Modern conveniences grant us more free time to focus on spiritual

Host: The city hummed with late evening light — a soft amber glow from apartment windows spilling into the street below. The air was still, thick with the faint scent of rain that had fallen earlier, leaving the pavement slick and reflective, like a mirror turned upside down.

In a small coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a florist, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. The room was mostly empty, save for the steady hiss of the espresso machine and a low tune playing from an old radio.

Jack stirred his coffee, eyes distant, his reflection trembling in the cup. Jeeny sat opposite him, hands wrapped around her mug as if it held warmth deeper than heat — the warmth of purpose.

Host: A clock ticked somewhere behind them. The night outside moved slowly, like an old film reel playing in reverse.

Jeeny: “You know, I was reading something by James E. Faust earlier — ‘Modern conveniences grant us more free time to focus on spiritual needs and devote more time to personal service. But the basic element which should never change in the lives of righteous young women is giving service to others.’ It made me think — maybe we’ve misunderstood what ‘convenience’ was supposed to do for us.”

Jack: “Convenience?” (He chuckled dryly.) “That’s all modern life is, Jeeny. A competition to make everything easier. Faster food, shorter lines, smarter phones. You’d think with all that time we’d become philosophers by now — but people just binge more shows.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. The light caught the grey in his eyes, cold but not cruel — the kind of light that had seen too much efficiency and too little meaning.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Faust meant, Jack. We’ve gained all this time but lost the heart for what to do with it. Service isn’t supposed to be convenient — it’s supposed to connect us. Machines can save hours, but only people can save souls.”

Jack: “You talk like service is some kind of salvation. But look around — no one has time to help anyone anymore. Everyone’s too busy surviving. You think the delivery driver pulling twelve-hour shifts cares about spiritual needs?”

Jeeny: “He might not have the luxury to think about them — but someone has to care for him, too. That’s the point. Service isn’t just charity; it’s awareness. Seeing the exhaustion in his eyes and leaving him a kind word, a larger tip, a smile that tells him he’s seen.”

Host: The steam from their cups curled upward like spirits ascending, dissolving into the dim air. A bus rumbled past outside, shaking the window slightly. Jack’s fingers tapped restlessly on the table.

Jack: “Kindness doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. The world runs on transaction, not tenderness. You give your time to others, they take it. You end up empty.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cynic’s illusion — that giving depletes. Real service doesn’t drain; it transforms. You ever helped someone, really helped them — and felt that quiet warmth afterward? That’s not emptiness. That’s the soul remembering its purpose.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. The café lights flickered as a passing car’s headlights swept across their faces. For a second, the reflection of the world outside — busy, indifferent, neon — crossed over their small moment of stillness.

Jack: “Purpose. That word again. You think service is some grand spiritual truth, but I’ve seen people give until they break. Nurses working until they collapse. Teachers burned out by the weight of saving kids who don’t want saving. Tell me that’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is — because they gave themselves to something beyond comfort. The sacred isn’t in the success, Jack. It’s in the sacrifice. They’re not saints because they saved everyone. They’re saints because they tried.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, carrying that tremor of conviction that came not from pride but from love. The air between them thickened, not with tension, but with something more fragile — truth brushing up against pain.

Jack: “You romanticize suffering. That’s what faith people always do — turn exhaustion into holiness. Maybe convenience is mercy, Jeeny. Maybe we’re meant to escape all that weight.”

Jeeny: “No. Convenience is supposed to help us serve, not replace it. It was meant to free our hands so they could lift others. But instead, we filled them with screens.”

Host: The old barista in the corner turned off the grinder, and the sound of silence rolled in — thick, alive, expectant. The clock ticked again.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack — when was the last time you did something for someone that didn’t pay back?”

Jack: (quietly) “Does listening to you count?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Only if it changes you.”

Host: Jack looked away, out the window where the city lights pulsed like artificial stars. His reflection merged with the glass, fading into the rain streaks.

Jack: “I used to volunteer, you know. Back when I was younger. A shelter downtown. I thought I could fix people — patch up the broken. But one night this old man, Thomas, he told me, ‘You don’t fix people, son. You just walk with them until they remember they’re not alone.’ I stopped going after that.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because I realized I was doing it to feel good about myself. It wasn’t about them — it was about me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it started that way. But it doesn’t matter how service begins, Jack. What matters is that it moves you toward humility. The act teaches you what your ego won’t.”

Host: Her words settled softly, like ash after a quiet fire. Jack’s fingers stopped tapping. He looked down at his coffee — now cold, untouched, but somehow heavier than before.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred. The smallest act of kindness can ripple through lifetimes you’ll never see. Faust was right — modern life gives us time, but the righteous thing is how we use it. You can spend it scrolling or serving.”

Jack: “And if no one notices?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve done it right. True service isn’t for applause. It’s the art of being invisible for someone else’s light to shine.”

Host: The café’s light dimmed as closing time approached. The barista wiped down the counter, humming softly. Jack leaned back, his shoulders loosening for the first time that night.

Jack: “You really believe the world can be changed by small acts? By one person helping another?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it — I’ve seen it. A meal left at a door. A text that says ‘I’m thinking of you.’ A hand reaching out when someone’s drowning in silence. That’s the revolution, Jack — not the loud kind, but the quiet one.”

Host: Outside, the rain began again, tapping softly against the window — like the heartbeat of something patient and eternal.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the problem isn’t that the world’s too busy — maybe it’s that we’ve forgotten what to be busy for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve built machines to do everything but care. And that’s the one thing that will always need us.”

Host: Jeeny stood, slipping her coat over her shoulders. Jack followed, tossing a few bills onto the table. They stepped outside together into the drizzle. The streetlights blurred in the rain, glowing like halos on the wet asphalt.

For a moment, neither spoke. The night felt still — suspended between weariness and grace. Then Jack reached up, his hand catching a drop of rain.

Jack: “Feels like baptism.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every small act of service is, too.”

Host: They walked side by side down the quiet street, the world around them both modern and ancient — full of noise, full of light, yet always waiting for someone to pause, to give, to see.

Behind them, the coffee shop light flickered out, leaving only the rain — soft, persistent, and holy.

And somewhere in the hum of the city, a thousand invisible acts of kindness began, one after another, like candles being lit in the dark.