We are a long time in learning that all our strength and

Host: The chapel was empty, save for the faint smell of wax and cedar, the quiet crackle of candle flames dancing against the stone walls. Shadows stretched like long arms reaching for something just beyond grace. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper, the world’s great noise momentarily silenced, as though the heavens themselves had drawn a deep breath.

Jack sat in the front pew, his coat damp, his head bowed, not in prayer, but in the kind of weariness that comes after too many battles fought alone. The flickering light caught the edge of his jaw, the lines of his face etched like a map of old sorrows.

Jeeny stood a few steps behind him, her hands clasped, her eyes soft—not pitying, but full of the quiet knowledge of someone who had known faith, doubt, and the fragile space between.

The organ pipes above them were still. The air felt holy, not because of what was present, but because of what was missing.

Jeeny: “David Brainerd once said, ‘We are a long time in learning that all our strength and salvation is in God.’”
Her voice echoed gently through the chapel, tender, measured. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it, Jack? How long it takes for people to realize they can’t do everything alone.”

Jack: “That’s because they’re not supposed to.”
He lifted his head, staring at the crucifix above the altar. “But here’s the question, Jeeny—how long do you keep trying before you give up and call it ‘faith’?”

Host: The candlelight wavered, a small flame caught between devotion and doubt.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t giving up, Jack. It’s letting go. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You still believe someone’s listening.”
He stood, turning, his grey eyes like stormlight against her calm. “But what about the rest of us—the ones who prayed, begged, screamed into the dark—and got silence back? You tell me, where’s salvation in that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe in the silence itself.”

Jack: “Don’t romanticize it. Silence is silence. You can dress it in poetry, but it’s still emptiness.”

Jeeny: “No. Sometimes it’s a space wide enough for your strength to break—and be rebuilt.”

Host: The rain began again, soft drops tapping on the stained glass, turning the colors into liquid light that washed across their faces.

Jack moved closer, his voice low, like something breaking loose from deep inside.
Jack: “You think God wants us weak so we’ll crawl to Him?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He wants us to know we’re weak—so we’ll stop pretending to be gods ourselves.”

Jack: “So all our suffering’s just a lesson in humility?”

Jeeny: “Not a lesson—an unveiling. Every time life strips away what you thought you could control, what’s left is truth. That’s what Brainerd meant. We spend our lives fighting to prove we’re strong, only to find that the strength was never ours to begin with.”

Jack: “Then why give us the illusion? Why make us feel power just to tear it away?”

Jeeny: “Because only those who’ve held control understand the mercy of surrender. Only those who’ve tried to save themselves understand the beauty of being saved.”

Host: The wind howled through the cracks in the door, a low note that sounded almost like a voice. The candles flickered, and for a moment, their flames seemed to bend, as if bowing in agreement.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never doubted a day in your life.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve doubted more than I’ve prayed. I’ve walked through nights so long I thought even God had forgotten me. But every time, when I thought I’d reached the end of myself—something small, something quiet—would pull me through. Maybe it was Him. Maybe it was just grace wearing patience.”

Jack: “Grace.”
He laughed softly, a hollow sound. “I used to think grace was for the righteous. Then I met real people.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Grace is for the wrecked. It doesn’t wait for the righteous—it creates them.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m too far gone to be created.”

Jeeny: “You can’t be too far gone from the One who lives outside of distance.”

Host: The clock in the tower chimed—a slow, resonant sound that rolled through the stone like a heartbeat. The light in the chapel shifted, golden, trembling, like the final edge of twilight.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice soft but fierce.
Jeeny: “You think your strength is what saves you. But strength doesn’t save, Jack—it exhausts. We keep fighting, clawing, fixing, until life brings us to our knees. And there, when we finally stop trying to be our own gods—that’s where salvation begins.”

Jack: “So you’re saying surrender is victory.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not the surrender that quits—but the surrender that trusts. The one that whispers, I can’t carry this anymore, but I believe someone can.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful. But when you’re the one breaking, it doesn’t feel like trust. It feels like dying.”

Jeeny: “It is dying. To your pride, to your illusion of control. Every act of faith is a small death. But every death in faith gives birth to a greater life.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A soft mist drifted through the cracks of the open door, curling through the chapel like breath returning to lungs. The last candle flickered, its flame steady now—no longer wavering, but anchored.

Jack’s voice came quieter now, almost reverent.
Jack: “You know… I spent years believing in myself. In my mind, my will. And it worked—until it didn’t. The day everything fell apart, I thought I was done. But somehow, I woke up the next morning. I couldn’t explain it then… maybe I still can’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that was God. The quiet persistence of another chance.”

Jack: “So strength isn’t in resistance.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s in dependence. The world tells us salvation comes from within. But maybe Brainerd was right—our real strength is in realizing it doesn’t.”

Host: The camera would rise slowly, framing them beneath the vast arch of the chapel, two small figures beneath the weight of eternity. The cross above glowed faintly in the candlelight—a symbol not of triumph, but of the quiet endurance of faith.

Jack: “You think God forgives those who take a long time to learn?”

Jeeny: “I think He treasures them most. Because their strength wasn’t inherited—it was earned through surrender.”

Host: A final gust of wind passed through, and the last candle went out. But the room didn’t fall into darkness—it seemed to breathe instead, filled with something unseen, alive, holy.

And as the scene faded, David Brainerd’s words echoed softly, not as doctrine, but as invitation:

“We are a long time in learning that all our strength and salvation is in God… but even that long road is part of His mercy.”

The rain began again—gentle, cleansing—like a benediction upon two souls who, for one moment, had remembered that weakness is simply another word for beginning again.