There are many things that are essential to arriving at true

Host: The evening sky was heavy with rain, a deep, bruise-colored blue that swallowed the last light of day. In the old church courtyard, a single lamp flickered above the entrance, its glow soft, like a candle in the dark. The smell of wet earth and stone filled the air. Inside, the pews were empty, the candles still burning from a funeral earlier that afternoon.

Jack sat near the back — his hands clasped, his coat still damp from the rain. His grey eyes were fixed not on the altar, but on the floor, where the candlelight shimmered in small, trembling reflections. Jeeny entered quietly, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. The sound of it echoed like the closing of a memory.

Jeeny: “John Wooden once said, ‘There are many things that are essential to arriving at true peace of mind, and one of the most important is faith, which cannot be acquired without prayer.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Faith and prayer. Two words I’ve heard too often and felt too little.”

Jeeny: (sits beside him) “Maybe that’s because you’ve tried to think them instead of live them.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “I stopped praying a long time ago, Jeeny. Didn’t seem to change much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the point wasn’t to change the world — maybe it was to change you.”

Host: The wind outside howled softly through the cracks of the stained-glass windows. The flames of the candles wavered, dancing in rhythm with their words. Jack’s face, half-shadowed, carried the weight of someone who had wrestled with silence for too long.

Jack: “I’ve seen good people pray their whole lives and still lose everything. You tell me — where’s the faith in that?”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t a transaction, Jack. It’s not about getting what you want. It’s about holding on when everything tells you to let go.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But to me, it’s just waiting in the dark, hoping someone’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what it is — and maybe that’s why it matters.”

Jack: (leans back, sighing) “I used to pray as a kid. Every night. My mother made me kneel by the bed. I’d close my eyes, mumble words I didn’t understand. But she — she believed it made the world gentler. I never saw proof of that.”

Jeeny: “You did. You just didn’t recognize it. Maybe your mother’s faith was the gentleness you saw.”

Jack: “And what good did it do her? She died just the same.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe peace isn’t about escaping death. Maybe it’s about meeting it without fear.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder now, drumming against the roof. Somewhere, the sound of a bell rang — slow, distant, mournful. The light in the church flickered, casting moving shadows across the walls.

Jack: “Peace of mind. People talk about it like it’s a place you can move into if you pay the rent in prayers.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not a place, Jack. It’s a posture. It’s the stillness you find after the storm — the voice that says, ‘I’m still here,’ even when everything else is gone.”

Jack: “You sound like you actually believe it.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen what happens without it. People crumble. They turn bitter. You can have everything — money, health, power — but if you don’t have faith in something greater than yourself, you end up hollow.”

Jack: “And what if faith feels like pretending?”

Jeeny: “Then pretend long enough for it to become real. Wooden wasn’t just talking about religion — he was talking about trust. In life. In meaning. In the idea that prayer isn’t begging — it’s breathing.”

Host: Jack turned toward her slowly, his expression unreadable. The candlelight painted gold across her face, catching in her eyes, which glowed with quiet conviction.

Jack: “So, what, prayer’s supposed to be a conversation?”

Jeeny: “No. A surrender. You stop demanding, stop analyzing — and start listening.”

Jack: “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: “To what’s left when the noise stops. To yourself. To the world whispering back.”

Jack: “And if the world stays silent?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s your turn to speak — not with words, but with how you live.”

Host: The flames steadied. The rain softened. There was a strange, weightless calm between them, the kind that only arrives when two wounds recognize each other.

Jack: “You ever doubt, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But faith isn’t the absence of doubt. It’s choosing to move anyway.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Faith hurts. It’s built from the rubble of everything you’ve lost and still call good.”

Jack: “Then maybe I don’t have it in me.”

Jeeny: “You do. You’re just afraid to hope again.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Hope — that dangerous thing.”

Jeeny: “The only dangerous thing worth having.”

Host: A single raindrop slipped through a crack in the window and landed on the pew between them. It glistened under the candlelight, then sank quietly into the wood — disappearing, but leaving a small mark, a trace.

Jack: “You think Wooden prayed because he wanted peace?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he prayed because he understood peace was already inside him — prayer just helped him hear it.”

Jack: “And you think I can hear it too?”

Jeeny: “If you stop listening for words and start feeling the silence.”

Jack: (pauses) “You know... sometimes I envy people who believe without proof. They seem lighter.”

Jeeny: “That’s because proof is heavy. Faith travels light.”

Jack: “And what about peace of mind?”

Jeeny: “It’s not found — it’s built. Layer by layer, like forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness for what?”

Jeeny: “For everything — especially yourself.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to the floor. The flickering shadows stretched long across the aisle, reaching toward the altar like questions waiting for answers. The rain outside eased into a whisper.

He spoke again, softer now.

Jack: “You think God listens?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “Even when you don’t speak?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe I forgot how to talk to Him.”

Jeeny: “Then start with silence. He understands that language too.”

Host: A deep quiet filled the church. The candles burned lower. Somewhere in the rafters, a bird stirred, fluttering its wings once before settling again. Jeeny reached for Jack’s hand, resting it lightly on his.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t the light, Jack. It’s the courage to walk through the dark and believe there’s light ahead.”

Jack: (his voice trembling slightly) “And prayer?”

Jeeny: “The step that keeps you moving forward.”

Jack: (whispers) “Even when you’re scared?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The last candle flickered but didn’t die. Jack lifted his eyes for the first time — toward the cross, toward the soft glow spilling from the altar. His expression was no longer weary — just quiet.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try again — not for answers, but for peace.”

Jeeny: “That’s where it starts.”

Jack: “And ends?”

Jeeny: “There are no endings in prayer, Jack. Only pauses.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The air outside was clean, alive, filled with the faint scent of wet grass and renewal. As they stepped out of the church, the world felt newly washed — the city lights shimmering in puddles, the moon breaking through the clouds.

Jack paused on the steps, took a long breath, and closed his eyes.

The sound that followed wasn’t thunder, or traffic, or even the hum of distant life — it was the quietest sound of all:

Peace.

Born from faith.
Found in silence.
Kept by prayer.