We'd do better to follow the admonition of Jesus about loving our

Host: The evening hung heavy over a small town diner, the kind that still served coffee in chipped mugs and played old country songs on a scratched jukebox. Through the wide windows, the sunset bled across the horizon—orange, violet, and tired gold, fading into a quiet twilight that seemed to hush even the wind.

Inside, the air smelled of fried onions and memories. The booths were mostly empty, except for one in the corner where Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. Between them, two untouched cups of coffee, steam rising like uncertain thoughts.

Jack leaned back, his eyes gray and distant, his voice low, almost gravel. Jeeny sat upright, her hands wrapped around the cup for warmth that had little to do with temperature.

Jeeny: “Kent Haruf once said, ‘We’d do better to follow the admonition of Jesus about loving our neighbours. People in the U.S. are capable of forgiveness and willing to see one another's point of view, but when matters become politicised, we're less able to do that.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly, yet it landed between them like a weight. The neon sign outside flickered, its blue light washing over their faces in rhythmic pulses—like the heartbeat of a wounded world.

Jack: “Sounds nice in theory, Jeeny. But love and politics don’t mix. Once something’s politicized, it stops being human. It becomes… strategy.”

Jeeny: “But it starts as something human, doesn’t it? Every argument, every policy, every protest—it’s about people, about how we live together.”

Jack: “Maybe once. But people forget that. They pick sides. Red, blue, left, right—doesn’t matter. You can’t love your neighbor when you’re too busy labeling them.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested on the table, fingers tracing circles in a ring of spilled coffee. His eyes had the look of someone who’d seen too much shouting and too little listening.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the sides—it’s the walls we build between them. Love requires vulnerability, Jack. Politics rewards fear.”

Jack: (dry laugh) “You talk like love can fix polarization. It can’t. Look around, Jeeny—half the country can’t even have dinner with the other half without choking on bitterness.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why we need it. You can’t fight hate with more hate. You can’t fight blindness with more blindness.”

Host: The jukebox clicked, and an old Willie Nelson song began to play, slow and mournful. Outside, a few fireflies flickered in the dusk, tiny lanterns of defiance against the coming night.

Jack: “You’re quoting scripture in a world that’s forgotten how to listen. ‘Love thy neighbor’? Sure. Until your neighbor votes differently, prays differently, looks differently. Then that love gets revised.”

Jeeny: “But it’s still there—buried. We just forgot how to see it. You remember after 9/11, how people held each other on the streets, strangers hugging strangers? For a while, love was louder than ideology.”

Jack: “Yeah. For a while. Then came the blame, the fear, the wars. Love always fades once the cameras leave.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it just gets harder. Love doesn’t fade, Jack—it gets buried under pride. Pride is what turns forgiveness into politics.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the diner’s old sign. The word “OPEN” blinked weakly as if unsure it meant it anymore.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who still believes that we’re not beyond redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption’s a luxury. Try telling that to the people who’ve been cancelled, shamed, or silenced because they said one wrong thing. Forgiveness isn’t fashionable anymore.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t supposed to be fashionable. It’s supposed to be hard. That’s why it matters. Jesus didn’t say, ‘Love your neighbor when it’s convenient.’ He said love them—period. Even when it hurts.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened with a quiet fire, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but refuses to die. Jack looked away, staring through the window at the darkening world outside.

Jack: “You think love can survive this much division? Look at the last election—families stopped speaking to each other. People ended friendships over tweets.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they forgot that people are not opinions. You can disagree with someone and still see the divine in them.”

Jack: (shakes head) “That sounds naive.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism sounds safe. But it builds nothing. You know what’s worse than being naive, Jack? Being numb.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavier than argument. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee—it had gone cold. He grimaced, then laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that sounded like surrender.

Jack: “You think I don’t want to believe that? I do. I just… I’ve seen too much hate disguised as righteousness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe righteousness isn’t the problem. Maybe self-righteousness is.”

Jack: “Same coin.”

Jeeny: “Different sides.”

Host: The light flickered again, casting Jeeny’s face half in shadow. Her words hung between them like incense—soft, lingering, undeniable.

Jack: “So what? We just start forgiving each other? Pretend the wounds aren’t real?”

Jeeny: “No. We start by listening. By remembering that understanding isn’t surrender. Forgiveness doesn’t erase pain—it gives it purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The purpose of pain is to teach compassion. Without it, we just repeat history with new hashtags.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. He thought of his brother—two years since they’d spoken, a political argument that had turned into exile. The memory flickered in his eyes like a ghost.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Then call him.”

Jack: “He won’t pick up.”

Jeeny: “Then call anyway. The act itself is love.”

Host: The rain began, tapping softly against the window. Each drop carried the weight of something unsaid, something waiting. Jack looked at Jeeny, her expression calm, patient, alive with an unshakable gentleness.

Jack: “You think this world can still learn to love its neighbors?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only lesson left worth learning.”

Host: Jack smiled—barely, but enough to shift the air. Outside, the rain grew steadier, washing the dust off the glass, blurring the lights of passing cars into streaks of gold.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my mother used to say that love was like keeping a candle lit in a storm. You don’t fight the wind—you just cup your hands and protect the flame.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve been fighting the wind too long.”

Host: The rain softened to a whisper. The jukebox song faded into silence. Jack reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he set it down again, exhaling slowly.

Jack: “Maybe tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “Maybe tomorrow is already too late.”

Host: The camera would linger here—the two of them in the small-town diner, surrounded by the hum of refrigerators and the quiet sigh of the world trying to remember how to heal.

Outside, the rain stopped. The streetlights shimmered over puddles, reflecting fragments of light, as if the earth itself had been gently reminded of forgiveness.

And somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter—a neighbor greeting another—rose through the damp air, fragile but real.

In that moment, both Jack and Jeeny fell silent, not because they’d reached an answer, but because, for the first time, they could hear the world trying to find one.