Remember to look at your glass half full and not half empty. A

Host: The morning sun rose through the cracked windows of a small hospital café, where the scent of sterile air mingled with that of burnt coffee. The hallway beyond was quiet, except for the faint hum of medical machines and the occasional whisper of nurses passing by. A radio on the counter played softly — a gospel tune about hope and grace, its melody dancing with the light.

Jack sat at a corner table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands trembling slightly as he stared into a cup he hadn’t touched. Jeeny entered, her hair still damp from the rain outside, her eyes carrying both warmth and worry. She set her bag down and took the seat across from him.

Host: The air between them held a kind of fragile stillness, the kind that exists only in places where life and death brush past each other daily. On the table lay a small folded paper, a quote printed in simple font — “Remember to look at your glass half full and not half empty. A lot of my strength comes from God. God has given me a gift — the gift of life — and it's amazing that I live each day.”

Jack: “Mattie Stepanek,” he murmured, his voice low. “The boy who died at thirteen, but somehow wrote like a man who’d lived a hundred years.”

Jeeny: (softly) “He didn’t just write, Jack. He believed. That’s what made his words shine.”

Host: Jack smiled, but it wasn’t joyful. It was the kind of smile that hid a storm. He turned the cup, watching the dark coffee swirl like a small universe contained in porcelain.

Jack: “You think faith is strength, Jeeny. But I think it’s denial. A way to pretend the glass isn’t cracked. The kid had a terminal illness, his body failing him every day — and he still said his glass was half full. That’s not hope. That’s self-delusion.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Or maybe it’s courage, Jack. The kind that looks at a broken body and still chooses gratitude. You call it denial, but maybe it’s the only way to stay alive inside while everything else is dying.”

Host: A nurse walked past their table, pushing a cart of flowers — lilies, roses, daisies — gifts for patients in the ward upstairs. Their colors were bright, but their fragrance was faint, almost ghostly in the disinfected air.

Jack: “You talk like the world is beautiful, Jeeny. But you’ve seen what I’ve seen — the machines, the tubes, the pain. You know how fragile life is. Sometimes I wonder if calling it a ‘gift’ isn’t just mocking those who didn’t get one.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. The gift isn’t the length of the life, Jack. It’s the breath itself. Mattie didn’t live long, but he lived deeply. Every day he woke up, thankful that he could still feel, still love, still write. Maybe that’s what God means by the ‘gift of life’ — not how long it lasts, but how real it feels.”

Host: A silence settled — thick, almost sacred. Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup, the ceramic faintly clinking against the table. His eyes were distant now, as if searching for something beyond the walls of the hospital.

Jack: “When my father was dying,” he said finally, “I remember the machines beeping, the oxygen tube, the way his eyes looked — like he was already leaving, even before he was gone. He used to say, ‘Jack, don’t waste your time thanking God for the pain.’ And I think he was right. Pain doesn’t make us holy. It just breaks us.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “It can break you, yes. Or it can open you. Pain cracks the shell of fear. Through that crack, light can still enter.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, slow and deliberate. A beam of sunlight had broken through the clouds outside, cutting across the table, warming their hands. The contrast between light and shadow painted their faces — one skeptical, one serene.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never doubted anything in your life.”

Jeeny: “I doubt every day. I just refuse to let the doubt win. Faith isn’t the absence of fear, Jack — it’s the decision to walk through it anyway.”

Host: The radio in the background shifted to a new song — a child’s voice, pure and thin, singing about angels and dreams. It might have been a recording of Mattie himself; neither of them knew, but both fell into a thoughtful silence.

Jack: “You think God gives everyone that strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think God offers it. We have to choose to see it. Like the glass. You can stare at what’s missing, or you can cherish what’s still there.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his voice lower now, almost confessional.

Jack: “What if I can’t see it? What if the glass just looks… empty?”

Jeeny: (reaching out, touching his hand) “Then maybe you need someone to help you fill it again. We’re not meant to carry hope alone, Jack.”

Host: The touch was light — but it stopped him. Jack’s eyes met hers, and for the first time that morning, there was no defense left in his gaze, only quiet weariness and a fragile need to believe.

Jack: “You really think God cares about people like me?”

Jeeny: “I think He especially cares about people like you. The ones who fight to believe. The ones who question, but still stay.”

Host: Outside, a bird landed on the window ledge, its feathers damp from the rain, its small body shivering in the cold. It pecked at a stray crumb, then hopped once and flew away. The moment was small, fleeting — but somehow, both of them noticed it.

Jeeny: “See that? Even the smallest creature knows how to keep going. That’s the gift, Jack. Not certainty. Just the will to keep living.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe Mattie understood something we don’t. Maybe when you know your days are numbered, you finally learn to count them right.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what it means to see the glass half full — to see every drop as sacred.”

Host: The sunlight had fully filled the café now, warming the once-cold air. The smell of coffee was richer, the voices of nurses softer, even the hum of the machines seemed almost musical.

Jack stood, finishing his cup, looking at the light through it — half full, indeed.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll start there — just… noticing. Not pretending it’s all okay, but noticing that I’m still here.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s enough for today.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, their footsteps echoing softly down the sterile hallway. As the door closed behind them, the radio played Mattie’s words again — his young, fragile voice saying, “It’s amazing that I live each day.”

Host: And in that moment, beneath the morning sun, the world didn’t feel broken. It just felt — alive.