The best thing of all is God is with us.

Host: The night was quiet in the small chapel by the edge of town. The candles flickered low, their flames bending in the drafts that slipped beneath the old wooden door. Through the narrow stained-glass window, the last hints of moonlight spilled across the pews, turning the dust into floating halos.

Jack sat near the back, his hands clasped loosely, elbows on his knees. He wasn’t praying — at least, not in the way people were supposed to. It was more like he was waiting for silence to answer him. Jeeny stood near the altar, lighting one of the last candles, her movements careful, deliberate. She didn’t turn when she spoke.

Jeeny: “You know what John Wesley said just before he died?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “No. But I’m guessing it wasn’t about taxes or politics.”

Jeeny: “No. He said, ‘The best thing of all is God is with us.’ Those were his last words.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Simple enough. I suppose that’s the point.”

Jeeny: “Simple, yes. But not small.”

Host: Her voice carried softly through the empty space. It didn’t echo — it settled, like warmth spreading in cold air.

Jack: “Funny thing about last words. People wait their whole lives for the right moment to sound profound, and then the truth ends up being something short. Almost childlike.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the childlike truths are the only ones that survive the noise.”

Jack: “You think he really believed that — that God was with him, even in the end?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially in the end. That’s when faith isn’t theory anymore.”

Host: Jack looked toward the front of the chapel. The candles flickered brighter now, their flames reflected in the brass of the altar cross. It was beautiful in its simplicity — no grandeur, no choir, just light against silence.

Jack: “You know, I never understood faith like that. I grew up thinking God was something you earned. You behaved, you prayed, you hoped you didn’t screw up the math too bad before the final judgment.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s accounting.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Well, I was raised by an accountant.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you met grace.”

Host: She turned then, her face illuminated by the candles. Her eyes reflected the flame, soft but steady.

Jeeny: “Wesley wasn’t talking about perfection. He wasn’t saying we are with God. He said God is with us. That’s different. That means even when we fail, when we’re lost, when we’ve made a wreck of everything — He doesn’t leave.”

Jack: “So it’s about presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine doesn’t need you to climb to heaven. It sits beside you in the dark.”

Host: Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the old glass. Jack’s eyes followed the candlelight dancing on the pews.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, what people like him saw that we don’t? How someone could say that with conviction when they’re staring down death?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wasn’t seeing anything. Maybe he was feeling it. Maybe he realized that faith doesn’t always need proof — it just needs recognition.”

Jack: “Recognition of what?”

Jeeny: “That love never leaves.”

Host: Jack sat back, his hands falling open on his lap, palms up — a small, unconscious gesture of surrender. His voice dropped lower, softer.

Jack: “You talk like God is love itself.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t He?”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes love feels too far away.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. Wesley didn’t say God will be with us — he said God is with us. Even when you don’t feel it.”

Host: A long silence filled the chapel. The rain began outside — slow, steady, gentle — the sound weaving through the space like music too humble for instruments.

Jack: “You know, I’ve had moments — when things went dark — where I thought I was completely alone. Not just lonely, but abandoned. And now you’re telling me even that wasn’t true?”

Jeeny: “Not for a second.”

Jack: “Then why didn’t I feel anything?”

Jeeny: “Because pain speaks louder than presence. You have to outlast the noise to hear the whisper.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer now, her voice soft as the rain.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about feeling held. It’s about trusting you’re not falling, even when you can’t see the hands.”

Jack: “You make it sound like surrender.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But surrender isn’t defeat. It’s resting in what’s already holding you.”

Host: Jack looked up at her — his expression tired, but lighter somehow. The candlelight caught the faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the kind that only come from years of both laughter and grief.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That we’re never alone.”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I’ve lived it. When I lost everything once — my job, my family, my purpose — I used to sit in silence and ask, ‘Where are You?’ And one night, I realized that the asking itself was proof. You don’t cry out to nothing. Something inside me still believed it was worth calling.”

Jack: “So presence isn’t out there somewhere. It’s here.”

Jeeny: “Always. The best thing of all, remember?”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees again. The flames danced across his face, giving him the look of a man beginning to thaw.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t built from sermons, then. Maybe it’s built from moments like this — quiet, unplanned, alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s where God hides — between breaths, between words.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s a poetic God.”

Jeeny: “Would you prefer a loud one?”

Jack: “No. I think I’ve had enough loudness in my life.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened, and a faint moonbeam cut through the stained glass — the faint figure of a dove glowed faintly on the wall. Jeeny watched it, then turned back to him.

Jeeny: “Wesley’s last words weren’t just comfort. They were a final surrender — a declaration that nothing, not even death, could separate him from love.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why they’re the best words to end with.”

Jeeny: “Or to live by.”

Host: The chapel grew quiet again. The last candle flickered, its light low but steady, refusing to die. Jack stared at it, then whispered softly — almost to himself:

Jack: “The best thing of all… is He’s still here.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, and for a moment — in the stillness, in the rain, in the fragile glow of that little chapel — there was something undeniably holy.

Not in ritual. Not in perfection.
But in presence.

The camera would fade slowly, the light of the candle the last thing to go out — a single, trembling flame holding its ground against the dark.

And in that small, unwavering light — they both understood John Wesley’s last truth:
that God was not somewhere distant — He was already there, breathing quietly in their midst.