The degree of loving is measured by the degree of giving.

Host:
The evening was quiet over the city park, its pathways slick from the afternoon rain. Streetlights hummed softly, casting halos of warm light through the mist. The trees, bare in early autumn, stood like silent witnesses, their branches holding the last golden remnants of day. The faint smell of wet earth and fallen leaves lingered — that fragile scent of change and forgiveness.

A lone bench near the fountain waited in solitude. Upon it sat Jack, a paper coffee cup in his hands, his grey eyes reflecting the soft light of the water’s ripples. His posture was thoughtful — shoulders slightly hunched, as if carrying invisible weight.

Jeeny approached from across the path, her umbrella folded now, her coat damp but her expression calm. She smiled faintly when she saw him, the kind of smile that carries both recognition and understanding.

She sat beside him without a word. For a moment, the world was still — the kind of stillness that feels like listening.

Jack: “‘The degree of loving is measured by the degree of giving.’” He said it quietly, watching his reflection quiver in the water. “Edwin Louis Cole. Sounds simple. Almost too simple.”

Host:
The rain began again — light, patient, like a second thought from heaven. The fountain’s drops mirrored it, their rhythm delicate and sure.

Jeeny: “Simple doesn’t mean small, Jack. Sometimes the hardest truths wear the smallest words.”

Jack: “So love equals generosity? That’s what he meant?”

Jeeny: “Not generosity of things — generosity of self.”

Jack: “Same difference. You give something, you lose something.”

Jeeny: “No. You transform something. Love doesn’t drain — it circulates.”

Host:
Her voice was steady, like someone explaining light to a man who had only seen shadows. The rain whispered against the pavement, and the city beyond them faded into a hum of distant motion.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’ve given so much you don’t have anything left?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s not because of love. That’s because of fear disguised as love.”

Jack: “Fear?”

Jeeny: “The fear of not being enough. The fear that if we stop giving, we’ll disappear.”

Jack: “You make it sound like love’s a science — measured in equations and energy.”

Jeeny: “It is, in a way. You can’t fake balance. Give too little, it withers. Give too much, it breaks.”

Jack: “So there’s a limit?”

Jeeny: “No. There’s awareness.”

Host:
A gust of wind moved through the trees, scattering a handful of leaves across the path. One landed in the fountain and spun lazily, carried by the circular current.

Jack: “You really think the depth of love can be measured by what we give?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because giving is proof of presence. When you love deeply, you give your time, your patience, your listening — not just your comfort.”

Jack: “But what if you give and it’s not returned?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve still honored what’s sacred in you. Love is never wasted, Jack. It’s an investment in the soul, not a transaction.”

Host:
The lamp above them flickered, its light glancing off the raindrops like tears frozen midair.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been on both sides — the giver and the one who ran out of things to give.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. But the thing I learned is that love that costs nothing isn’t love — it’s convenience.”

Jack: “And love that costs everything?”

Jeeny: “That’s devotion. The kind that changes you.”

Host:
He turned to look at her then — her eyes, her stillness, her unspoken courage. There was a kind of peace in her that came not from having avoided pain, but from surviving it with grace.

Jack: “You make giving sound holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because when you give without fear, you participate in creation itself. Every act of true love builds the world a little better.”

Jack: “And when it’s not true?”

Jeeny: “Then it teaches you where truth begins.”

Host:
The rain eased into mist again, soft as breath. The world around them seemed to shrink into a kind of sacred intimacy — the fountain’s rhythm, the rustle of leaves, the quiet between their voices.

Jack: “You ever think love and sacrifice are the same thing?”

Jeeny: “They overlap, but they’re not identical. Sacrifice gives up the self for love. True love gives the self through love.”

Jack: “You mean willingly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love isn’t subtraction. It’s multiplication.”

Host:
A smile ghosted across his lips, small but real — the kind that comes from the first breath of clarity after too long in fog.

Jack: “You think that’s what Cole meant? That giving is the measure of how much we allow love to shape us?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the more you give of your patience, your truth, your forgiveness — the more love expands through you.”

Jack: “You make it sound divine.”

Jeeny: “It is. Love is the divine economy — the only currency that grows by being spent.”

Host:
He looked down at his hands — scarred, worn, but steady — and then at hers, resting loosely on her lap, still and open.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why giving scares people. It exposes how attached we are to what we think we own.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But love isn’t ownership. It’s offering.”

Jack: “And if you offer and it’s refused?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve still kept your promise to the universe — to give what is best in you, no matter the result.”

Host:
The clouds began to part, revealing a sliver of moonlight reflected in the fountain. It shimmered across the water, soft and trembling.

Jack: “You know, I used to think love was about how much you could feel. Now I think it’s about how much you can give without disappearing.”

Jeeny: “That’s the balance — to give so fully that the act itself nourishes you.”

Jack: “That sounds impossible.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s evolution.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now — the two figures on the bench, the world hushed around them, the fountain’s light flickering like a heartbeat.

As the scene faded into the calm glow of night, Edwin Louis Cole’s words would remain — not as instruction, but as revelation:

That the measure of love
is not how much we receive,
but how deeply we give —
without demand, without fear, without end.

For love is not a possession,
but a flow,
the invisible exchange between souls
that nourishes all it touches.

To love, then,
is to give —
not from abundance,
but from faith,
knowing that every true act of giving
is love returning home.