Never be discouraged. If I were sunk in the lowest pits of Nova

Host: The storm had just passed, leaving the mountain air heavy with the scent of rain and pine. Mist drifted between the black silhouettes of trees, curling around the edges of the cabin like ghostly smoke. Inside, a fire burned low, its flames licking lazily at the charred wood, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.

Jack sat near the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands mud-streaked, his eyes fixed on the fog beyond the glass — the look of a man who had fought something he could not see. Jeeny stood behind him, arms crossed, watching him in the half-light, her breath soft but steady, like the echo of faith refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You look like a man who just lost a war.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. Against myself.”

Host: Her footsteps moved closer, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her. The firelight danced in her eyes, deep and brown, like earth after rain.

Jeeny: “You once told me you didn’t believe in hope — that it was a kind of self-deception. What changed?”

Jack: “The mountain,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, like it had been scraped by wind and silence. “The damn mountain taught me that sometimes even breathing feels like defiance.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve learned what Joseph Smith meant — ‘Never be discouraged. If I were sunk in the lowest pits of Nova Scotia, with the Rocky Mountains piled on me, I would hang on, exercise faith, and keep up good courage, and I would come out on top.’”

Host: Her words hung in the room, glowing faintly like embers above the ash. Outside, a distant thunder rolled across the valley, fading into the mountains like a promise not yet broken.

Jack: “Faith? You think faith can dig a man out from under a mountain? You’ve never seen what real despair looks like, Jeeny. It’s not poetic. It’s not noble. It’s just cold — like the moment you realize there’s no one coming to save you.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here.”

Jack: “By accident.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. By will.”

Host: He turned, his eyes flashing in the firelight, the kind of anger that comes from truth being too close to the bone.

Jack: “Don’t turn this into a sermon. You talk about will and faith like they’re interchangeable. But faith is for people who need stories to survive. I deal in facts — and facts don’t care if you hang on or let go.”

Jeeny: “And yet the fact is — you didn’t let go.”

Jack: “Because I’m too stubborn to die.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith wearing another name.”

Host: The flames crackled, a sudden burst of sparks lighting the room like stars in miniature. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the world still dripped — branches, eaves, stone — every surface a slow heartbeat of endurance.

Jack: “You think every struggle has meaning, don’t you? That if we just believe hard enough, the universe owes us a way out.”

Jeeny: “No, I think struggle creates meaning. The mountain doesn’t move, Jack — we climb.”

Jack: “Until we fall.”

Jeeny: “Then we climb again.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s sacred.”

Host: He laughed, but there was no mockery in it — only exhaustion, the kind that carries the weight of too many broken nights.

Jack: “Sacred? You think pain is sacred?”

Jeeny: “Not pain itself. The courage to live through it.”

Jack: “You talk like courage is infinite.”

Jeeny: “It is — in moments. Like breath. You only need enough for the next second, the next choice, the next heartbeat.”

Host: The firelight shifted, casting shadows that flickered like ghosts of their words. Jack rose, paced, his boots leaving small prints of mud across the wooden floor. He stopped, looked out the window, the fog outside now lifting, revealing the outline of the mountain ridge — sharp, proud, undefeated.

Jack: “You ever been buried, Jeeny? Not by earth — by failure, guilt, or loss so deep you can’t breathe?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And faith helped you breathe again?”

Jeeny: “No. But hope did.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Faith is believing something will catch you. Hope is leaping even if nothing does.”

Host: The fire popped, a log splitting, a small shower of embers falling like tiny constellations at their feet. The silence that followed was not empty — it was heavy, alive, a living thing with breath and pulse.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who wants to believe but doesn’t know how anymore.”

Jack: “And you think quoting a dead prophet will fix that?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it reminds us that despair isn’t unique. Even prophets faced their pits.”

Jack: “And climbed out with faith.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind stirred, rattling the windowpane, whispering through the cracks like an old voice come to join the argument.

Jack: “You really think faith is enough to pull a man from his lowest point?”

Jeeny: “Not just faith — persistence. That’s the heart of what Joseph Smith meant. The courage to keep climbing when there’s no reason to. When logic tells you you’re finished, and yet — your heart still says ‘one more step.’”

Jack: “Sounds like madness.”

Jeeny: “It is. Beautiful madness. The kind that rebuilds civilizations and survives storms.”

Jack: “You really believe that’s all it takes? Belief and courage?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It takes pain. Real pain. That’s the crucible. Faith is forged there.”

Host: A moment of silence — the kind that feels holy. The fire had burned low now, only coals glowing, pulsing red like a quiet heart.

Jack: “When I was trapped in that mine three years ago, I thought of nothing but air. Just air. I remember clawing at stone with my bare hands, blood on my nails, lungs screaming. You know what I prayed for?”

Jeeny: “Tell me.”

Jack: “Not rescue. Not life. Just one more breath. One more minute. And somehow — I got both. Maybe that was faith. Or maybe it was instinct.”

Jeeny: “And maybe those two are the same thing — the soul’s instinct to survive.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked — as if her face were a map back to something he’d lost. The firelight flickered, painting her in warm gold, her eyes deep with the kind of peace that comes from knowing the world can’t break what refuses to stop breathing.

Jack: “So what now? I hang on and pretend it’s faith?”

Jeeny: “No. You hang on, and let faith pretend it’s you.”

Host: A faint smile touched his mouth, unsteady, but real. He reached for a log, placed it on the fire, watching the flame flare again — bright, hungry, alive.

Jack: “You make it sound like even the mountain can be moved.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t need to move, Jack. You just need to climb it.”

Host: The first light of morning broke through the fog, flooding the cabin with a pale glow. The mountain peaks shone in the distance — not smaller, but somehow less cruel. Jack stood, stretching, the firelight and sunrise meeting in his eyes — the union of flame and dawn, of man and faith.

Jeeny: “See? You’re already on top.”

Host: Outside, the storm clouds had scattered, and the valley lay wide and golden beneath them. The camera of morning pulled back, revealing two silhouettes in the cabin window — one of logic, one of faith, both forged by struggle, both alive in their defiance.

And as the light grew, burning away the last of the mist, the mountain stood eternal — not as an obstacle, but as a mirror. A mirror of human will, of courage exercised against despair — the very soul of faith that hangs on, even when buried beneath the world.