We all face storms in life. Some are more difficult than others

Host: The night was heavy with the smell of rain, the kind that clings to the air long after the storm has passed. The streets glistened, reflecting the trembling light of streetlamps — small suns scattered across puddles. Inside a small coastal diner, the hum of the jukebox mingled with the distant thunder still rolling out at sea.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his coat damp, his coffee untouched. Across from him, Jeeny watched the raindrops slide down the window, each one catching a glint of light before falling — like moments, or memories, or both.

The world outside was silent except for the slow, rhythmic drip of water from the awning. The aftermath of a storm always made everything feel raw and newly born.

Jeeny: “Joyce Meyer once said, ‘We all face storms in life. Some are more difficult than others, but we all go through trials and tribulation. That’s why we have the gift of faith.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, tired) “Faith. You mean that invisible rope people throw into the dark hoping it’s tied to something?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the reason they throw it at all.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, the electricity straining against the last breath of the storm. Jeeny wrapped her hands around her mug, the warmth rising through her palms, grounding her.

Jack: “You know, I’ve never trusted the word ‘faith.’ It sounds too much like surrender.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you think surrender means weakness. Sometimes it’s the only way to survive the storm.”

Jack: “I’d rather build a roof.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And roofs collapse when the wind’s strong enough. But faith — faith is the courage to rebuild after it does.”

Host: Outside, the neon sign of the diner buzzed, casting pink light across the raindrops. The storm had passed, but its echo still shivered in the distance.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But faith doesn’t keep you dry. People pray through hurricanes and still drown.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t promise you safety. It promises meaning. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t stop pain.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives pain purpose. And that’s what keeps people standing.”

Host: The rain had begun again — soft, gentle, like forgiveness. The sound of it filled the silence between them.

Jack: “You really believe it’s a gift? Faith?”

Jeeny: “Of course. It’s not something we earn. It’s something we’re born with, and spend our whole lives trying to remember.”

Jack: “Then why do some people never find it?”

Jeeny: “Because storms make you look down. Faith asks you to look up.”

Host: The diner lights reflected in the window beside them, a double image — their faces half-shadowed, half-illuminated, as though even their conversation existed in two worlds.

Jack: “You ever lost faith?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “Every time I’ve loved something I couldn’t save.”

Jack: “And what brought it back?”

Jeeny: “The next sunrise. It’s impossible not to believe in something that insists on returning.”

Jack: (quietly) “You really think faith’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Simple doesn’t mean easy. It’s not blind hope. It’s trust without evidence. The same way a seed trusts the soil will open.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, the weight of her words settling somewhere deep. His fingers traced the rim of his cup — slow, deliberate, as though the motion itself kept him tethered.

Jack: “When my mother died, everyone told me to have faith. That she was in a better place. That it was ‘God’s plan.’ But none of that brought her back. None of that made sense.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t erase grief. It just keeps it from becoming your home.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been living there too long.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight’s your storm passing.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the window in wild rhythm. The neon glow pulsed, throwing colors across their faces — red, blue, gold — like fragments of stained glass.

Jack: “So you think storms are necessary?”

Jeeny: “Yes. They remind us we’re not in control — but also that we’re not alone. Faith isn’t about calm seas; it’s about knowing you’ll still be yourself when the waves stop.”

Jack: “And if they never stop?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then faith becomes the boat.”

Host: The words hung between them — fragile, luminous. Outside, a lightning flash lit the horizon, and for a heartbeat, the whole world seemed carved in silver.

Jack: “You know, I envy you. That calm you carry. Like the storm never touches you.”

Jeeny: “It does. I just stopped pretending it shouldn’t.”

Jack: “So you accept it?”

Jeeny: “I dance with it.”

Host: She smiled, and Jack laughed, quiet, the sound breaking through the heaviness like sunlight through clouds.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But neither is despair.”

Host: The rain began to fade once more, softening into mist. The city lights reflected on the wet pavement outside, turning the streets into a river of stars.

Jeeny: “You see, Joyce Meyer wasn’t preaching optimism. She was describing resilience. Faith isn’t naive — it’s stubborn. It says, ‘I will keep believing in light, even when I’ve forgotten what it looks like.’”

Jack: “And what if you don’t believe?”

Jeeny: “Then let someone else believe for you. That’s what love is — borrowed faith.”

Host: The wind swept against the glass, but softly now, like an exhale. Inside the diner, the world felt still. Jack looked out at the rain-soaked street, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know something? Maybe faith isn’t the rope in the dark after all.”

Jeeny: “No?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s the act of throwing it — knowing you’ll never see where it lands, but believing it matters that you did.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s faith, Jack. Not certainty — courage.”

Host: Outside, the clouds finally broke. A thin slice of moonlight emerged, trembling through the mist. The world shone again — clean, quiet, reborn.

Jack reached for his coffee, finally taking a sip. The bitterness was grounding, real, alive.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.

Jeeny: “See? The storm passed.”

Jack: “They always do, don’t they?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. And when they don’t — faith keeps you standing in the rain until they do.”

Host: The camera of time seemed to pull back, showing them small and luminous in that quiet diner — two souls suspended between the storm and its memory, faith and its doubt.

And in that stillness, one truth remained —
that storms are inevitable,
faith is optional,
but courage — the quiet act of believing again —
is what keeps the human heart from drowning.