We will see that our new attitude toward liquor has been given to

Host: The night was cold and silent, except for the faint hum of a neon sign outside the window of an old diner on the outskirts of town. The snow had begun to fall — slow, deliberate flakes that turned the asphalt into a dull mirror for the streetlights. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of coffee, bacon grease, and something older — maybe loneliness or forgiveness, it was hard to tell.

At the corner booth, Jack sat with his hands around a chipped mug, the steam fogging the window beside him. His eyes, grey and tired, stared at the reflection of his own face — that quiet stranger who never quite left him alone.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with her coat still on, her hair dusted with tiny flakes of melting snow. Her eyes, soft but steady, studied him the way you study a wounded thing — not to fix it, but to understand how it survived.

Host: The diner clock ticked toward midnight. A distant jukebox hummed a song no one listened to. The world outside seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “William Griffith Wilson once said, ‘We will see that our new attitude toward liquor has been given to us without any thought or effort on our part. It just comes! That is the miracle of it.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Ah. Bill W. The man who made surrender sound like victory.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because sometimes it is.”

Host: Jack took a slow sip of his coffee. The bitter taste didn’t bother him — he liked bitterness. It felt honest.

Jack: “You know what I think about miracles, Jeeny? They’re just coincidences that people refuse to analyze.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re sitting here alive, sober, and breathing. How do you explain that?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Discipline. Routine. Repetition. Not miracles.”

Jeeny: “You really think discipline alone can change a man’s soul?”

Jack: “It doesn’t have to change it. Just control it.”

Host: Her eyes flickered in the dim light — sorrow, patience, defiance.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re still fighting it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I am.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilled their cups, and left without a word. The sound of the coffee pouring — dark, heavy — filled the silence like a confession.

Jeeny: “Bill Wilson didn’t just talk about liquor. He talked about surrender — about how something inside shifts, quietly, without command. That’s what he meant by ‘it just comes.’ You stop fighting, and something higher takes over.”

Jack: “Higher? You mean faith. You know I don’t believe in that.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean grace. You don’t have to believe in it for it to work.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they carried weight — the kind of weight that only truth can bear.

Jack: “You make it sound too easy. Just let go, and poof — redemption.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s impossible — until it happens. You can’t force a miracle, Jack. You can only stop resisting it.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked. Her face, pale in the diner’s yellow light, held something calm, something unbreakable.

Jack: “You know, when I first quit drinking, I thought I’d never feel human again. I’d walk past bars, smell whiskey in the air, and it was like hearing my own name whispered by the devil. But now… I walk past them, and I feel nothing. Not disgust, not temptation. Just silence.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “That’s it. That’s the miracle.”

Jack: “No. That’s time.”

Jeeny: “Time heals wounds. But miracles close them.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, covering everything — cars, sidewalks, the diner’s glowing sign — in quiet absolution.

Jack: “You really believe change can come without effort?”

Jeeny: “Not without surrender. They’re different things. Effort is control. Surrender is release. The miracle is when you finally stop trying to fix yourself and start allowing yourself to heal.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But when you’re crawling through nights shaking, sweating, begging for another shot just to sleep — there’s no miracle there. Just misery.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you made it through. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t orchestrate it. You just… kept breathing. Something bigger than you carried you through that darkness. That’s what Bill meant — the new attitude comes when the old one dies.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his mug. The steam had faded, and the coffee had gone cold. He didn’t drink it. He just stared at it like a mirror of his own reflection — dark, deep, and unknowable.

Jack: “You know, I used to think alcohol made me more alive. More fearless. It stripped away the noise. But it was just erasing me piece by piece, pretending it was freedom.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now… I don’t crave it. I don’t hate it. I just… don’t need it. Maybe that’s your miracle.”

Jeeny: “It’s yours too, Jack. You just don’t want to call it that.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. Somewhere in the distance, a train’s low whistle echoed — long, mournful, like a memory refusing to fade.

Jack: “You know what I think the real miracle is? That people like me — people who’ve burned everything — can still sit across from people like you, and not be afraid anymore.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “That’s faith, Jack. Whether you like the word or not.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just gratitude dressed in silence.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table. Her hand, small and trembling slightly, rested on his. He didn’t move away. The light from the neon sign flickered red and white across their joined hands — two colors that never quite blended, but never let go either.

Jeeny: “Sometimes miracles don’t arrive in thunder. They arrive in stillness — when the craving ends, when the guilt quiets, when the heart finally forgives itself.”

Jack: “And what if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep sitting at this table. You keep talking. You keep showing up for life — until one day, you realize the miracle already happened.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on their hands, on the slow rise of steam from the fresh coffee the waitress had just poured, on the snowfall outside that kept covering the world in new beginnings.

Jack looked at Jeeny — really looked — and for the first time in a long time, his eyes weren’t the eyes of a skeptic. They were tired, yes, but not cold.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I think I get it now. The miracle isn’t that I stopped drinking. It’s that I started living.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the snow thickened, the world wrapped in white silence. Inside, two souls sat under the yellow hum of a diner light — one redeemed, one believing — both warmed by something that neither effort nor explanation could ever create.

That was the miracle of it.

And it just came.