The art of life is to live in the present moment, and to make

Host: The ocean stretched endlessly before them — silver waves catching the last light of dusk, rolling in with the gentle rhythm of breath itself. The sky burned soft gold fading into violet, the sun descending like a candle lowering into prayer. A single wooden bench faced the sea, weathered and half-buried in sand.

Jack sat there, his elbows on his knees, staring into the horizon as though it might answer a question he hadn’t yet asked aloud. Beside him, Jeeny stood barefoot, her shoes dangling from one hand, the wind tugging gently at her hair.

The sound of the waves filled the space between them — eternal, unhurried, ancient.

Jeeny: “Emmet Fox once wrote, ‘The art of life is to live in the present moment, and to make that moment as perfect as we can by the realization that we are the instruments and expression of God Himself.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always pick the heavy ones.”

Jeeny: “Heavy?”

Jack: “Yeah. Like truths that weigh more than they read.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s what makes them real.”

Host: The wind changed direction — cool, salt-heavy. It carried with it a feeling of clean simplicity, as if the air itself was reminding them to let go of everything unnecessary.

Jack: “So, Fox says we’re instruments of God. That’s… a bold idea.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about grandeur. It’s about presence. He’s saying that life itself — every thought, every word, every breath — is divine expression. That when we really live now, we’re participating in creation.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “That sounds poetic. But living in the present is easy to say, hard to do. The mind doesn’t stay put — it keeps dragging you back or shoving you forward.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we mistake awareness for control. Being present isn’t about stopping thought; it’s about noticing it. Letting it pass like waves.”

Jack: “Waves?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. You can’t hold one. You just ride it. That’s the art.”

Host: The tide swelled, its voice deepening. A gull drifted low over the water, its wings catching the light before vanishing into shadow.

Jack: “You think he really believed we’re instruments of God? Like, literally?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in a religious way. More like — we’re channels. The universe expresses itself through us. When we create, love, forgive — we’re tuning into something higher. But when we worry or hate, we go out of tune.”

Jack: “So enlightenment’s just learning to stay in key.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the bench, his eyes narrowing as the last trace of sunlight shimmered on the horizon. The sound of the sea grew softer now, like it was listening too.

Jack: “You ever notice how we chase perfection, as if it’s a place we’ll arrive at someday? But Fox — he’s saying the opposite. That perfection’s not a goal, it’s a state of awareness. Something we step into, not something we earn.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not about fixing the world — it’s about realizing it’s already sacred, and we just forgot how to see it.”

Jack: “That’s… unsettling. Because it means most of our striving is unnecessary.”

Jeeny: “Or misdirected. We try to own life instead of inhabiting it.”

Host: The waves whispered against the shore, leaving behind thin, glistening trails of foam that caught the starlight.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I envy people who can just live — eat, laugh, sleep — without needing meaning in every second. This idea of divine expression… it’s exhausting.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “It’s not supposed to be exhausting. It’s supposed to be freeing. You’re not asked to be perfect. You’re asked to be present.”

Jack: “And presence itself is perfection?”

Jeeny: “When it’s real, yes. Because in that moment, you’re aligned with something eternal — with the rhythm that built everything.”

Jack: (quietly) “But what if the moment isn’t beautiful? What if it’s painful, or empty?”

Jeeny: “Then you live that too. Fox wasn’t naive — he meant that divinity exists even in imperfection. The present moment doesn’t need to be pleasant to be sacred. It just needs to be accepted.”

Host: The moon began to rise, low and immense, silvering the edges of the waves. Jeeny turned toward Jack, her expression softened by the light — eyes calm, reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, the hardest part of life isn’t pain or joy. It’s missing what’s right in front of you because you’re waiting for something grander.”

Jack: “Yeah. We keep thinking God’s in the thunder, but maybe He’s in the quiet between heartbeats.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The art of life isn’t about chasing the divine — it’s realizing you’re already breathing it.”

Host: The night air cooled further. Jack drew in a slow breath, his shoulders easing. For the first time, he didn’t look at the horizon — he looked at the space between himself and the moment. The sound of the sea, the salt on his lips, the warmth of the bench beneath his palms — all of it.

Jack: “So when Fox talks about being an instrument of God, maybe he means… harmony. Not grandeur, not holiness — just being in tune with what’s already here.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only perfection there is.”

Jack: “You think anyone ever truly lives like that?”

Jeeny: “Children do. Artists sometimes. Lovers, in brief flashes. The rest of us — we practice.”

Host: The moonlight brushed across their faces now, a tender kind of illumination that erased all sharpness. The sea breathed, the stars arrived one by one, and for a rare moment, time itself seemed to loosen its grip.

Jack: “You know, I think I understand now. The art of life isn’t about achievement — it’s about awareness. You don’t have to reach God; you just have to stop running from where He already is.”

Jeeny: “And that’s right here.”

Jack: “Right now.”

Host: They sat in silence then — two small souls suspended in a vast, divine machinery, the sound of waves the only sermon needed.

And in that stillness, Emmet Fox’s truth unfolded quietly, like dawn breaking inside the heart:

That perfection is not a destination,
but a moment recognized.

That divinity is not beyond reach,
but within breath.

And that the true art of life
is not to seek eternity elsewhere —
but to find it shimmering
in the fleeting now,
where we are both the instrument
and the music
of God Himself.