Sometimes I could not breathe, but God saved my life and gave me

Host: The evening light settled like a quiet prayer over the hospital garden, where roses still bloomed despite the chill of early autumn. The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic and jasmine — an uneasy mix of pain and grace. The fountain nearby trickled, its rhythm steady, like the slow breathing of someone learning how to live again.

Jack sat on a worn bench, his hands clasped, fingers stained with faint ink marks from a day spent signing reports. His face was tired — the kind of tired that no sleep heals. Beside him, Jeeny walked quietly, holding a small notebook, her eyes soft, her step slow, as though she could feel the heaviness in his chest before he spoke.

Jeeny: “Phan Thi Kim Phuc once said, ‘Sometimes I could not breathe, but God saved my life and gave me faith and hope.’”

Jack: looking at her with a faint, humorless smile “She earned those words. I doubt either of us could.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we need them.”

Host: The sky dimmed, turning violet, the sunlight thinning over the horizon. The city’s hum faded into a distant murmur, leaving only the sound of leaves rustling against the wind — a soft reminder that even the smallest things persist.

Jack: “Faith and hope.” He said the words as though they were foreign currencies. “Two things I’ve never managed to invest in without losing everything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you were measuring the return.”

Jack: sighing “You think faith is some infinite reservoir. But sometimes it’s just— gone. You wake up, and you realize you’ve been breathing only because your body hasn’t learned how to stop.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s when God breathes for you.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred, lifting a few fallen leaves from the ground. They swirled once, drifting down again — quiet, unremarkable, and yet somehow beautiful.

Jack: “I’m not sure I believe that anymore.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe. Just don’t stop listening.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To the silence that’s left after the storm.”

Host: Jack looked down, his jaw tight, his voice low — the kind of low that’s more confession than conversation.

Jack: “When my brother died, I thought my lungs would collapse. For months, every breath felt stolen. People kept saying, ‘God has a plan.’ But plans don’t hold your hand when you can’t stand.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe God does — through people who do.”

Jack: “And when they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then faith is the memory that someone once did.”

Host: The streetlight flickered on, casting gold circles on the pathway. Shadows lengthened, but there was a quiet comfort in the darkness — as if the night itself were listening.

Jack: “You think Kim Phuc’s faith came easy? She watched her village burn. Her body literally melted in that photograph. And still she speaks of God and hope like they’re in the air she breathes. If that’s faith, Jeeny, it’s not something ordinary people can reach.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith isn’t reaching up at all, Jack. Maybe it’s falling — and finding you’re still held.”

Jack: “Held by what?”

Jeeny: “By grace. By breath. By whatever name you give the thing that won’t let you disappear.”

Host: The light of the fountain shimmered against Jeeny’s face, reflecting off her eyes — deep, steady, unflinching. She spoke softly, but the words landed like stones dropped into still water.

Jeeny: “Kim Phuc said she couldn’t breathe — but God saved her. You know what I hear in that? Not triumph. Not miracle. Just… mercy. Breath given when there’s no reason it should come back. That’s what hope really is, Jack — not certainty, but mercy.”

Jack: voice rough “And what if you stop believing that mercy’s coming?”

Jeeny: “Then someone believes it for you. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes glistening. The silence stretched — heavy but human. He clenched his hands, then opened them slowly, like a man trying to remember what letting go feels like.

Jack: “You ever felt that? Like you couldn’t breathe?”

Jeeny: nodding “When my mother died. For weeks, I’d wake up gasping — not from grief, but from guilt. Guilt that I was still alive. And one morning, while walking by the river, I realized… I’d been breathing all along. I just hadn’t noticed. That’s when I started to trust again.”

Jack: “Trust in what?”

Jeeny: “That even pain breathes.”

Host: A faint drizzle began, raindrops catching the light, turning the garden path into a mosaic of reflected gold and silver. Jack tilted his head upward, letting the rain fall on his face, not moving, not wiping it away.

Jack: “You know, I used to mock people who said ‘God saved my life.’ I thought it was just luck wearing religion’s coat. But sometimes I wonder — maybe survival itself is a kind of faith. You keep breathing even when you want to stop.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. Faith doesn’t start in the cathedral, Jack. It starts in the lungs. It starts with one breath that refuses to quit.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, the sound filling the space — a chorus of steady percussion over stone and leaf. But in that rhythm, there was something sacred — a pulse beyond comprehension, alive and gentle.

Jack: “You really think God’s in all this?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In the pain. In the breath. In the rain that falls on both the burnt and the blooming.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been running from Him all along.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’ve just been holding your breath.”

Host: A crack of thunder rolled, distant but resonant. Jack laughed softly, the sound breaking — half sob, half surrender.

Jack: “So all this time, all I had to do was… breathe?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And trust that even when you can’t, something holy is breathing for you.”

Host: They sat in silence, the rain washing over the bench, their clothes damp, but neither moved. The garden shimmered, every drop a tiny act of renewal. In that quiet, Jack’s shoulders eased, his eyes closed, and for the first time in years, his breath came deep, steady, human.

Jack: whispering “It’s strange. I feel like I’ve been underwater for years. And now… it’s like the surface is closer than I thought.”

Jeeny: “That’s grace. It doesn’t pull you out. It teaches you how to float.”

Host: The storm lightened, the moon emerging behind drifting clouds, silvering the wet pavement. Somewhere, the hospital doors opened, and the faint sound of a lullaby carried through the air — soft, fragile, real.

Jeeny stood, extended her hand to Jack. He took it, his grip strong but trembling, and together they walked down the path, the rain easing into mist.

Host: And in that quiet descent of water and mercy, two weary souls breathed again — not because life was easy, but because, for the first time, they trusted the breath was sacred.

Host: Above them, the sky cleared, revealing stars like tiny lanterns scattered by forgiveness itself. And the fountain kept singing, its rhythm gentle, eternal — as if echoing her words through the night:

“Sometimes I could not breathe,
but God saved my life —
and gave me faith and hope.”