We don't do drugs, drink or use profanity. Instead we instill

Host: The evening light slanted through the small apartment window, casting long bars of gold across the worn kitchen floor. A faint smell of cinnamon and soap lingered in the air — that ordinary holiness that comes from a life quietly held together. Outside, the city buzzed — car horns, a child’s laughter, the distant hum of music from a passing car.

Host: Inside, Jack sat at the small kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, eyes weary but awake. A half-eaten plate of spaghetti sat in front of him, gone cold. Jeeny stood by the window, her hands folded over a mug of tea, her hair catching the last amber light. On the wall behind them hung a small framed quote, printed in delicate cursive:

“We don’t do drugs, drink or use profanity. Instead we instill morals and values in my boys by raising them with a love of God and a love and respect for themselves and all people. I believe they will have a chance.” — Anita Baker

Host: The room was small, but it carried the quiet gravity of meaning.

Jeeny: “It’s simple, isn’t it? And yet… everything is there. A whole way of life inside those few sentences.”

Jack: “Simple, yeah. Maybe too simple. The world doesn’t care much for morals anymore. It rewards whoever shouts the loudest, not whoever prays the longest.”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes soft but sharp.

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters more now. When everything around us gets louder, decency becomes a rebellion.”

Jack: “You think morality can compete with power? Come on. Kids don’t grow up dreaming about kindness — they dream about success. Influence. Escape.”

Jeeny: “Escape from what?”

Jack: “From small apartments, from unpaid bills, from being the ones who follow the rules while everyone else breaks them and wins.”

Host: His voice was low, but the edge was unmistakable. It wasn’t cynicism anymore — it was grief in disguise.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve already decided the world can’t be good.”

Jack: “I haven’t decided anything. The world decided for me. You try teaching kids about honesty, humility, faith — and then watch them get crushed by a system that laughs at all three.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the lesson. Maybe it’s the lack of love in how we teach it.”

Host: A soft wind brushed the curtain. The faint sound of a gospel song drifted from a neighbor’s radio — a woman’s voice, warm and aching, singing about grace.

Jack: “You really think love fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “Not fixes. But heals. There’s a difference. Anita Baker wasn’t talking about perfection — she was talking about foundation. You give a child love, respect, and God, and you’ve given them armor.”

Jack: “Armor cracks.”

Jeeny: “So does bitterness.”

Host: The silence between them was thick — not with hostility, but with understanding too raw to name.

Jack: “I grew up in a place where kids wore crosses around their necks and bruises on their backs. We prayed every Sunday, but we still fought every Monday. God was more rule than refuge.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your parents forgot the second half — love of self, love of others. You can’t scare someone into faith, Jack. You nurture them into it.”

Host: She set her tea down, the steam curling upward like a whisper.

Jeeny: “I saw this mother once in Detroit. Her two boys were waiting at a bus stop, maybe nine and ten years old. They were laughing, helping each other with their coats, saying ‘yes ma’am’ to everyone. You could tell — someone raised them with tenderness. Not money, not status — tenderness. That’s power, Jack. That’s how you change the world.”

Jack: “And yet the world eats tenderness for breakfast. You think good manners and prayer are going to protect them from hunger? From bullets?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they’ll protect their souls. And that’s what matters when everything else tries to take it.”

Host: Jack stared at his glass, watching the light refract through it like fractured conviction.

Jack: “You ever wonder if faith’s just a survival mechanism? Something we made up to make loss bearable?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s a compass. We might be lost without it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Host: She walked to the quote on the wall, tracing her fingers over the printed words.

Jeeny: “You know what’s radical about what Anita said? It’s not the rules — it’s the belief that her boys ‘will have a chance.’ That kind of faith, in a world like this, is revolutionary.”

Jack: “Faith as rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it means you refuse to let darkness define destiny.”

Host: The light outside began to fade, replaced by the glow of streetlamps flickering to life. A police siren wailed somewhere far off, then faded like a bad memory.

Jack: “You make it sound like morals are poetry. But most days, they just feel like weight. Expectations no one lives up to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we don’t live up to them because we keep treating them like rules instead of roots.”

Jack: “Roots?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Roots don’t restrict a tree, Jack. They keep it standing when the wind comes.”

Host: Her words fell gently, like leaves settling on earth. Jack looked at her for a long moment — the flicker of old arguments in his gaze fading into something quieter.

Jack: “You really think that kind of upbringing — no drinking, no cursing, just love and respect — can still work in this world?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the rules, it’s about what fills the space where the rules used to be. If it’s love, if it’s faith, then yes. It works. It always has.”

Jack: “And if it’s fear?”

Jeeny: “Then it collapses. Every time.”

Host: The radio in the next room shifted songs — a slow jazz number now, Anita Baker’s own voice this time, rich and golden. She was singing “Sweet Love.” Jeeny smiled faintly, as if the timing itself was proof.

Jeeny: “You hear that? The woman who said that quote — she sang with the same conviction she raised her sons with. You can feel her belief in every note. That’s what morality should sound like — not a rulebook, but a song.”

Jack: “A song people forget the lyrics to.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to remind them.”

Host: He let out a low breath, something between a sigh and surrender. The rain began to tap softly against the window now, steady and soothing.

Jack: “You know, my mom used to sing to me. Gospel hymns. She said it kept the demons out of the house. Maybe it did. Maybe it was her way of teaching faith before I even had words for it.”

Jeeny: “Then she gave you more than you realize. She gave you rhythm in a world of noise.”

Host: Jack finally smiled — a rare, slow curve that seemed to melt years off his face. He looked up at the quote on the wall, its edges curled, the ink slightly faded.

Jack: “You think she was right? That kind of love — of God, of self, of people — gives them a chance?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just think it. I’ve seen it. Every child raised with love becomes a seed the world can’t quite crush.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, silver lines streaming down the glass. In the reflection of the window, their faces appeared side by side — older, imperfect, but illuminated by something tender.

Jack: “Maybe the world still has a chance too, then.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. As long as someone’s still singing.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the lamp light golden, the radio humming, the rain steady against the windowpane. On the wall, Anita Baker’s words glowed faintly in the warm light: love of God, love of self, love of all people.

Host: And for that small, sacred moment, the broken world outside seemed to hush — as if listening.