To reach something good it is very useful to have gone astray

Host: The chapel sat at the edge of a cliffside village, overlooking a vast plain that stretched into eternity. The sun was setting — its light a molten river across the horizon, spilling gold and crimson through the tall, stained glass windows. Dust floated lazily in the glow, each particle catching divine color, as though heaven had forgotten to sweep.

Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the scent of wax and stone. A single candle flame flickered near the altar — fragile yet defiant. And in the back pew, Jack sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the flame. Jeeny knelt a few steps away, her hands loosely clasped, not in prayer, but in thought.

They were silent at first — the kind of silence that only ancient walls could keep.

Jeeny: (softly, almost reverently) “Saint Teresa of Avila once said, ‘To reach something good it is very useful to have gone astray, and thus acquire experience.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So even saints believed in getting lost.”

Jeeny: “Not in sin — in straying. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think there’s a difference between mistake and sin?”

Jeeny: “One damns, the other teaches. Sin is the refusal to return. Straying is the courage to wander.”

Host: The candlelight trembled as if agreeing. The air shifted — a quiet breath of wind moving through the old chapel’s arches, carrying whispers of distant hymns.

Jack: “You make it sound noble — going astray. But tell that to someone who’s ruined their life chasing the wrong things.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me this — what makes a life ‘ruined’? Because if ruin brings wisdom, isn’t that its own kind of grace?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Grace. I’ve always struggled with that word. It sounds too clean for the messes people make.”

Jeeny: “Maybe grace isn’t about cleanliness. Maybe it’s about light finding a way through the dirt.”

Jack: “Then Saint Teresa was a realist — holiness born from imperfection.”

Jeeny: “She was. She believed the soul learns more in failure than in obedience. Every misstep teaches humility.”

Host: The bell from a distant monastery tolled, low and resonant, vibrating through the stone floor beneath them. It sounded like time itself acknowledging their conversation.

Jack: “Experience as redemption, then. That’s a dangerous idea. You could justify anything with that logic — even cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Not justify. Understand. There’s a difference. Understanding doesn’t excuse — it transforms.”

Jack: “But how far can you go astray before you can’t come back?”

Jeeny: “Far enough to know what home means.”

Host: Her voice lingered, soft yet firm — the kind of voice that could break hearts with gentleness. The candle flame swayed again, stretching thin in the draft, then righted itself.

Jack: (quietly) “I’ve gone astray more times than I can count. I’ve chased things that felt right and left me empty. I’ve hurt people who didn’t deserve it.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve lived.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s not wisdom. That’s damage.”

Jeeny: “And damage is where wisdom hides. Teresa understood that holiness isn’t perfection — it’s persistence. Falling and still walking toward the light.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed as evening took hold, and the stained glass began to glow not from within but from memory — a slow fading of color.

Jack: “So she’s saying we need to fail. That goodness requires ruin first.”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. To touch heaven, you have to have known the dark. Otherwise, what would ‘good’ even mean?”

Jack: “You sound like Kierkegaard with rosary beads.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like a skeptic trying to argue with grace.”

Host: The silence between them deepened — not empty, but full. Outside, the wind moved through the cypress trees, whispering like the breath of forgotten pilgrims.

Jack: “You ever think about how most people only find themselves after they’ve broken something sacred?”

Jeeny: “Because breaking reveals the shape of what we hold. When it’s whole, we take it for granted. When it’s shattered, we finally see its outline.”

Jack: “So suffering is revelation.”

Jeeny: “It can be. Saint Teresa called it purification — not punishment.”

Jack: “And what if the lesson never comes?”

Jeeny: “Then the wandering continues. The point isn’t to arrive — it’s to keep seeking what’s good despite how often you’ve lost it.”

Host: The flame guttered, nearly extinguished, then steadied again. Its persistence filled the silence with quiet defiance — a sermon made of light.

Jeeny: “You know, Teresa spent years in despair. She doubted herself, her faith, her worth. But through that despair, she found God not in the cathedral, but in the cracks of her own fear.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s where God hides — in the wreckage of our intentions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine doesn’t demand perfection. It just asks that we keep walking back toward it, even when our shoes are soaked in mud.”

Jack: “That’s almost comforting. That failure can still be holy.”

Jeeny: “Failure’s the only honest prayer most of us know.”

Host: The bell tolled again, softer this time, fading into the distance. The chapel’s shadows lengthened, cloaking the pews in blue-grey stillness.

Jack: (after a pause) “Do you think Teresa was ever afraid she’d gone too far astray?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every saint starts as a doubter. That’s why their faith means something — it’s chosen after fear, not before it.”

Jack: “Then maybe doubt’s not the enemy of faith.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the soil it grows in.”

Host: A flock of birds passed outside, their wings momentarily catching the last light of day — a brief shimmer, then gone. The air inside the chapel felt heavier, sacred, alive with memory.

Jack: “So going astray — it’s not the end.”

Jeeny: “It’s the map.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe I’ve been collecting directions all my life.”

Jeeny: “And maybe every wrong turn was pointing you home.”

Host: The flame at the altar flared one final time, as if echoing her words — steady, unwavering, radiant against the growing dark.

And in that dim chapel, under the slow breath of centuries, Saint Teresa’s wisdom shimmered like the last ember of sunset:

That to fall is to learn the shape of flight.
That to stray is to understand the way home.
That every scar carries a lesson,
and that goodness — true goodness —
is not found in innocence,
but in the return.

Host: The night settled fully now,
and as Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the cool air,
the world beyond the chapel seemed softer —
as though grace itself had followed them out,
walking barefoot beside their shadows.