The pinnacle of the fulfillment I can ever experience for my

Host: The churchyard was silent, save for the wind threading through the trees. The sunset had melted into purple dusk, and the bells from a distant chapel tolled like slow heartbeats across the hills.

Jack and Jeeny walked along the gravel path, their footsteps crunching beneath the fallen leaves. A cross stood at the center of the courtyard, bathed in the fading light, its shadow stretching like an arm toward them.

Jeeny paused, her eyes lifted to the sky, where the last ribbon of sunlight glowed against the darkening clouds.

Jeeny: “Nick Vujicic said something once that never left me: ‘The pinnacle of the fulfillment I can ever experience for my spirit and soul is to hear from the Lord, when I see Him face to face, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”’”

Her voice was gentle, but the weight in it hung like a prayer.

Jack: “Fulfillment through obedience,” he said, frowning, his hands deep in his coat pockets. “It sounds like submission to me. Why should the greatest reward be approval?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not just approval—it’s recognition. Not from the world, but from the divine. From the source that gave you life.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that mean living your whole life for someone else’s validation? Even if that someone is God?”

Jeeny: “Not validation. Purpose.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of incense from the church doors. A candlelight service was just beginning, the choir inside warming their voices, a soft hum that floated into the evening like a memory.

Jack: “You know what that sounds like to me? The eternal version of a boss saying, ‘Good job, employee.’”

Jeeny: “You mock it because you don’t see what he meant. Vujicic’s life was… pain and perseverance. Born without limbs, yet he turned suffering into service. He wasn’t chasing praise; he was chasing meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning always sounds noble until it becomes an excuse for endurance. He endured because he had no choice. Others suffer and find no divine whisper waiting at the end.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because they stop listening.”

Jack: “Or maybe because there’s no one speaking.”

Host: The air grew colder, biting against their cheeks. A flock of birds moved across the sky like a ribbon of shadow. Jack watched them, his eyes distant, as if he were measuring his own distance from faith.

Jeeny: “You always want proof. But faith isn’t about seeing; it’s about trusting. It’s about believing that your life matters even when it feels small.”

Jack: “And what if it doesn’t? What if our lives are just—dust rearranged to think?”

Jeeny: “Then dust still found a way to speak, to love, to create. Isn’t that divine enough?”

Jack: “You call that divine. I call it biology.”

Jeeny: “You call it biology because you’re afraid to call it destiny.”

Jack: “And you call it destiny because you’re afraid to admit it’s random.”

Host: The argument tightened between them like a string. The choir’s voices rose, the melody trembling through the open air—fragile, human, yearning.

Jeeny turned, her eyes glistening in the half-light.

Jeeny: “Do you know what makes his words powerful? Not theology—gratitude. He wanted to hear ‘Well done’ not because he feared God, but because he wanted to give back. To say, ‘I didn’t waste what You gave me.’”

Jack: “And if there is no Giver?”

Jeeny: “Then you still owe something to the gift.”

Host: Jack stopped walking, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. He looked toward the cross, its outline now barely visible against the darkness.

Jack: “You think every life needs a mission. But maybe the soul is tired of missions. Maybe peace isn’t about earning divine applause—it’s about silence. About being enough without doing anything at all.”

Jeeny: “That’s not peace, Jack. That’s surrender without joy.”

Jack: “And faith is surrender dressed in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still the kind that saves lives.”

Jack: “Or numbs them.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed, and her voice, once tender, now sharpened.

Jeeny: “You think people like Vujicic numb themselves? He woke up every day without arms, without legs—and still smiled. Still spoke to millions. Still believed he was loved. If that’s numbness, then maybe we need more of it.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. That’s strength. But strength doesn’t prove God—it proves the human will.”

Jeeny: “And who do you think gave him that will?”

Host: The first stars appeared, faint points against a deep blue sky. The church doors opened, and a few people stepped out, hands clasped, faces calm. Their shadows stretched across the gravel, merging with Jack’s and Jeeny’s.

Jack watched them, his expression caught somewhere between envy and defiance.

Jack: “You really think fulfillment comes from hearing someone else’s words—‘Well done’—at the end of all this?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because those words mean you’ve lived beyond yourself. They mean your choices mattered to more than your own survival.”

Jack: “But what if I don’t believe there’s anyone to say it?”

Jeeny: “Then say it to yourself.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then live in such a way that even your silence says it for you.”

Host: A long pause. The wind died. The bell tolled again, a final note melting into the night.

Jack looked down, his grey eyes softening. “You talk like faith is a mirror,” he murmured. “Like you see yourself clearer through someone else’s eyes.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. Faith isn’t about losing yourself—it’s about finding yourself through a greater gaze. When Vujicic speaks about that moment—seeing the Lord and hearing those words—it’s not about the Lord’s satisfaction. It’s about finally understanding your own.”

Jack: “Maybe I envy that. The simplicity of it.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s the hardest thing—to live every day as if your soul is being watched, not judged, but loved.”

Host: The night had deepened, the stars burning brighter now. The cross stood in silhouette, no longer ominous, but quiet—like a keeper of stories.

Jeeny moved closer, her hand brushing Jack’s sleeve.

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t believe in a God, Jack. But you believe in something—you wouldn’t be so angry if you didn’t.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m angry because I want to believe, and I can’t.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where faith begins—not in certainty, but in longing.”

Jack: “And what do you call fulfillment then?”

Jeeny: “When longing turns into peace.”

Host: They stood still, the choir’s final notes drifting through the air, a tender harmony that seemed to settle on their shoulders.

Jack exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air. “Maybe,” he whispered, “if there is a God, I just hope He says, ‘You tried.’”

Jeeny smiled, her eyes shimmering. “And maybe that’s all He ever wanted.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, the two figures small beneath the vast sky, the cross between them like a bridge of light. The wind stirred, gentle, forgiving, and from the open chapel door, one last candle flickered—its flame trembling, but never going out.

The scene faded, and in the darkness, only the echo of the words remained—
Well done, my good and faithful servant.