Over the years my mother's steadfast faith in God has inspired

Host: The operating room was dark now—empty except for the faint hum of machines and the sterile glow of overhead lights dimmed to an afterthought. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, sharp and clean, a quiet ghost of the day's work. Through the glass wall, the world outside the hospital stretched in quiet silver, the city lights blinking like distant thoughts.

Jack sat on a bench in the corner, his surgical gown still on, his gloves long since discarded. His hands trembled slightly as he turned them over, palms up, studying them like a question he could no longer answer.

Across from him, Jeeny stood by the sink, washing her hands as if still scrubbing away something that wouldn’t leave. Her movements were slow, rhythmic—almost prayerful.

The clock ticked softly. Midnight.

Jeeny: her voice low, thoughtful “Ben Carson once said, ‘Over the years my mother’s steadfast faith in God has inspired me, particularly when I had to perform extremely difficult surgical procedures or when I found myself faced with my own medical scare.’”
She turns, drying her hands, her eyes steady on him. “You ever think about that? The idea that someone else’s faith can hold you up when your own starts to crack?”

Jack: half-smiling, weary “Faith by proxy. Borrowed belief.” He shakes his head slowly. “Yeah. I think about it all the time.”

Host: The room hummed quietly with the sound of distant monitors and the hum of ventilation—steady, mechanical, almost human in its persistence.

Jeeny: sitting beside him now, her voice gentle but certain “He wasn’t talking about religion, not really. He was talking about strength. His mother didn’t just believe in God—she believed in him. And that kind of belief can feel holy.”

Jack: leans forward, elbows on knees “My mom was like that too. We didn’t have much—didn’t even talk about faith much—but she carried this… calm. Like she knew something the rest of us didn’t. Whenever things went bad, she’d just say, ‘It’ll work out.’ And damn it, somehow, it always did.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s faith. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t shout verses, it just lives them.”

Host: The light flickered once, briefly catching the reflection of their faces in the glass—two people, worn down but awake, caught in the fragile space between exhaustion and awe.

Jack: his tone darkens slightly, thoughtful “You ever think about what it must be like—to carry that much faith for someone else? Carson’s mother worked herself half to death, couldn’t read, didn’t have anything but her belief. But she handed him that faith like armor. That’s what made him. And maybe that’s what breaks people like her too.”

Jeeny: tilts her head “Breaks them?”

Jack: nods “Yeah. You pour everything you have into believing for someone else. What’s left for you?”

Jeeny: pauses, thinking “Maybe the miracle is that there’s always something left. Faith doesn’t run out the way strength does. It multiplies.”

Host: The ventilator’s hum deepened for a moment, the sound filling the silence. A nurse passed by in the hallway, her shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor.

Jeeny: quietly “Carson’s story isn’t just about medicine—it’s about inheritance. Not money, not privilege. Faith. His mother gave him that. The belief that he could do something impossible because she’d already decided he could.”

Jack: glances at her, voice softer “You really think faith can be passed down like that? Like genetics?”

Jeeny: smiling “Not faith itself. But the example of it. The courage of it. You watch someone hold steady when everything falls apart, and it teaches you how to do the same—even when you don’t know what you believe.”

Jack: leaning back, exhaling slowly “You sound like you’ve been held up by someone’s faith before.”

Jeeny: nods “My father’s. He didn’t talk about God much, either. But when he got sick, he never once said, ‘Why me?’ He just kept saying, ‘Why not me?’ That kind of surrender—that peace—it’s contagious.”

Jack: quietly “So that’s what faith is to you. Not expecting rescue, just… refusing to despair.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Exactly. It’s the art of trusting the light even when you can’t see it.”

Host: The clock ticked again. The faint buzz of electricity hummed through the sterile room. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the OR doors — closed now, but still humming with memory.

Jack: his tone softer, almost confessing “You know, there’s this moment in every surgery — that split second before you make the first incision — when everything inside you goes still. It’s like standing between life and loss. You can hear your own heartbeat, but you don’t know which side it’s on.”

Jeeny: leans forward “And what do you hold onto then?”

Jack: after a pause “Hope. Precision. Habit. But… sometimes, I think about her. My mom. The way she used to hum when she was scared. I think… maybe that’s my version of faith.”

Jeeny: softly “The melody that keeps your hands from shaking.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah.”

Host: The candlelight flicker from the hallway slipped beneath the OR door, like a fragile heartbeat of its own.

Jeeny: “That’s what Carson meant. Faith doesn’t always look like prayer or ritual. Sometimes it’s a mother’s voice you can still hear years later. A song that steadies you when reason can’t.”

Jack: whispering “And that’s what makes it real. It’s not abstract — it’s muscle memory.”

Host: The room fell silent again, but it wasn’t an empty silence. It was the kind that fills, that holds. The kind that feels like reverence.

Jeeny stood slowly, walking to the window. The city below glowed through the rain, its lights stretching into infinity. She turned back to him, her voice low but sure.

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t always have to start with belief. Sometimes it starts with gratitude. Gratitude for the ones who believed enough for both of you.”

Jack: after a long pause “You’re right.” He looks at his hands again, steadier now. “And maybe the point isn’t to understand faith — just to keep it alive long enough to pass it on.”

Host: The camera would pull back — Jack seated beneath the glow of the surgical lamp, Jeeny by the window, the storm outside easing into calm. Between them, a quiet stillness.

On the counter, a single candle burned beside the instruments — small, unwavering, its light trembling but undying.

And as the scene faded, Ben Carson’s words echoed softly:

“Over the years my mother’s steadfast faith in God has inspired me…”

Faith — not as creed,
but as inheritance.
The kind of belief that steadies the hands that heal,
and reminds the fearful heart
that someone, somewhere,
already trusted you to make it through the dark.