Thank God I arrived the day before yesterday, the first of the

Host: The harbor of San Diego shimmered beneath a burning sunset, its waters painted in molten gold and rose light. The cry of seagulls drifted through the salt air, mingling with the distant hum of cargo cranes and passing ships. On the pier, where the wood creaked under tired feet, two figures stood — a man and a woman — both still, both watching the horizon as if it held the truth they had long sought.

Jack leaned against a rusted railing, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His grey eyes carried the glint of the setting sun, yet there was a weight, a kind of gravity, behind them — as if every wave whispered a question he could not answer.

Jeeny stood beside him, her hair swept by the breeze, her gaze soft but unyielding. The wind caught the edges of her scarf, carrying it like a flag of memory.

The air smelled of salt, iron, and arrival — the kind of scent that meant both ending and beginning.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘Thank God I arrived the day before yesterday, the first of the month, at this port of San Diego, truly a fine one, and not without reason called famous.’”

Jack: “Junípero Serra,” he muttered, his voice low and dry. “The man who carried faith into the wilderness and called it civilization.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he arrived with gratitude, Jack. That’s what moves me. That he saw beauty, sanctity, in the simple act of arriving.”

Host: The light dimmed, shadows of ships growing long across the pier, their masts like prayers reaching toward the sky.

Jack: “Gratitude’s easy when you’re the one arriving, Jeeny. Harder for those who were already here — the ones whose land was renamed, whose gods were erased.”

Jeeny: “You always go there — the cost, the loss. Yes, there was pain. But can you not see the courage in stepping into the unknown, driven by nothing but faith and hope?”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t excuse conquest. Hope doesn’t undo harm.”

Host: The wind picked up, tossing a plastic cup down the pier, clattering like a forgotten ghost of the past. The harbor lights flickered on, soft halos across the surface of the water.

Jeeny: “You reduce everything to guilt and consequence. What about the spirit behind it? The longing to create something — to find meaning, to anchor purpose in a vast world?”

Jack: “Purpose isn’t a shield, Jeeny. Serra might have seen a ‘fine port,’ but he didn’t see the people he was displacing. You talk of meaning, but to them, he was destruction with a crucifix.”

Jeeny: “And yet his words were filled with wonder, not conquest. You think every act of faith is an act of violence, but maybe — maybe — it was also a cry of loneliness. Maybe that arrival was his way of saying, I still believe in beginnings.”

Host: The waves slapped against the pilings, rhythmic, like the pulse of an ancient heart still beating beneath the surface. A ship horn moaned in the distance, deep and mournful.

Jack: “Loneliness doesn’t make him a saint.”

Jeeny: “And bitterness doesn’t make you right.”

Host: A pause. The air tightened. Jack’s jaw clenched. Jeeny’s eyes burned with restrained tears. The sun was almost gone now, a red coin sinking into the edge of the world.

Jack: “You want to talk about arrivals? Let’s talk about every arrival that came after — the missionaries, the settlers, the railroads, the corporations. Every one of them said Thank God as they took more.”

Jeeny: “You think gratitude is a lie?”

Jack: “I think gratitude can be the mask of ambition.”

Jeeny: “And I think your cynicism is the mask of pain.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, like the sting of salt on an open wound. A pelican swooped low, then rose again, its shadow gliding across their faces.

Jeeny: “You know what I see when I read Serra’s words? A man who had nothing — no assurance, no power — and yet still thanked God. It wasn’t about owning the land. It was about arriving, about being alive in that moment.”

Jack: “You romanticize it. He wasn’t some lost pilgrim looking for transcendence; he was an agent of empire. Gratitude for him meant that his mission was succeeding.”

Jeeny: “You can’t erase the divine just because it was used by flawed hands. People like Serra built churches, yes — but they also built dreams that lasted centuries.”

Jack: “Dreams for whom?”

Host: Jeeny turned toward him, the wind pushing her hair into her face. She brushed it aside slowly, her expression torn between anger and pleading.

Jeeny: “For everyone who comes after, Jack. For the ones who seek — who wander — who still arrive at unknown shores and whisper thank God I made it. You think history ends with guilt, but it doesn’t. It continues with redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption doesn’t come from pretending the wound is healed.”

Jeeny: “It comes from believing it can be.”

Host: A faint fog began to roll in from the bay, softening the edges of the boats, the lights, even the faces of the two who stood there. The city behind them hummed with life, the sound of cars, voices, music — an ongoing arrival of its own.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — your ability to still believe. To find holiness in a line like that.”

Jeeny: “It’s not holiness I find. It’s humanity. The kind that still looks up and says thank you, even when it’s standing on uncertain ground.”

Jack: “But what if the ground belongs to someone else?”

Jeeny: “Then the gratitude must include them. That’s what we’ve forgotten — that true arrival is shared. You don’t arrive alone, Jack. You arrive into the presence of others.”

Host: Jack looked down at the water, his reflection trembling with every ripple. For the first time, his voice softened — the steel in it replaced with a hint of regret.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem. We’ve stopped arriving into anything together. Every new beginning feels like a theft.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to reclaim what arriving means. Not as conquest, but as connection.”

Host: A single seagull perched on the railing between them, staring out toward the horizon, as if listening.

Jack: “So you think we should still say thank God I arrived — even now, even after everything?”

Jeeny: “Especially now. Because gratitude isn’t denial. It’s awareness — of what is, what was, and what still could be.”

Host: The wind quieted. The night settled like a veil. The harbor lights shimmered across the water, scattered and trembling like memories trying to stay afloat.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. And I think Serra believed it too — in his flawed, human way. Gratitude isn’t a virtue of the perfect. It’s the courage of the lost.”

Host: The sound of a boat engine started up nearby — a low, steady rumble — and for a moment, both of them simply watched it pull away, its wake cutting through the harbor, trailing light and foam.

Jack: “Maybe every arrival carries a shadow.”

Jeeny: “And every shadow, a chance for light.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not with joy, but with acknowledgment, a quiet truce between what he could not forgive and what he could not deny. Jeeny returned the smile, her eyes glimmering like reflections of the harbor itself.

The fog thickened now, cloaking the city in a soft, silver haze. Somewhere, a church bell tolled — distant, slow, echoing through the mist.

Host: In that moment, it was impossible to tell whether they were standing at an ending or a beginning. Only that they had arrived, and that — somehow — was enough.

The sea kept its rhythm. The light flickered. And in the silence, gratitude lingered — fragile, imperfect, but deeply, undeniably human.