Our heavenly Father understands our disappointment, suffering

Host: The evening sky was a canvas of deep indigo and faint gold, where the last light of day bled softly into the stillness of night. The church bell in the distance tolled eight times, its sound mellow, echoing through the empty park below.

On a wooden bench beneath an ancient oak, Jack and Jeeny sat — their breath visible in the cool air, their silence heavy, contemplative. The ground was carpeted with fallen leaves, their edges curling like tired prayers left unanswered.

A faint warm glow came from a nearby chapel window, where a lone candle flickered — its flame bending, surviving.

Jeeny: “Charles Stanley once said, ‘Our heavenly Father understands our disappointment, suffering, pain, fear, and doubt. He is always there to encourage our hearts and help us understand that He's sufficient for all of our needs. When I accepted this as an absolute truth in my life, I found that my worrying stopped.’”

Jack: (staring at the candle) “Stopped worrying, huh? That’s the kind of peace that sounds too good for people like me.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar roughness — half cynicism, half exhaustion — as though the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside, past years of skepticism.

Jeeny: “It’s not peace without reason, Jack. It’s peace without control.”

Jack: “Control’s all we have, Jeeny. When the world turns cruel, control’s the last illusion we hold onto before the chaos eats us.”

Jeeny: “And yet, illusion’s the heaviest burden to carry.”

Host: The wind brushed through the trees, scattering leaves across their feet, like the quiet applause of something unseen.

Jack: “You really believe that? That some divine being is out there, understanding our pain? That He’s ‘sufficient for all needs’? It sounds too… comforting. Like a lullaby for adults.”

Jeeny: “Maybe comfort isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s grace — the kind that reminds us we’re not alone in the fire.”

Jack: (sighing) “If He understands everything, why doesn’t He stop it? The pain, the loss, the constant breaking?”

Jeeny: “Because understanding isn’t interference. Love doesn’t always rescue; sometimes it walks beside.”

Host: The streetlamp above them flickered once, briefly casting Jeeny’s face in light — her eyes steady, her voice gentle, her presence unshaken.

Jack: “I’ve heard that my whole life — ‘God walks with you.’ But when you’re lying in a hospital room, hearing machines breathe louder than your prayers, those words sound like paper armor.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even paper can carry ink — and sometimes that ink is enough to tell a story worth living.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened on the edge of the bench. His jaw moved slightly, as though he were grinding words he didn’t dare release. The moonlight found him, outlining his weariness like silver around a storm.

Jack: “I used to pray, you know. When my brother died. I begged for a sign, for anything. All I got was silence.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t absence, Jack. Sometimes it’s the sound of a God who trusts you to keep walking.”

Jack: (voice breaking slightly) “I didn’t want trust. I wanted help.”

Jeeny: “Maybe help was already there — not as a miracle, but as endurance.”

Host: The air between them thickened. Somewhere, a dog barked, and the echo faded into the quiet hum of the city beyond.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But what kind of love lets people shatter before they learn to stand?”

Jeeny: “The kind that knows shattering isn’t the end — it’s the doorway to strength. When Charles Stanley talked about surrender, he wasn’t saying life got easier. He was saying that once he stopped fighting what he couldn’t control, he found peace in what remained.”

Jack: “Surrender. You keep saying that word like it’s holy. But to me, surrender feels like giving up.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve misunderstood it. Surrender isn’t defeat. It’s acceptance — the moment the storm stops being an enemy and starts being a teacher.”

Host: The oak branches swayed, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. A faint smell of rain drifted through the air.

Jack: “And you really believe this — that faith can end worry?”

Jeeny: “Not end it. Transform it. Worry says, ‘I must fix this.’ Faith says, ‘I don’t have to be the one who can.’”

Jack: “Sounds like wishful thinking.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s remembering you’re not the only one holding the world together.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted back to the candle in the chapel window. The flame trembled, nearly extinguished by a passing gust, then righted itself — small, stubborn, alive.

Jack: (quietly) “It’s funny. That candle’s been flickering all night, but it hasn’t gone out. Maybe that’s what faith is — endurance disguised as light.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A trembling flame, not an unbroken one.”

Host: The bell chimed again in the distance, soft and low — a voice of time passing, of grace unhurried.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like Stanley. People who can just… stop worrying. Like they’ve made peace with the uncertainty I keep fighting.”

Jeeny: “Peace doesn’t mean certainty, Jack. It means trusting that even uncertainty can’t undo you.”

Jack: “And if it does?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe what’s left is still enough.”

Host: The moonlight deepened. The river nearby shimmered faintly, a mirror for unseen stars.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever stop worrying?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Every time I remember that I’m not in control — and that that’s okay.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was alive — full of breath, thought, and something fragile that neither dared name.

Jack: (finally) “Maybe faith isn’t believing everything’s fine. Maybe it’s believing you can keep walking even when it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because somewhere, somehow, you’re being carried.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the bench, the oak, the quiet chapel in the distance. The candlelight in the window still flickered, unwavering in its trembling.

The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying away the last echo of their words into the night:

That peace isn’t born from control —
but from surrender.

That faith isn’t blindness —
but vision through tears.

And that perhaps, as Charles Stanley said,
when one finally accepts that they are not alone in their struggle,
the heart learns the simplest miracle of all —

to stop worrying,
and to rest.