is what happens when love finally finds purpose.”

Host:
The light flickered once more. The Bible on the table was open to Corinthians — the verse that read, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Jack noticed it and smiled faintly.

Jack: “You think that’s what vocation means, then? Endurance?”

Jeeny: “No. It means belonging. To something greater than your comfort, greater than your will. Mother Teresa didn’t just serve the poor — she belonged to them.”

Jack: “Belonged to them?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love isn’t about charity — it’s about communion.”

Host:
Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. Outside, a dog barked, and the faint clatter of a rickshaw echoed through the alley, but neither seemed to disturb the sanctity of the moment.

Jack: “You ever wonder if she got tired of loving?”

Jeeny: “I think she got tired of feeling it. But she never stopped doing it. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “You make love sound like a discipline.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every day, you choose it — even when you don’t feel it. Especially when you don’t.”

Host:
The wind slipped through the window, stirring the flame. For a brief moment, the room glowed brighter, and then dimmed again, returning to stillness.

Jack: “You know, I used to think work defined us — the things we build, the impact we leave.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think impact is temporary. Only love lasts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you finally understand vocation.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Host:
The bell tolled again — once, twice, echoing through the night like a heartbeat. The city below continued, unbothered, alive — the sacred and the ordinary interwoven as always.

Jack stood slowly, stepping toward the window, his hands resting on the frame. He looked down at the winding streets, the people, the noise — the living, breathing proof of both labor and grace.

Jack: “You think love’s enough to save the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s enough to save the person who tries.”

Host:
He turned to her, smiling faintly — the first real smile of the night.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the work after all — learning how to keep trying.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “Because love isn’t something you finish. It’s something you keep doing — even when the world forgets why.”

Host:
The camera would pull back slowly — the small room glowing against the dark sprawl of Calcutta, the candle flame a fragile defiance against the shadow of endless need.

And as the bell’s echo faded into the night, Mother Teresa’s truth unfolded not as dogma, but as a quiet revelation — that vocation is not a job, nor even a calling, but a surrender:

To love without expectation,
To serve without ownership,
And to live as though every heartbeat is an act of worship.