My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series

Host: The sky was a bruised purple, the kind that comes just before dusk sinks completely into night. Rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the streets slick and glistening, mirroring the faint neon glow of an old bar sign—“Eden’s End.” Inside, smoke curled lazily in the air, mingling with the low hum of a forgotten piano.

Host: Jack sat in the corner, his jacket draped over the back of the chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating beside him. His grey eyes stared at the reflection of himself in the window, though what he seemed to see was far beyond the rain-streaked glass. Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold.

Host: On the table between them lay a small notebook, open to a page scrawled in blue ink—“My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another...” — Anne Lamott.

Jack: (half-smiling) I like that word—stagger. At least it’s honest. Most people talk about faith like it’s some glorious leap, a cinematic moment of revelation. But Lamott… she admits it’s clumsy, uncertain, maybe even a little pathetic.

Jeeny: (softly) Not pathetic—human. Faith isn’t about flying, Jack. It’s about not sinking while you learn how to walk.

Host: The bar light flickered, humming faintly as the bartender wiped down the counter. Shadows rippled across the walls like ghosts of old conversations.

Jack: Still, I can’t help but see it as survival instinct dressed up as spirituality. You lose your footing, you find a stone, and you call it faith. But really, you’re just scared of drowning.

Jeeny: Maybe. But who isn’t? Faith isn’t the denial of fear—it’s the decision to keep walking through it. Lamott didn’t say she leapt out of courage. She said she staggered despite her fear. That’s strength, not delusion.

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) Or it’s a beautiful way of saying you were lost.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Being lost doesn’t mean being wrong. Sometimes you have to wander before you can listen.

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance, a reminder of the storm that had passed. The air still smelled faintly of wet asphalt and electricity.

Jack: You really think faith can grow out of confusion? That uncertainty is a path instead of a problem?

Jeeny: Of course. Look at it this way—faith isn’t certainty. It’s the courage to move forward even when you aren’t sure. It’s process, not possession.

Jack: (scoffing) Process. That’s such a neat word for something so chaotic.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) Chaos is part of it, Jack. That’s what Lamott meant by the swamp of doubt and fear. You don’t cross that by pretending it’s solid ground—you cross it by trusting each fragile lily pad, one at a time.

Host: The light from a passing car streaked across their faces, catching the glint of Jeeny’s dark eyes—steady, yet full of something unspoken, a kind of grace that needed no defense.

Jack: But what if one of those lily pads sinks? What if the thing you trust just gives way?

Jeeny: (quietly) Then you start again. You find another. You keep moving. Faith doesn’t promise you won’t fall—it promises you can rise again when you do.

Jack: That sounds exhausting.

Jeeny: It is. But so is living without it.

Host: The clock above the bar ticked softly. Outside, a breeze began to stir, carrying the smell of wet leaves through the cracked door. The moment hung there—fragile, like glass before it shatters.

Jack: You know, when I was younger, I thought faith was supposed to be like a lightning bolt—sudden, divine, final. You believe, and everything changes. But Lamott’s version… it’s messy. There’s no revelation, no certainty. Just... movement.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. She doesn’t leap into belief—she limps toward it. And isn’t that what real faith looks like? Not an angelic arrival, but a trembling persistence.

Jack: (frowning, reflective) So faith isn’t a moment. It’s... a journey of mistakes.

Jeeny: (softly) A journey of growth. Every misstep is part of the path. Every doubt, a teacher.

Host: Jack’s hand traced the rim of his glass, the sound low and circular, like a memory turning over and over. His eyes drifted toward the window, watching a lone stray cat dart between the puddles.

Jack: You talk about doubt like it’s holy.

Jeeny: It is. Doubt is the door faith walks through. Without it, belief would be nothing but habit.

Jack: (murmuring) So you’re saying doubt is part of faith.

Jeeny: It’s the soil faith grows from. You can’t cultivate trust without first facing fear.

Host: For a moment, silence returned—thick, gentle, almost sacred. The bar’s piano began to play itself through an old jukebox, the notes wandering through the room like ghosts of an old hymn.

Jack: You know, I think I understand Lamott’s swamp now. It’s not about finding solid ground—it’s about learning that even the unstable can hold you if you let it.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly. Faith isn’t about certainty—it’s about trust in becoming.

Jack: (half-laughing) That sounds like something you’d put on a stained glass window.

Jeeny: (grinning) Maybe. But it’s true. Every lily pad, every little moment of grace, prepares us for the next. Even failure becomes part of the bridge.

Host: The light dimmed again, and a ray of moonlight slipped through the window, silvering the edge of Jack’s glass. He looked up, and for the first time that night, there was something softer in his eyes—not quite faith, but maybe its shadow.

Jack: Maybe… maybe faith isn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it’s not believing in something out there—but believing that I can keep moving even when I don’t see the shore.

Jeeny: (whispering) That’s it, Jack. That’s the whole story.

Host: The air between them felt lighter now, like the smoke had thinned. The world, in its tired quiet, seemed to hold its breath—a stillness that wasn’t emptiness, but peace.

Jeeny: (smiling) Every step, every stumble, every doubt—it’s all sacred. Each one is a lily pad, holding us long enough to see the next.

Jack: (smiling back) Then I guess I’ve been crossing that swamp my whole life.

Jeeny: (gently) We all have. And maybe that’s the point. Faith isn’t the end of the swamp—it’s how we learn to dance on the water.

Host: Outside, the rain began again, but softer now—like the earth exhaling. The neon sign flickered one last time, casting their faces in a wash of pale green. The sound of the piano faded, leaving only the rhythm of the rain and the faint hum of something eternal.

Host: Jack lifted his glass, not in toast, but in quiet acknowledgment—to doubt, to fear, to the fragile courage that kept them both afloat.

Host: And as the rain whispered against the window, the night felt less like a swamp, and more like a river—moving, carrying, forgiving—each drop a promise that faith was not found in the leap, but in the staggering grace of every small step forward.