To have faith doesn't mean you get any less frustrated when you

Host: The golf course stretched out like a painting at twilight — vast, emerald hills dipped in gold, the sun sliding low behind the trees, the hum of distant sprinklers blending with the sound of evening crickets. The air carried that peculiar scent of cut grass and quiet ambition — both sharp and serene.

On the edge of the 18th green, Jack sat on a worn wooden bench, golf bag at his feet, the last rays of sunlight glinting off a silver club. Beside him, Jeeny stood barefoot on the grass, shoes in hand, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair.

The moment had that tender ache of endings — the last hole, the last light, the day folding in on itself.

Jeeny: “Tom Lehman once said, ‘To have faith doesn’t mean you get any less frustrated when you don’t do your best, but you know that it’s not life and death. Take what you’re given, and when you continue to work hard, you will see results. That will give you the confidence you need to keep going.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Sounds like the gospel of missed putts.”

Jeeny: “Or of persistence — faith measured in inches, not miracles.”

Jack: “I’ve had my share of rounds like that. You play your heart out, line up the shot, do everything right — and the ball still curves away. Feels like a cosmic joke.”

Jeeny: “Lehman’s saying faith doesn’t erase that frustration — it just keeps you from mistaking the game for your worth.”

Jack: “Yeah. The ego wants trophies, not lessons.”

Jeeny: “And faith wants endurance, not perfection.”

Host: The last bird of the evening swooped low over the fairway. The flag on the green fluttered softly, illuminated by the faintest blush of dusk. The world was still, except for the small sounds of breath and breeze — life pared down to essentials.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith was confidence — like if I believed enough, I wouldn’t miss. Now I think it’s the opposite. Faith is what you cling to after you’ve missed.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a guarantee of success. It’s a promise of perspective.”

Jack: “Still doesn’t make losing any easier.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from mistaking losing for dying.”

Host: Jeeny dropped her shoes and sat beside him, her knees brushing against his. The soft murmur of the sprinklers filled the air — steady, rhythmic, like the breath of the earth itself.

Jack: “Funny how golf always becomes philosophy in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the purest metaphor for life: the illusion of control. You stand there, calculating angles, wind, pressure — and still, the smallest unseen gust can change everything.”

Jack: “Yeah. You can’t argue with the wind. You just learn to play with it.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith. Not certainty — adaptability.”

Host: The sun sank lower, painting the water hazards bronze. In that fading light, even failure looked beautiful.

Jack: “When Lehman says, ‘Take what you’re given,’ I hear surrender. Not giving up, but accepting the hand you’ve got.”

Jeeny: “And trusting you can still play it well.”

Jack: “I used to hate that phrase — ‘everything happens for a reason.’ Sounds like lazy optimism. But maybe it’s not about reason at all. Maybe it’s about rhythm. Life’s timing. Like golf — some days your swing just isn’t in sync, no matter how hard you try.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t ask you to ignore that. It just asks you to keep showing up.”

Host: A pause. The wind shifted. The faint smell of rain carried from the horizon. Somewhere, lightning flickered — distant, almost polite.

Jack: “You know, I’ve quit before. Walked off mid-round, mid-job, mid-life. Told myself it wasn’t worth the effort. But it wasn’t the game I’d lost faith in — it was myself.”

Jeeny: “And Lehman’s right — when you work, even through that, the results eventually come. Not the trophies, maybe, but something quieter. Confidence. Grace. Patience.”

Jack: “Confidence earned the hard way sticks longer.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not rooted in winning — it’s rooted in getting back up.”

Host: The sprinkler hiss grew softer, then stopped. The night settled in. The stars began to emerge — small, deliberate, one by one.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about faith? It doesn’t care about pace. It just asks for movement. Even an inch forward counts.”

Jack: “Even a bad round teaches something — that you can survive disappointment. That frustration isn’t fatal.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s maturity — when failure doesn’t threaten your identity anymore.”

Jack: “Yeah. You stop needing the world to clap for you.”

Host: The breeze carried the faint sound of laughter from the clubhouse — human, tired, content. Jack leaned back, looking at the stars with a half-smile.

Jack: “You think Lehman ever got tired of believing?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Faith doesn’t mean you never doubt. It means you don’t stay there.”

Jack: “So faith’s not a feeling — it’s a practice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like golf. Like living.”

Host: The night deepened. The flag on the green barely moved now — just a whisper against the air. The world seemed to exhale with them.

Jeeny: “You know, what I love about his quote is how human it is. It doesn’t pretend faith is some mystical force. It’s patience, humility, hard work — all the quiet virtues that never trend but always last.”

Jack: “Yeah. Faith isn’t magic. It’s maintenance.”

Jeeny: “Maintenance of hope.”

Jack: “And perspective.”

Host: The moon broke through the clouds then, soft and pale, lighting the field in silver. The grass shimmered with dew, every blade catching the faint light.

And in that still, sacred quiet, Tom Lehman’s words hung between them — not as doctrine, but as wisdom learned in motion:

That faith doesn’t erase frustration — it endures it.
That failure isn’t fatal — it’s formative.
That the true test of strength isn’t winning,
but continuing.

That what begins as discipline becomes trust,
and what begins as work becomes grace.

Host: Jack stood, slinging the bag over his shoulder. The clubs clinked softly — a familiar sound, almost comforting.

Jack: “You coming?”

Jeeny: “In a minute. I want to watch the moon finish its swing.”

Host: He smiled, nodded, and walked toward the path.
Jeeny stayed — still, listening, her face turned to the glowing sky.

The air was cool, clean, and alive with memory.
And beneath the wide dome of night, the world whispered softly —

Keep going.