My trust in God flows out of the experience of his loving me, day

Host: The rain fell in slow, silver threads against the cracked windowpane of a small apartment overlooking the city’s trembling lights. Night had folded itself into the corners of the room, leaving only a lamp’s warm glow to fight the darkness. Steam rose from two untouched mugs of coffee, their aroma mingling with the faint scent of wet asphalt and loneliness.

Jack sat near the window, his shoulders rigid, hands clasped, eyes reflecting the neon signs flickering below. Jeeny sat across from him on the sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her dark hair glistening from the rain. The room carried the silence of two souls who had said too much already, and yet not enough.

Outside, thunder murmured, like some distant god remembering the world.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘My trust in God flows out of the experience of His loving me, day in and day out… whether the day is stormy or fair.’”
(Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes stayed steady on Jack.) “Don’t you think that’s… beautiful, Jack? That kind of love—constant, undeserved, and unconditional?”

Jack: (dryly) “Beautiful, sure. But also naive. You make it sound like the universe actually cares. As if some invisible hand is pulling the strings out of love, not indifference.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the sharp angles of Jack’s face. His jaw tightened, as if the light itself accused him of disbelief.

Jeeny: “You think it’s indifference because you’ve seen pain and called it proof. But maybe pain is part of that love. Even in sickness, in disgrace—Brennan Manning said, ‘He comes to me where I live and loves me as I am.’ That’s not fairy tale faith, Jack. That’s the kind born in the darkest nights.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Pain as proof of love? That’s a twisted theology, Jeeny. If someone beat you and said, ‘I do this because I love you,’ you’d call that abuse, not devotion. The world burns, people die of things no one deserves, and you call it love?”

Host: The clock ticked louder, its rhythm echoing through the room like a slow heartbeat. Jeeny looked down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly against the mug.

Jeeny: “I’ve been in hospital wards where people prayed their last breaths. Some cursed, some begged, some smiled through agony. I remember a woman—lung cancer, final stage. She couldn’t even whisper, but she kept writing, ‘He’s here.’ Over and over. She wasn’t delirious, Jack. She felt something. Something beyond reason.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly it—beyond reason. You want me to believe in a god who hides behind mystery every time logic fails? If He’s real, He’s got a cruel way of showing love. Starving kids, broken families, wars fought in His name. Don’t tell me that’s affection. That’s neglect.”

Host: The rain thickened, drumming harder against the window, like an argument the sky refused to end. Jack’s reflection wavered in the glass, twin to his inner doubt. Jeeny watched him—his anger, his pain, the weight he carried in silence.

Jeeny: “You always speak of the world’s cruelty as if it cancels out love. But love isn’t meant to erase pain—it’s meant to endure through it. Don’t you see, Jack? That’s what Manning meant. God doesn’t love us because we’re good or strong. He loves us when we’re broken, when we’ve stopped pretending to deserve it.”

Jack: “Endure through it? That’s poetic, but useless. Try telling that to someone in Gaza tonight, or to a mother in a refugee camp. Faith doesn’t feed a starving child.”

Host: His voice rose, rough as gravel, his hand slamming the table. The lamp flickered for a moment, as if the room itself shuddered at his words. Jeeny didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, her eyes burning softly, her tone unwavering.

Jeeny: “And yet faith feeds something that food can’t. Don’t you remember Viktor Frankl? In the concentration camps—he lost everything, but he wrote that those who believed life still had meaning were the ones who survived. Not the strongest, but the ones who believed. That’s what trust in love does. It keeps the heart from dying before the body does.”

Jack: (quietly now) “Meaning is different from love, Jeeny. Meaning is what we create. Love—especially divine love—that’s what we wish for when we can’t explain the mess.”

Host: A long pause stretched between them. The rain softened, turning into a gentle whisper. Jack’s eyes softened too, his voice losing the edge of anger and taking on the tone of tired honesty.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray. When my mother got sick, I prayed every night. I told Him I’d do anything if she could live. She didn’t. And all I got was silence. So when you talk about this constant love, I just… I can’t find it anywhere. Not in the storms, not in the calm.”

Host: Jeeny’s face changed, the kind of sadness that doesn’t speak pity, only understanding. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his.

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t silence, Jack. Maybe it was sorrow. Maybe He didn’t stop your pain, but sat in it with you. That’s what Manning meant. He comes to me where I live. Not in cathedrals, not in prayers answered the way we want—but right here, in the middle of our wreckage.”

Jack: (whispering) “And you believe that? That He’s here—right now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even now. Especially now.”

Host: The lamplight swayed slightly as the wind sighed through the cracks of the window. The sound of the rain softened into something like forgiveness. For a moment, both of them sat still—two figures wrapped in the fragile warmth of understanding.

Jack: “If what you say is true, then He loves me even when I don’t believe in Him.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Exactly. That’s the point. Love that waits even for disbelief—that’s divine.”

Host: A small smile broke through Jack’s mask of cynicism, the kind that comes from surrender, not victory. He turned back to the window, watching the reflections blur into one another—the streetlights, the rain, his own shadow.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t a fortress after all. Maybe it’s… a wound that heals differently.”

Jeeny: “A wound that teaches you how to feel again. That’s why Brennan Manning called it trust, not certainty. It’s not about knowing—it’s about falling, every day, into the same arms, whether you deserve them or not.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city lights flickered brighter, like embers refusing to die. Somewhere in the distance, a train passed, its echo fading into the night.

Jack stood slowly, his silhouette framed against the window. He looked at Jeeny—not with disbelief, but with quiet awe.

Jack: “You make it sound like love is the only thing that doesn’t need proof.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t. It just needs to be received.”

Host: And in that moment, the world outside seemed gentler. The storm had passed, not only from the sky, but from within them. The air carried that sacred stillness that follows understanding.

As Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the lamplight touched their faces—two souls on opposite ends of faith, yet bound by the same unspoken truth:

That love, in its quiet persistence, is the only miracle that keeps showing up—day in, day out, through storm and sunlight, through belief and doubt, loving us just as we are.