Through hard work, perseverance and a faith in God, you can live

Host: The church was empty now, its long pews bathed in amber light from the stained-glass windows. Dust drifted lazily in the air — golden motes suspended like quiet prayers. The faint smell of wood polish, old books, and rain clung to the room. From somewhere beyond the altar came the muffled hum of a city winding down, but inside, the silence felt sacred — almost listening.

Host: At the front pew sat Jack, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his grey eyes lost in the play of colors cast by the light — red, blue, and green swimming across his face. Jeeny stood nearby, by the pulpit, running her fingers along the rim of a brass candlestick, her expression one of quiet contemplation.

Host: Between them, the voice of memory seemed to echo from the past — Ben Carson’s words, printed on a crumpled page that lay open on the pew beside Jack:

“Through hard work, perseverance and a faith in God, you can live your dreams.”

Host: The quote hung in the still air like a bell’s final note.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said, his voice low and rough, “that people who say things like that usually already made it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But it’s easy to preach faith when the storm’s already over. Harder when you’re still drowning.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about waiting for the storm to end,” she replied. “It’s about believing the rain has a reason.”

Host: The light shifted through the stained glass, the colors now pooling over Jeeny’s face — hues of blue serenity and gold conviction.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s simple. But it’s not. You can work your fingers to the bone, persevere until you’re dust, pray until your voice breaks — and still end up nowhere. Some people live and die with dreams they never even get close to.”

Jeeny: “And some people die because they stopped believing they could,” she said gently. “Ben Carson didn’t have privilege, Jack. He had poverty, rage, and doubt — but he turned them into motion. He believed that faith could turn limitation into fuel.”

Jack: “You make faith sound like an engine. It’s not. It’s more like a ghost — you can feel it sometimes, but it doesn’t build anything. It doesn’t guarantee a damn thing.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “It doesn’t guarantee. It guides.”

Host: Her voice was quiet but unshaken, like the sound of footsteps on marble — steady, echoing, sure. Jack looked up at her, the fading daylight painting her figure like a living portrait.

Jack: “So you think hard work and faith are enough? You think anyone can just will themselves into their dreams?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “Not everyone. Some dreams are denied. Some are delayed. But the act of reaching — that’s what matters. Faith doesn’t promise arrival. It promises direction.”

Host: Outside, a church bell chimed in the distance, its tone low and lingering — the kind of sound that folds time into stillness.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s cruel?” he asked. “To believe in something you might never touch?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the only thing that makes life bearable,” she said softly. “To believe that your effort means something beyond yourself — that there’s a purpose to the climb, even if you never see the peak.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling. The candle beside him flickered, its small flame trembling as though uncertain whether to live or die.

Jack: “When I was younger,” he began slowly, “I used to pray before every exam, every interview, every chance I had. I believed, truly believed, that God would meet me halfway — if I just worked hard enough. But sometimes, Jeeny, I think He stopped halfway too.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you stopped walking.”

Host: Her words cut through the quiet like a sudden wind. Jack froze, his eyes locking on hers.

Jack: “You think I gave up?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “I think you got tired. And I think you mistook exhaustion for failure.”

Host: The light dimmed further as clouds passed over the sun. The stained glass dulled, turning the room a soft grey.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t blind optimism, Jack. It’s choosing to move even when your eyes can’t see the path. That’s what perseverance means. It’s not constant victory — it’s constant return.”

Jack: “And if the return leads you nowhere?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you didn’t stay still,” she said. “The dream may not come true, but you’ll have lived one.”

Host: The silence stretched between them — heavy, intimate. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the flickering candle again.

Jack: “You really believe this world rewards that kind of hope?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, “but I believe that hope transforms the world — one life at a time. Ben Carson didn’t become who he was because life was fair. He became who he was because he decided not to make excuses. Faith gave him eyes to see possibility where everyone else saw impossibility.”

Jack: “So you think if I just work harder, pray more, and keep believing, my dreams will come true?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said with a sad smile. “I think if you do those things, you’ll become the kind of person who deserves them.”

Host: The last light of day slipped through the high windows, turning the room amber one final time. The city’s noise faded outside; all that remained was the hum of the candle’s flame.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a long pause, “when I was little, I wanted to be an architect. I used to draw cities — towers, bridges, places I thought people could live and love in. But then life started teaching me about limits.”

Jeeny: “And you believed it,” she said.

Jack: “What else was I supposed to do?”

Jeeny: “Defy it.”

Host: The flame steadied suddenly, as if her word itself had given it breath.

Jeeny: “That’s the point of faith, Jack. It’s defiance dressed in humility. It’s saying — ‘Yes, I know I’m small, but I’ll still build something bigger than myself.’”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and for the first time, his eyes didn’t hold cynicism. They held reflection.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple,” she said. “It’s sacred.”

Host: The candlelight caught her face, and the air between them softened — no longer sharp with debate, but warm with understanding.

Jack: “You think that’s what Carson meant?” he asked. “Faith and hard work aren’t steps to success — they are success?”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “Because living your dreams isn’t about arrival, Jack. It’s about alignment — between your effort and your belief.”

Host: The camera panned upward, catching the stained glass once more — now glowing faintly in the dusk, the image of a man reaching toward heaven, not in victory, but in gratitude.

Host: Jack stood, blowing out the candle. Smoke spiraled upward, fragile but free.

Host: And as the church darkened, Ben Carson’s words seemed to echo one last time — not as a command, but as a promise:

Host: “Through hard work, perseverance, and a faith in God, you can live your dreams.”

Host: The camera lingered on Jack’s silhouette in the doorway, his hand resting on the old wood, his head tilted slightly upward toward the faint, glowing sky.

Host: And in that quiet, sacred space between struggle and surrender, the truth burned steady —

Host: That faith does not remove the work. It sanctifies it. And perseverance is not a path to dreams — it is the dream itself, lived one heartbeat at a time.