Rev. Jackson has been a staple of positivity and just

Host: The evening light fell gently through the stained glass windows of a small church, scattering hues of amber, violet, and crimson across the wooden pews. Dust floated in slow currents, carried by the last breath of daylight filtering through the rafters. Outside, a faint rain began to fall — not harshly, but softly, like the world was remembering something tender.

Host: Inside, the air was thick with the quiet scent of wax, wood, and the fading smoke of candles. Jack sat in the back row, his hands clasped loosely before him, his eyes distant. He was not praying — not in the traditional sense. Across the aisle, Jeeny sat near the front, where the colors from the glass painted her face in shifting patterns of light. Between them, silence — but not an empty one. It was the silence of reflection, of reverence.

Host: On the altar stood a framed photograph of Reverend Jackson — smiling, arms wide, caught mid-laugh in a moment of pure human warmth. A bouquet of white roses lay at the base, their petals already curling inward.

Jeeny: “Al B. Sure once said about him, ‘Rev. Jackson has been a staple of positivity and just selflessness over the years. I truly appreciate his presence, his friendship, his fatherhood, his advice.’”

Host: Her voice was calm, almost a whisper. It drifted through the old sanctuary like incense.

Jeeny: “That’s the kind of thing people should still say about one another while they’re alive. Don’t you think, Jack?”

Jack: “Alive or gone, it doesn’t change the truth,” he said, his voice low, rough as the church’s wooden floor. “But yeah… it’d be nice if we didn’t always wait for the eulogy to speak gratitude out loud.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, tapping against the windows like quiet drumming — rhythmic, sincere.

Jeeny: “Selflessness,” she said softly. “It’s a word people use too easily, but few really live it. Reverend Jackson — he did. He gave his time, his words, his energy to people who didn’t even know they needed him. That kind of presence is rare.”

Jack: “Maybe too rare,” he said. “People talk about selflessness like it’s a virtue, but they forget how much it costs. The Reverend probably carried everyone’s storms but his own.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why people like him matter — because they remind us what sacrifice looks like in a world that trades love for attention.”

Host: The candles flickered. The shadows of the pews stretched longer across the floor, like gentle echoes of prayer.

Jack: “You think it’s worth it? Living like that — giving so much you’ve got nothing left for yourself?”

Jeeny: “I think if you live like that and people remember you the way Al B. Sure remembered him, then yes. It means your life touched something real. It means your presence was a light, not just a shadow passing through.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, leaning back, his eyes on the photograph. “But sometimes I think we mistake exhaustion for virtue. You can burn yourself out trying to hold up a world that doesn’t want to stand.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe selflessness isn’t about holding the world up. Maybe it’s about holding someone up — even just one person — and letting that be enough.”

Host: The organ in the corner hummed softly as the wind passed through a crack in the wall — a strange, accidental hymn.

Jack: “You ever meet someone like him?” he asked. “Someone who could walk into a room and you just… felt better?”

Jeeny: “Once,” she said, smiling faintly. “She was my grandmother. Didn’t have much, but she gave like she owned the sun. People came to her kitchen just to sit in the warmth of her presence. She never preached — but she healed.”

Jack: “And you think that’s the same kind of light the Reverend carried?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some people preach from pulpits, some from kitchens, some from silence. But it’s all the same sermon — kindness, given freely.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. His eyes softened, his hands unclenched. He looked at the photograph again — at that smile that somehow transcended the stillness of death.

Jack: “Funny,” he murmured. “You can tell a lot about a man from how people describe him after he’s gone. Positivity. Friendship. Fatherhood. Advice. Not power, not wealth. Just… presence. That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Because presence is the hardest gift,” she said. “It means being there even when it costs you something. It means giving your time when the world tells you time is the one thing you can’t afford.”

Jack: “The Reverend must’ve known that.”

Jeeny: “He did. That’s why he gave it anyway.”

Host: The rain had softened into a hush, a lullaby against the old stained glass. Jeeny rose from her seat and walked to the altar, her footsteps echoing softly on the worn wood. She touched one of the roses, brushing its delicate petal, her voice almost trembling.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? People like him — they never see themselves the way others do. They give and give, thinking it’s small. But the rest of us — we feel the weight of that kindness for years.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes it real — when it’s not about being remembered.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She turned back toward him, and for a moment, the colored light from the stained glass fell across her face, turning her eyes into tiny mosaics of amber and violet.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to be a preacher to be a light, Jack. You just have to care — deeply, stubbornly — and keep showing up.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re preaching now.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe I finally learned from the right kind of sermon.”

Host: Jack smiled — the kind of smile that doesn’t rise quickly but grows, like dawn. He stood, walked toward her, and looked once more at the photograph on the altar.

Jack: “Maybe the reason people like Reverend Jackson matter is because they remind us what we could be — if we stopped protecting ourselves from compassion.”

Jeeny: “And started trusting that love doesn’t run out when you give it away.”

Host: The bell tower outside began to chime, its notes slow, deep, resonant. The sound filled the sanctuary, vibrating through the wood and stone like a heartbeat.

Host: Jack and Jeeny stood together in the shifting glow, their faces lit by the colors of faith — not religious faith, but the quiet faith that people can still be good.

Host: And as the final chime faded, Al B. Sure’s words seemed to rise with the light:

“Rev. Jackson has been a staple of positivity and just selflessness over the years. I truly appreciate his presence, his friendship, his fatherhood, his advice.”

Host: Because there are people — rare and luminous — who walk through the world not to be seen, but to let others see themselves in the light.

Host: And when they’re gone, their kindness lingers like the afterglow of stained glass — not forgotten, not faded, but forever colored by the warmth they left behind.