Missionary work has never been easy, and yet the joyful rewards

Host: The sun was beginning to sink behind the desert hills, staining the sky in streaks of amber and crimson. The wind carried the faint smell of dust, sagebrush, and distance — that lonely scent of places too wide for words. A small mission house stood on the edge of a quiet village, its wooden cross silhouetted against the dying light.

Inside, the room was dim, lit by a single oil lamp that trembled with each breath of evening air. Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands still streaked with the grit of a long day. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair loose, her face softened by exhaustion and something deeper — a quiet, luminous kind of faith.

For a while, they said nothing. Only the buzz of a single fly, the creak of the wooden chair, and the distant sound of children’s laughter filled the silence.

Then Jeeny spoke — her voice gentle, but steady.

Jeeny: “Gordon B. Hinckley once said, ‘Missionary work has never been easy, and yet the joyful rewards cannot be equaled by any other experience.’”

Jack: “Easy? No. Joyful? I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”

Host: Jack’s tone was dry, but not cruel. His eyes drifted toward the window, where the light of the village fire flickered against the darkening sky.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in what we’re doing?”

Jack: “I believe in effort. I believe in trying to make the world less cruel. But missionary work? It feels like selling hope door to door.”

Jeeny: “Selling?”

Jack: “Yeah. You knock on someone’s door, you tell them what you believe, and you hope they buy it. Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. Either way, you go back to your room and tell yourself you planted a seed. But what if they never asked for a garden?”

Host: Jeeny’s hands tightened around the edge of the table. The lamp light caught her eyes, and they burned softly — not with anger, but with conviction.

Jeeny: “You think that’s all it is? Selling faith?”

Jack: “Tell me it’s not.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s sharing light. It’s stepping into someone’s pain and saying, ‘You’re not alone.’ You think that’s nothing? That’s everything.”

Host: The wind brushed against the window, rattling it like an old memory trying to get in. Jack didn’t look at her — but his jaw moved slightly, the muscles tightening, the kind of small movement that betrays unease.

Jack: “Light is fine. But sometimes people just need food, or medicine, or silence. I’ve seen missionaries talk about heaven to people who haven’t eaten in days.”

Jeeny: “And maybe both matter. You feed the body and the soul. One without the other leaves people starving in different ways.”

Jack: “You sound like every preacher I’ve ever met.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because they’ve seen what I’ve seen. I met a woman last week — her husband died, her home burned. She said she stopped believing there was anything left to live for. We sat together. I didn’t preach. I just listened. By the end, she smiled. That smile, Jack — that’s the reward Hinckley meant.”

Host: The lamp flame flickered, casting shadows that danced along the walls, like silent witnesses to her faith. Jack leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, thoughtful.

Jack: “You’re saying joy comes from giving yourself away.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But I’ve seen people give until they’re empty — until there’s nothing left to give. You can’t save the world by burning yourself out.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can light a few candles in the dark. That’s all we’re asked to do.”

Host: The room fell quiet again. Outside, the voices of villagers drifted through the night air — low, warm, alive. Jack listened, his expression softening.

Jack: “When I first came here, I thought we’d change everything. Build schools, fix roofs, make life better. But now I realize life doesn’t bend so easily. You fix one leak, another starts.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep fixing them. That’s the work.”

Jack: “And the reward?”

Jeeny: “The look in their eyes when you show up again the next day. The trust. The laughter. The way they start to believe again — not in heaven maybe, but in people.”

Host: A small silence hung in the room, fragile and golden. The lamp hummed. The desert wind sighed.

Jack: “You sound like you really believe joy can come out of exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “It does. You just have to look at it differently. Joy doesn’t mean happiness. It means meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning’s expensive.”

Jeeny: “So is apathy.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved slightly — not quite a smile, more like a memory of one. He reached for his glass, took a slow sip of water, and set it down.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought joy meant success. Finishing things. Winning. But here —” he gestured toward the window, the village beyond “— here it’s different. You do everything right, and still, sometimes, nothing changes.”

Jeeny: “Something always changes. Maybe not what you expect. Maybe it’s you.”

Jack: “Me?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You think you came to teach. But maybe you came to learn.”

Host: The air seemed to grow still, like even the wind had paused to listen. Jack’s eyes met hers — grey and brown, logic and faith — a tension as old as time.

Jack: “You really think faith can survive all this?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Jack: “Even when the people you’re helping don’t want help?”

Jeeny: “Then you help differently. You listen. You serve. You stay. You love without conditions. That’s what Hinckley meant by ‘joyful rewards.’ They come when you stop needing thanks.”

Host: Outside, a child’s laughter broke through the darkness, clear and bright. Both of them turned their heads toward the sound. Through the window, they could see a small group of children chasing each other through the dust, their shadows stretching long across the ground.

Jeeny smiled.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it. Right there. That’s why we stay.”

Jack: “You think laughter is enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that is.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice lower now — not harsh, but almost reverent.

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every act of kindness is sacred. Every time you choose to show up for someone — even when it’s hard — that’s sacred work. Missionary or not.”

Host: The lamp light trembled again, catching the faint shimmer of tears in Jeeny’s eyes, though she never blinked them away.

Jack: “You know, I came here to build things. Houses. Wells. But you — you’re building something invisible.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the harder kind.”

Host: The wind outside had gone still now. The night lay quiet, deep, almost holy.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the small village lights flickering like candles in a cathedral made of stars.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the reward isn’t what you get back. Maybe it’s what you become.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You become the work itself.”

Host: Jack turned, and for the first time, there was peace in his face — a stillness that had been missing for years.

Jack: “To hard work that doesn’t make sense, but still feels right.”

Jeeny: “To joy that doesn’t need to.”

Host: The lamp flame steadied, glowing soft and sure, as if echoing the quiet truth between them. Outside, the village lights burned on, fragile but enduring — a constellation of faith, of effort, of love that asks for nothing and gives everything.

And as the camera pulled away, the hills stood in silent witness, the last of the sunlight fading behind them — a world imperfect, still unfinished, but gently, irrevocably illuminated.