The best time to plant a tree was 25 years ago. The second-best

Host: The morning fog curled over the fields, soft as breath, carrying with it the scent of wet soil and dew. The sky was a muted silver, and the sun — though awake — seemed shy behind the mist. In the middle of an open clearing, a single tree stood — young, but sturdy — its leaves trembling in the quiet wind.

Jack knelt beside a freshly dug hole, his hands covered in earth, his boots soaked with mud. Across from him, Jeeny held a sapling, its thin roots wrapped in a worn piece of burlap. They had been working in silence for hours — two souls planting something that might outlive them.

From a radio lying on the grass, a voice broke through the static — measured, strong, calm. It was Eliud Kipchoge, speaking to a crowd somewhere far away:
"The best time to plant a tree was 25 years ago. The second-best time to plant a tree is today."

The radio hissed, then went silent. The world, however, did not.

Jack: (grunting, patting the soil beside the hole) “You hear that, Jeeny? Sounds like the man’s talking about regret. About how we’re always late to our own lives.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly, lowering the sapling) “No, Jack. He’s talking about hope. About how it’s never too late to start. That’s not regret — that’s forgiveness.”

Host: The wind brushed past them, stirring the grass like whispers of memory. A single bird called out from a distant tree, its note clean and solitary, like the first thought of the day.

Jack: “Hope’s a pretty word for procrastination. People wait and wait, saying it’s never too late — until it is. You can’t plant a tree and expect to sit in its shade the next morning.”

Jeeny: “And yet someone has to plant it, even if they never feel the shade. That’s the point, Jack. You do it because someone else will. Because the world isn’t just about what we get — it’s about what we leave.”

Host: Jack’s hands paused, the dirt crumbling between his fingers. He looked at the small sapling — fragile, almost absurdly so — and let out a low laugh that carried no joy.

Jack: “You sound like a sermon. The world doesn’t care about your ‘legacy.’ It’ll keep turning, burning, rebuilding itself. We plant trees, build homes, write books — and the world just… moves on.”

Jeeny: (softly) “But we don’t. That’s the difference. The world forgets, yes, but we remember. We live in the shade of someone else’s faith every day. That’s how life keeps itself alive — through small, stubborn acts that don’t make headlines but keep hearts from collapsing.”

Host: A light drizzle began to fall — gentle, steady — softening the soil, blurring the horizon. The sky dimmed, but the earth seemed to glow, dark and rich, ready for something to take root.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t feed people, Jeeny. Work does. You can plant all the hope you want, but if you waited twenty-five years to fix something, it’s already too late. The forest’s gone, the rivers are dry, the people — tired. That tree won’t bring them back.”

Jeeny: (kneeling across from him, her voice calm but firm) “Then why are you still here, Jack? Why did you pick up that shovel? You talk like you don’t believe in tomorrow, but you’re the one digging for it. Somewhere inside, you know — the second-best time is still worth taking.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming on their jackets, turning the field into a symphony of soft percussion. The sapling between them swayed slightly, its leaves glistening like green glass.

Jack: (quietly) “I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe because my father used to say that — about trees, about everything. He’d always say, ‘Start now, even if you should’ve started long ago.’ I never listened.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then maybe this is you finally listening.”

Host: For a moment, the storm eased, and a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds — fragile, golden, brief. It fell directly on the small tree, turning its wet leaves into tiny mirrors that caught the light and scattered it like promises.

Jack: (after a pause) “Funny thing about time, huh? Twenty-five years sounds like a lifetime when you’re young. But you blink, and it’s gone. You start to realize that ‘someday’ was just a polite word for ‘never.’”

Jeeny: “That’s why today matters. Because it’s the only currency we really have. Every time you act — even a little — you’re buying back a piece of what you lost.”

Jack: (looking up at her) “And what if it’s too late? What if you plant the tree, and it still dies?”

Jeeny: “Then you plant another one.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying her words like a quiet anthem through the open field. Jack’s shoulders sagged, but his hands returned to the dirt, slow and deliberate. Together, they set the sapling upright, its roots reaching greedily into the earth, its body trembling but unbroken.

Jack: (softly) “You know… there’s something cruel about time. It forgives no one, yet it gives you these little moments to make peace with it. Like this.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cruelty, Jack. That’s grace — disguised as a second chance.”

Host: The tree stood now, small but certain, like a sentence finally finished. The rain softened into mist again, and the air smelled of new beginnings. Jack sat back, muddy, exhausted, but quiet — a man who had finally met himself where he was, not where he thought he should’ve been.

Jeeny: (whispering) “You see, the quote isn’t just about trees. It’s about everything we keep postponing — forgiveness, dreams, change. We mourn what we didn’t do, but life still asks: what will you do now?”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. Maybe today’s the only ‘perfect time’ we’ll ever get.”

Host: The sun broke free at last, washing the world in soft gold, glinting off wet leaves and trembling puddles. The tree stood between them — fragile, rooted, alive — a promise written in soil.

As Jack and Jeeny rose to leave, the camera lingered on the tree, its small shape cutting gently against the wide expanse of the recovering sky.

Host: And as the world exhaled, the Host’s voice came like the after-rain — calm, forgiving, infinite:

The best time to begin was long ago.
But the second-best time — the only one that’s truly ours —
is this breath, this moment,
this quiet act of planting something that might one day shade another soul.

Because life isn’t about what we missed.
It’s about the courage to start — still.