The power of forgiveness is huge; it is really big, and it can

Host: The church stood on the edge of a forgotten village, half-hidden beneath the hush of a rainy afternoon. Its walls, cracked but unbroken, bore the stains of both time and faith. Candles flickered in the dimness, their small flames trembling against the draft, like fragile souls holding on to hope.

Through the tall, stained windows, light filtered in — gold and red and soft blue — painting fractured rainbows across the floor. The air smelled of wax, rain-soaked wood, and something older: peace earned the hard way.

At the front pew, Jack sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tight, his face bowed in thought. He looked like a man trying to argue with his own heart.

Behind him, the old wooden door creaked open, and Jeeny stepped inside. Her dark hair, damp from the rain, clung to her shoulders. She carried no umbrella — only a small rosary, worn smooth from years of use.

Her footsteps echoed gently as she approached.

Jeeny: “Immaculée Ilibagiza once said, ‘The power of forgiveness is huge; it is really big, and it can save this world.’”

Host: Her voice broke the silence like light breaking through clouds — quiet, but with the certainty of truth.

Jack: (without looking up) “Save the world? Forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s easy to say when you haven’t been hurt beyond repair.”

Jeeny: “She said it after surviving genocide.”

Host: The words hit him like cold rain. He looked up — his eyes, grey and haunted, searching hers.

Jack: “Genocide?”

Jeeny: “Rwanda. 1994. She hid for ninety-one days in a bathroom with seven other women while her family was murdered outside the walls. And she still forgave them.”

Host: The candles flickered as if reacting to the weight of the story. The silence that followed felt holy — not from reverence, but from disbelief.

Jack: (softly) “How do you forgive something like that?”

Jeeny: “You don’t forgive it. You forgive them. And that’s the difference.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “I couldn’t. Some things are too big. Too cruel.”

Jeeny: “That’s why she said forgiveness is power. Because it does what rage never can.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, beating against the stained glass like a heartbeat — steady, insistent.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary. Hatred is an inheritance we keep passing down, and it poisons the soul.”

Jack: “And you think forgiveness can erase that?”

Jeeny: “Not erase. Transform.”

Host: She sat beside him, their reflections shimmering together in the candlelight. For a moment, neither spoke — the silence full of ghosts neither dared to name.

Jack: “You don’t understand, Jeeny. I’ve seen what anger does — it keeps you warm when nothing else will. It gives you reason.”

Jeeny: “And when it’s burned through everything you love?”

Jack: (pausing) “Then it leaves you cold. But at least it’s honest.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s endless. Forgiveness ends the cycle. It frees you from the echo.”

Host: She reached forward and lit another candle, the flame trembling to life.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Ilibagiza said after she forgave the man who killed her family? She said she felt lighter than she’d ever felt in her life. That hatred had been her prison, not the bathroom.”

Jack: “That’s faith talking. Ordinary people don’t have that kind of strength.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what faith is — extraordinary forgiveness in ordinary hearts.”

Host: The rain softened. The world outside seemed to pause. Jack leaned back, staring up at the old wooden crucifix that hung above the altar.

Jack: “You really think forgiveness can save the world?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Wars end not when the stronger side wins, but when someone chooses mercy.”

Jack: “And what if mercy just invites more pain?”

Jeeny: “Then you forgive again. And again. Until the world forgets how to hate.”

Host: He looked at her — a long, searching look. The kind that holds both skepticism and longing.

Jack: “You forgive too easily, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. I forgive because not forgiving would destroy me. Forgiveness isn’t weakness — it’s how I keep my humanity.”

Jack: “And if they don’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “They rarely do. That’s what makes it powerful.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the stained glass, filling the church with brief, blinding color — a mosaic of mercy and memory. The thunder followed, low and slow, like the sound of heaven thinking.

Jack: (after a long pause) “There was a man once — my business partner. Stole everything. Lied. Left me ruined. I used to dream about seeing him fall. About the justice of it.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “He died last year. Cancer.”

Jeeny: “Did you feel peace?”

Jack: “No. Just... emptiness. Like I’d lost something I didn’t even want anymore.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s what hatred does. It gives you a reason to stand until you forget how to walk without it.”

Jack: “And forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “It gives you back your steps.”

Host: She reached out, her hand resting on his — a small act of grace that said more than any sermon could.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to forgive him for what he did. Forgive him so it stops defining what you do.”

Jack: (whispering) “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then start by wanting to.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sound of dripping water filled the quiet — a slow, gentle rhythm of renewal.

Jack rose, walking toward the altar. He stood beneath the crucifix, his shadow stretching across the aisle. For a moment, his posture softened — as if he were laying something invisible down.

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe forgiveness can save this world?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “It’s the only cure we haven’t tried long enough.”

Host: He turned back to her, his expression unreadable — somewhere between sorrow and surrender.

Jack: “Then maybe it starts here.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it always did.”

Host: She smiled, and the room seemed to breathe again. Outside, the clouds broke apart, letting the late light through — pale, pure, steady.

It touched the floor first, then the altar, then their faces.

And in that fragile glow, the truth of Ilibagiza’s words seemed less like hope and more like instruction —
that forgiveness, far from being divine charity,
was the last, most human act of courage.

For in a world addicted to vengeance,
to forgive is to rebuild from ashes —
to stand amid ruin and say,

“The story isn’t over yet.”