We were brought up Protestant, and I went to church three times a

Host:
The sun was sinking behind the hills of a small Welsh town, painting the sky in burnt orange and rose. The air was heavy with the smell of grass, coal smoke, and memory. A narrow country road wound down toward a modest farmhouse, its walls faded but proud — the kind that had survived generations of weather, work, and worship.

In the yard, Jack leaned against a wooden fence, his hands still dusty from repairing the old gate. Jeeny sat nearby on a stone wall, her hair glinting in the evening light, her fingers idly tracing the spine of a worn Bible that lay open on her lap.

They had been silent for a while — listening to the whisper of the wind, the distant bark of a dog, and the soft clang of a church bell announcing vespers from the village below.

Jeeny: quietly, almost to herself. “Bonnie Tyler once said she went to church three times on a Sunday. That she wasn’t raised by Bible-bashers, just people with faith — people who believed, even when life was hard.”

Jack: smiles faintly. “Faith and hardship. Sounds like the Welsh weather — unpredictable, endless, and always wet.”

Jeeny: “You joke, but that’s the truth of so many lives. People who worked from dawn to dusk, still found time to pray. That kind of faith… it’s not about religion. It’s about holding on to something bigger when everything else feels too small.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of fresh soil and sheep’s wool. The world felt ancient, alive with the echo of simple days. Jack watched the sky, his eyes reflecting the fading light, his face caught between cynicism and nostalgia.

Jack: “You say that like it’s beautiful. But isn’t it just survival wrapped in faith? When people have nothing, they turn to God because what else is there? It’s not belief — it’s refuge.”

Jeeny: turns toward him, her voice calm but sure. “Refuge doesn’t make it less real. Sometimes faith is survival. You think Bonnie’s parents had much choice? They raised a family on scraps, yet they made a home filled with hope. Maybe belief was the only luxury they could afford.”

Jack: “Luxury? No, Jeeny. Faith’s a necessity — a way to justify the unfairness of it all. You pray so you can sleep at night, not because heaven’s listening.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her tone firmer. “And yet that prayer might be the only thing that keeps you from breaking. You think strength only comes from logic? Look at those families — no money, no comfort, but they still sang hymns. Still believed they mattered to something eternal. That’s not delusion. That’s courage.”

Host: A pause settled between them, as the light softened. The air grew cooler, the shadows longer. Somewhere in the distance, a choir began to sing from the church, their voices carrying through the valley like wind through glass — fragile, pure, ancient.

Jack: “My father used to pray before every meal. I asked him once why he thanked God when we barely had enough to eat. He said, ‘Because it reminds me that enough is still a gift.’” He pauses, voice quiet. “I didn’t understand it then. Maybe I still don’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Faith isn’t something you understand — it’s something you live. It’s not about knowing; it’s about trusting. Even when you can’t see the harvest, you still plant the seed.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But faith doesn’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “No, but it fills hearts — and sometimes that’s what keeps people going until they can feed themselves again.”

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to say, ‘The Lord won’t let us starve.’ But we did, sometimes. We starved quietly — with grace, I suppose.”

Jeeny: softly. “And yet, you survived. Maybe her faith didn’t save her from hunger, but it saved her from despair. That’s something.”

Host: The evening light broke into golden ribbons, touching the edges of their faces, casting their shadows long across the yard. A single bird called from a tree, its voice carrying in the stillness. The moment felt holy, in a way that had nothing to do with churches.

Jack: “You really think faith still matters? In this world — with wars, greed, politicians preaching what they don’t practice?”

Jeeny: “More than ever. Faith isn’t about them — it’s about us. It’s about the small acts that keep the world from falling apart. Parents who work two jobs and still kiss their kids goodnight. Neighbors who share their bread. Bonnie’s parents, tending their garden so their children could grow up believing life was good.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s what’s beautiful about it. Faith is simple. People complicate it with dogma and fear. But at its heart, it’s just love — believing that even when life is hard, there’s meaning in the struggle.”

Host: The sun dipped below the hill, and the sky turned the color of ashes and honey. Jack folded his arms, thinking, the lines on his face deepening. Jeeny watched him, her expression both tender and unyielding, as if she saw the boy he used to be — the one who once believed before the world taught him to doubt.

Jack: quietly. “You know, I remember Sundays like that. Three times at church, hymns that echoed through the whole street. Everyone wore their best, even if it was old. We didn’t have much — but somehow, those days felt rich. Maybe you’re right. Maybe faith was what made it all bearable.”

Jeeny: smiles gently. “It didn’t just make it bearable. It made it beautiful. People like Bonnie’s parents — your parents — they didn’t have grand dreams. They had gardens, songs, laughter, and belief. They built joy out of scarcity. That’s grace, Jack.”

Jack: nods slowly. “Grace. That’s a word I haven’t heard in years.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s not shouted anymore. It’s lived — quietly, like their kind of love. The kind that stays even when everything else leaves.”

Host: The church bells tolled again, their sound rolling down the valley like a gentle tide. The farmhouse lights flickered on — warm, golden, inviting. For a moment, it felt as if the past had returned — Bonnie’s childhood, the humble garden, the faith that held a family together through lean years and long days.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about believing in miracles. Maybe it’s about believing in mornings — that no matter how dark the night, the sun still rises.”

Jeeny: nods. “Exactly. Faith is a kind of memory — a way of saying, ‘We’ve made it this far, we’ll make it a little further.’”

Jack: “Then maybe I still have some left. Buried under the noise.”

Jeeny: smiling softly. “You do. Everyone does. Sometimes it just needs a little light to find its way out.”

Host: The camera pulls back, framing them against the field, the house, and the sky slowly fading to blue. A thin column of smoke rose from the chimney, curling upward like a prayer that didn’t need words.

And in that moment, the world felt simple again — not because it had no pain, but because faith had room to live alongside it.

Host:
As the last light of day disappeared, Jack and Jeeny stood in the yard, their faces softened by understanding. The earth beneath their feet still wet from the earlier rain, the smell of grass still sweet in the air.

And somewhere between faith and doubt, poverty and peace, they both understood what Bonnie Tyler’s words meant — that belief doesn’t shield us from hardship. It shapes how we endure it.

The scene closed on the garden, blooming despite the cold, defiant in its fragile beauty — a living prayer to all those who had ever worked, hoped, and believed on very little, yet raised a life that was enough.