Our glory is hidden in our pain, if we allow God to bring the

Host: The night had settled softly over the old church courtyard, where the rain had finally stopped and left behind a faint, silver mist. The streetlights cast pools of trembling gold upon the wet stones, and the air carried the scent of earth, wax, and loneliness. Inside, the candles flickered against the walls — restless flames trying to stay alive in a sea of shadow.

Jack sat on a wooden pew, his coat still damp from the rain, his hands clasped, his eyes staring at nothing. Jeeny knelt a few rows ahead, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her breathing steady, quiet — like someone speaking to the invisible.

The church was almost empty, save for the faint echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance.

Jeeny: (turning slightly) “Henri Nouwen once said, ‘Our glory is hidden in our pain, if we allow God to bring the gift of himself in our experience of it.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-tired) “That’s a beautiful sentence — until you actually have to live it.”

Jeeny: “It’s not meant to be easy. Pain rarely is.”

Jack: “No, I mean… it’s romantic to say there’s glory in pain, but tell that to someone who’s buried their child, or watched their life fall apart. Where’s God’s ‘gift’ in that?”

Host: His voice cracked slightly on the last word. The echo hung in the still air, trembling like a wounded bird. Jeeny turned fully now, her eyes deep and reflective in the dim candlelight.

Jeeny: “You think he’s saying suffering is good. But he’s not. He’s saying suffering can become something sacred — if we let it. The glory isn’t in the pain itself, Jack. It’s in what can be born through it.”

Jack: “Born through it? You mean redemption?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like how a seed dies before it becomes a tree. Or how light breaks only after darkness. Pain cracks us open — and sometimes that’s the only way God can enter.”

Jack: (sharply) “That sounds poetic, but I’ve seen people shattered who never heal. I’ve seen pain destroy, not redeem. There’s no glory in that, Jeeny — only silence.”

Host: The rain began again, faint and rhythmic, like a heartbeat on the roof. Jeeny’s hands tightened on the pew, but her voice remained gentle.

Jeeny: “Maybe that silence is where He hides. Nouwen wasn’t talking about miracles, Jack. He was talking about presence — the quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t fix the pain, but sits with it until it becomes something else.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Presence doesn’t bring back what’s lost.”

Jeeny: “No. But it can bring back you.”

Host: The candles flared slightly as if stirred by invisible breath. Jack looked up, his eyes glistening with the kind of anger that is only ever born from sorrow.

Jack: “You really believe that suffering has purpose?”

Jeeny: “I believe it can. Look at the cross — the worst kind of pain turned into the greatest kind of love. That’s the mystery Nouwen meant. Glory hidden in pain — not visible, not easy, but real.”

Jack: “That’s faith, not logic.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t logic. It’s trust in what’s invisible — like the warmth in the dark after a storm.”

Host: The clock above the altar ticked faintly, each second dissolving into the hush of the sanctuary. The light from the candles painted Jeeny’s face in gentle amber, while Jack’s was caught between shadow and glow, like a man standing on the border between doubt and hope.

Jack: “You talk about faith as if it’s something you can hold. But when you’ve lost everything, faith feels like dust in your hands.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because faith isn’t something you hold — it’s something that holds you.”

Host: The air trembled with her words. Jack looked away, swallowing hard. There was something breaking in his silence, something long restrained.

Jack: (softly) “When my brother died, people said it was part of God’s plan. I wanted to punch every one of them. What kind of plan takes a life and leaves the rest empty?”

Jeeny: “Not a plan — a mystery. A wound where even God weeps. Nouwen wrote that the only true response to suffering is compassion — to suffer with. Maybe that’s what God does. He doesn’t orchestrate pain; He shares it.”

Jack: “Then why doesn’t He stop it?”

Jeeny: “Because love doesn’t always prevent — sometimes it just stays. It stays in the brokenness, refuses to leave when everything else does.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened now, though her voice never wavered. The rain outside deepened, like a river remembering its source. Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his breath slow, eyes downcast.

Jack: “You really think pain can be… sacred?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only when it’s faced, not escaped. Only when you let it teach you tenderness. That’s where the glory hides — not in strength, but in surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender.” (He laughed softly, without humor.) “That’s a hard word.”

Jeeny: “It always is. But think of it — every great transformation begins there. The butterfly, the dawn, forgiveness — all require letting go.”

Host: The church doors groaned faintly as the wind pushed against them. Somewhere, a single bell chimed the hour, its sound vast and solitary. The two figures remained still, caught between the echo and the silence.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve made peace with pain.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped fighting it. Pain isn’t an enemy anymore — it’s a teacher. It told me where I was fragile… and where I was still alive.”

Jack: “And God?”

Jeeny: “He was there. Not in the lightning or the thunder. In the quiet after.”

Host: The candles burned lower now, their flames smaller but steadier. Jack exhaled, long and heavy, as if releasing something he didn’t realize he’d been holding for years.

Jack: “You know… when he died, I stopped believing in anything. But sometimes, when I walk past his old room, I swear I still feel him there — not like a ghost, but like… a warmth. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Yes. That warmth is what Nouwen called God’s gift — Himself. Not fixing the pain, but entering it with us. Making even grief holy.”

Jack: “Holy grief…” (he repeats softly) “That’s a strange idea.”

Jeeny: “Strange. But true. Our glory isn’t the absence of pain — it’s the grace that grows inside it.”

Host: Her words seemed to still the very air. The rain faded again, replaced by the faint hum of the city beyond the stone walls. Jack’s eyes lifted toward the altar, where a single candle stood, defiant in its smallness.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people come here — to remember that pain doesn’t have to mean emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Pain carves the space where light can enter.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The church seemed to breathe around them — an old, living thing that had held countless tears, countless prayers. The candles flickered together, as if nodding in quiet assent.

Jack: “You know… I think I get it now. The glory isn’t something we earn — it’s something we uncover, once we stop running.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s hidden in the wounds we dare to face.”

Host: Jack stood slowly, the wood creaking beneath his boots. He looked down at Jeeny, then at the altar, his expression softened — not in certainty, but in acceptance.

Jack: “Maybe pain isn’t where God hides from us… maybe it’s where He finds us.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Yes. That’s the secret.”

Host: The church grew still again, except for the faint flicker of flames and the quiet sigh of the rain easing into mist. Jack and Jeeny sat in that silence — no longer divided by disbelief and faith, but united by something humbler: the shared truth that every wound carries a whisper of redemption.

The candlelight trembled — then steadied.

And in that trembling glow, the unseen glory of pain — fragile, sacred, human — revealed itself, if only for a heartbeat, before vanishing back into the quiet.