Stand straight, walk proud, have a little faith.

Host: The morning broke over the prairie like a quiet promise — pale gold sunlight spilling across dew-drenched grass, the faint shimmer of dust rising from the earth as if the world itself were exhaling. The sky was impossibly wide, blue with the kind of conviction that comes only after a long night.

At the edge of an old wooden fence, Jack stood, hands in his coat pockets, staring toward the horizon where the light met the land. His boots were dusted from the long walk up the trail, and there was something in his stillness — not defeat, but fatigue that bordered on reflection.

A few yards away, Jeeny sat on the fence rail, her hair tangled by the wind, her eyes soft with the same tired wonder that clings to anyone who’s seen too much but still dares to hope.

The morning air was clean, sharp with the scent of wet soil and distance. Somewhere in the distance, a meadowlark sang.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Garth Brooks once said — ‘Stand straight, walk proud, have a little faith.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Simple words for such a complicated world.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes simple’s the only way the heart listens.”

Host: The sunlight caught the line of her face, warm and gold. She looked peaceful, the kind of peace that only comes when you’ve chosen to stop running from yourself.

Jack: “Faith. Funny word. Everyone throws it around, but no one really defines it. Faith in what? God? People? The system?”

Jeeny: “None of those. Or all of them. Faith isn’t a target, Jack. It’s a stance. You hold yourself upright in a world that keeps trying to make you bow.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just someone who’s learned that cynicism doesn’t build much shelter.”

Host: A gust of wind rolled through the field, bending the tall grass like a slow wave. Jack’s coat flapped slightly; Jeeny’s scarf fluttered against the breeze.

Jack: “You think standing straight actually helps when the world keeps punching you in the gut?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the posture. It’s about the defiance. Standing straight doesn’t stop the hit — it tells the world it didn’t win.”

Jack: “And walking proud?”

Jeeny: “That’s the movement that follows. Pride isn’t arrogance. It’s memory — the reminder of who you are, even when everything else forgets.”

Host: The sky deepened, its light now stronger, pressing warmth against their faces. The land stretched endlessly, an ocean of gold grass moving beneath the wind.

Jack: “So, what about faith? Where does that fit in?”

Jeeny: “Faith is what keeps the first two from collapsing. You can stand straight, walk proud — but without faith, it’s just posture. Faith gives it direction.”

Jack: (sighing) “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s everything. Especially when you’ve lost it.”

Host: She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the edge of the fence rail, the wood rough and splintered. There was a kind of silence there — not emptiness, but space for meaning.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith was just blind optimism — pretending things were fine when they weren’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s denial. Faith is different. It’s knowing things are not fine — but believing they still can be.”

Jack: “That’s... stubborn.”

Jeeny: “So is survival.”

Host: The wind carried her words away, scattering them into the open air. Jack glanced toward the hills, where the sun had climbed higher, its rays stretching over the land like forgiveness.

Jack: “You ever lose it? Faith?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “All the time. But it’s not something you keep. It’s something you rebuild. Every day.”

Jack: “And if you can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then someone stands beside you until you can again.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, but not hopeless. It was the silence of understanding — two souls realizing they were not alone in the long, hard work of staying upright.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, when I was younger, my father used to tell me to ‘stand tall.’ I thought it was just about pride. Now I think he meant resilience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe pride and resilience are the same thing, just seen from different distances.”

Jack: “Maybe. He used to stand like that — back straight, even when life broke him in half. I thought it was stubbornness. Now it looks like courage.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Brooks meant, I think. The three parts aren’t separate. Standing straight is courage. Walking proud is dignity. Faith is what turns both into grace.”

Host: The wind shifted, warm now, brushing against them like a whisper from something larger. A small flock of birds lifted, tracing the sky with effortless arcs.

Jack: “You ever wonder if faith is just… pretending until the heart catches up?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Sometimes pretending is faith. The act comes before the feeling. You stand, you walk, and eventually, you believe again.”

Jack: “So fake it till you feel it?”

Jeeny: “No. Hold it till it holds you back.”

Host: The light fell stronger now, the last of the morning haze burned away. Jack stepped beside her at the fence, both facing the horizon — equal silhouettes against the vastness.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about that quote? It’s not poetry, it’s discipline. It’s a reminder that faith isn’t the absence of fear — it’s posture, motion, trust.”

Jack: “Posture, motion, trust. That’s not a bad way to live.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only way to keep living.”

Host: A beat of quiet passed. Then, without speaking, Jeeny hopped off the fence, landing lightly in the grass. She looked back at Jack and extended her hand.

Jeeny: “Come on. Time to walk proud.”

Jack: (hesitating, then taking it) “And if I stumble?”

Jeeny: “Then we stand again. That’s the faith part.”

Host: They began walking through the tall grass — the morning light turning them to silhouettes, the sky widening above as if blessing their steps. Each stride left a faint trace in the dew, a temporary proof of presence.

And as they moved toward the horizon — steady, upright, and together — Garth Brooks’s words seemed to hum through the wind itself:

That strength is not in muscle,
but in bearing.

That pride is not arrogance,
but remembrance.

And that faith is not the absence of doubt —
but the will to keep walking
when the road disappears beneath your feet.

The camera pulled wide — two figures, small but steadfast,
against an endless sky,
moving forward into the light.