Through devotion, your family cares become more peaceful, mutual

Host: The morning light filtered softly through the old apartment’s curtains, touching the dust particles that hung like tiny galaxies in still air. Sunday silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of a clock ticking and the faint smell of bread from the bakery below. The city outside was half-awake, its traffic muted, its souls resting.

At the kitchen table, Jack sat, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyebrows furrowed, papers spread out — bills, schedules, endless tasks that seemed to multiply with every sunrise. Across from him, Jeeny quietly poured coffee, her movements deliberate, her expression calm, almost sacred. A rosary hung from the window handle, catching the light.

Jeeny: “Saint Francis de Sales once said, ‘Through devotion, your family cares become more peaceful, mutual love between husband and wife becomes more sincere, the service we owe to the prince more faithful, and our work, no matter what it is, becomes more pleasant and agreeable.’”

Jack: “Devotion. A pretty word for obedience.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. A powerful word for love in action.”

Jack: “I’ve heard that sermon before. But in the real world, devotion gets you overworked, underpaid, and forgotten.”

Host: A ray of sunlight fell across the table, touching the steam from their coffee. The moment was fragile, like the first breath after an argument.

Jeeny: “That’s not devotion — that’s exploitation. True devotion doesn’t drain; it transforms. It makes even burdens meaningful.”

Jack: “So I’m supposed to love my exhaustion?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to find the sacred within it.”

Jack: “You talk as if sweeping floors could be holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it can. If done with love.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it carried a quiet conviction, like a prayer that had survived many storms. Jack leaned back, grey eyes narrowed, his mouth curving with faint skepticism, but there was no mockery — only a man trying to understand a language he’d forgotten.

Jack: “You know what devotion got my father? A broken back and a gold watch they forgot to engrave.”

Jeeny: “And yet he raised a son who still believes in doing things right. That’s devotion too — even if you’ve forgotten to call it that.”

Jack: “He believed in duty, not devotion.”

Jeeny: “Duty without love becomes drudgery. But love without duty dissolves into chaos. Saint Francis understood that balance. Devotion is what unites the two.”

Jack: “He was a saint. Saints can afford to be idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Saints were real people who refused to live half-heartedly.”

Host: A gust of wind moved the curtains, spilling light over the table like blessing. The mugs steamed, the clock ticked, and for a moment, the apartment felt like a chapel made of ordinary air.

Jack: “So you’re saying if I’m devoted — if I pour my heart into every little thing — I’ll suddenly find peace?”

Jeeny: “Not suddenly. Gradually. Like water smoothing stone.”

Jack: “But what if the world doesn’t care? What if no one notices?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll have loved for love’s sake. That’s enough.”

Host: His eyes flicked toward her — tired, searching, uncertain if she was naïve or enlightened. The morning light deepened, painting her face in a kind of serene glow, like an icon from an older world that still believed in invisible virtues.

Jack: “You know, when you talk like this, I feel like I’m missing something obvious — like there’s a door to peace I keep walking past.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’re always looking for it in achievement instead of attention.”

Jack: “Attention?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Devotion is attention. When you love someone, you listen differently. When you work with care, you notice details others overlook. That’s where grace hides.”

Jack: “So what — holiness in paperwork?”

Jeeny: “If it’s done with the right heart, yes. Why not?”

Jack: “Because it sounds impossible.”

Jeeny: “Only because you think devotion means submission. It doesn’t. It means presence.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was like water, steady, cool, flowing around the edges of Jack’s resistance. He stared at the coffee surface, where a faint ripple from her words trembled, then stilled.

Jack: “Presence… you mean mindfulness.”

Jeeny: “Mindfulness is awareness. Devotion is awareness with love.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying love is the filter that changes everything?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It doesn’t change the work — it changes the worker.”

Host: The clock struck nine. Outside, children’s laughter echoed from the street, the baker called out orders, a bicycle bell rang. The day was beginning, but inside that small apartment, time seemed to pause, listening to their quiet theology.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny, how does devotion make a marriage more sincere? People fall out of love all the time.”

Jeeny: “Because they stop practicing it. Devotion isn’t a feeling; it’s a daily choice. When you choose to love through boredom, disappointment, imperfection — love becomes real.”

Jack: “Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also the only thing that lasts.”

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s loved and lost.”

Jeeny: “I’ve loved and learned. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her eyes softened, but behind them was the weight of lived truth — quiet, patient, almost luminous. Jack looked down at the papers, at the numbers, the to-do lists, the numb rhythm of his life.

Jack: “You make devotion sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. In a world that values speed and self, slowing down to care deeply is the greatest act of defiance.”

Host: A church bell rang in the distance, its sound threading through the morning air. Jack’s shoulders relaxed, his voice lower now, as if something inside him had shifted, even slightly.

Jack: “You know, I used to think peace was something you achieved — like a goal. Maybe it’s something you nurture instead.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like tending a garden. Or a marriage. Or your own heart.”

Jack: “And devotion is the gardener.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A beam of light broke through the clouds, falling across the table — warming the mugs, the papers, their hands resting near each other. For the first time that morning, Jack smiled — faintly, but without irony.

Jack: “Maybe Saint Francis wasn’t talking about religion at all.”

Jeeny: “No. He was talking about how to live sacredly in the ordinary.”

Jack: “Then maybe I can try that — devotion, without the halo.”

Jeeny: “You already are. You just don’t call it that yet.”

Host: The city below had come alive — footsteps, bells, vendors, the heartbeat of humanity rising again. Jeeny stood, gathering their empty mugs, the steam fading, the light now bright enough to fill the whole room.

Jack watched her, and something quiet and unspoken settled between them — the understanding that even in an ordinary apartment, amid bills and small frustrations, there could be sanctity.

Jack: “So that’s devotion — finding grace where the world only sees grind.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And loving anyway.”

Host: The clock ticked on, the morning fully bloomed, and in that simple kitchen — between coffee stains, paper clutter, and the soft echo of the bell — devotion itself seemed to breathe, unseen yet unmistakably alive.

And as they both stepped into the day, the light followed, quietly teaching what Saint Francis had once promised — that through devotion, even the smallest act, the simplest love, could become peaceful, faithful, and deeply, beautifully human.