When it comes to role models, as a person of faith, I think we

Host: The evening light stretched across the southern sky, a wide amber canvas over fields of wheat and quiet fences. A small porch overlooked the horizon, its wooden boards creaking gently beneath the rhythm of two rocking chairs. From somewhere beyond the trees came the soft hum of crickets and the faint whistle of a passing train.

Jack sat on one of the chairs, his elbows resting on his knees, staring out toward the vanishing line where the sky met the land. His face was shadowed but calm — the kind of calm that hides many unfinished questions.

Jeeny sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes reflecting the burnished glow of the dying sun. On the small table between them sat two glasses of sweet tea, sweating slowly in the warm evening air.

The world felt still — the kind of stillness where truth feels brave enough to be spoken.

Jeeny: “Sarah Huckabee Sanders once said, ‘When it comes to role models, as a person of faith, I think we all have one perfect role model. And when I'm asked that question, I point to God and to my faith. And that's where I tell my kids to look.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly, dissolving into the hum of the evening insects. Jack leaned back, the chair creaking, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to measure the weight of the words before answering.

Jack: “God as a role model, huh? That’s convenient — no scandals, no contradictions, no press conferences.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “No imperfections, you mean.”

Jack: “That too. But perfection’s a problem, Jeeny. You can’t imitate it. It’s like asking someone to breathe underwater. If God’s the standard, aren’t we all just set up to fail?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the point isn’t to imitate perfection, but to move toward it. Faith isn’t competition — it’s direction.”

Jack: Taking a slow sip of tea. “Direction’s good until it becomes denial. People use faith like a shield — to avoid being human. I’ve seen too many folks hide behind ‘God told me so’ when really it was just their own fear speaking.”

Jeeny: Gently. “And I’ve seen people survive unbearable things because they believed God was watching. Faith doesn’t erase humanity, Jack — it redeems it.”

Host: The sun slipped lower, turning the fields a deep copper, the air thick with the smell of grass and the faint burn of a nearby grill. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the horizon, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “I grew up in a house full of faith. My mother prayed before breakfast, my father quoted scripture before bed. But somewhere between sermons and real life, the message got lost. They loved God, but they didn’t listen to each other. Faith didn’t fix that.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t fix — it guides. It’s a compass, not a cure. You can still get lost even when you’re holding one.”

Jack: Turning to her. “And you? You really believe God is the model? You tell kids that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because kids learn early what adults forget — that it’s okay to look up. They see wonder before cynicism. And maybe faith is just refusing to let the world steal that wonder.”

Jack: Softly. “You sound like you’ve never lost it.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I lose it all the time. But I go looking again. That’s faith too — not knowing and still searching.”

Host: The wind picked up slightly, rustling the trees, carrying the sound of a nearby church bell tolling in the distance. The light began to fade, leaving long shadows stretching across the porch floor like veins of twilight.

Jack: “So, what’s the lesson, then? That we all should try to be like God?”

Jeeny: “No. That we should try to love like Him.”

Jack: “That’s easier said than done. Love is the one thing we keep misunderstanding.”

Jeeny: Nodding. “That’s why it’s divine. Human love is conditional — full of ego, fear, and expectation. God’s love isn’t earned, it’s given. That’s the model worth following.”

Jack: Leaning forward, voice low. “But if God’s love is so perfect, why do believers fight so hard to prove who He loves more?”

Jeeny: “Because they forget that faith is personal, not political. God isn’t a trophy for the righteous — He’s the home for the broken.”

Host: The crickets grew louder, filling the spaces between their words. The first stars appeared above, timid and small against the darkening blue. Jack’s expression softened — not convinced, but moved.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I envy that kind of certainty. The idea that you can point your kids somewhere and say, ‘Look there — that’s who we should be like.’ I’ve never been able to do that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe your honesty is what they’ll imitate. Faith can look like doubt if it’s lived sincerely.”

Jack: “You’re saying my skepticism could be holy?”

Jeeny: Smiling warmly. “Every honest question is a kind of prayer, Jack.”

Host: He laughed then, a low, reluctant laugh — the kind that admits defeat in the gentlest way. The night had taken full shape now, the porch wrapped in silver-blue light. Fireflies began to rise from the grass, blinking like small fragments of grace.

Jack: “So, God’s the role model. But how do you explain His silence?”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence is how He teaches patience. The absence of a voice doesn’t mean the absence of care. Sometimes the teacher steps back so the student can walk.”

Jack: Looking out at the fireflies. “And what if the student falls?”

Jeeny: “Then grace catches him.”

Host: The stars thickened above, a quiet constellation of promises scattered across the sky. The porch light flickered on, buzzing faintly, throwing a soft glow over their faces — two souls caught between belief and bewilderment.

Jack: “You make faith sound like a conversation instead of a commandment.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. A dialogue that never ends.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, as if the night itself had spoken something into him that words couldn’t. The fields lay still, the air cool and kind. Somewhere far away, another church bell rang — soft, steady, fading into the horizon.

Jeeny: “The point isn’t to be perfect like God. It’s to keep trying to love like Him, even when it breaks you. Especially then.”

Jack: “And if I can’t believe?”

Jeeny: “Then start by admiring. Sometimes reverence grows where belief can’t.”

Host: The camera pulled back, rising above the porch, above the endless fields glowing faintly under the moonlight. The two figures sat still, their words dissolving into the hum of the earth — doubt and devotion sharing the same space, the same silence.

And somewhere, under that wide, forgiving sky, Sarah Huckabee Sanders’ words echoed softly, not as dogma, but as hope:

That the greatest role model isn’t the one who never fails —
but the one who loves without ceasing,
and keeps lighting the way for those still learning how to look up.