When my father died, I had a real experience with Christ, a real

Host: The church was quiet now — the kind of silence that hums after music, after prayer, after the sound of people’s grief dissolving into faith. The candles still flickered along the altar, their flames bending gently toward the dark ceiling, smoke twisting like whispered questions. The air smelled of wood and rain, of something old and holy.

Jack sat in the second pew, his hands folded loosely, his eyes tracing the way the light caught on the stained glass. Across the aisle, Jeeny stood near the candles, her expression soft, reflective — as if she were trying to read something invisible written in the air.

On the small bulletin board near the front, handwritten in careful script, were the words of T. D. Jakes:
"When my father died, I had a real experience with Christ, a real conversion with Christ and I had it in a Oneness church."

Jeeny: (reading the words quietly) “A real experience with Christ… that sounds like more than religion. That sounds like a breaking point.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Loss usually is. Death doesn’t introduce you to faith — it strips you down until you have to decide whether you still believe in anything at all.”

Jeeny: “So you think his faith was born from pain?”

Jack: “Aren’t most things? The heart doesn’t open in comfort — it opens in collapse.”

Jeeny: “But he didn’t just mourn. He transformed. There’s something different in that. A kind of surrender.”

Jack: (looking up toward the stained glass) “Yeah. A surrender that says: if I can’t make sense of this, I’ll stop trying — and I’ll trust something greater than my understanding.”

Host: The rain outside tapped softly against the tall windows, and the flicker of candlelight swayed across the wooden pews. The atmosphere felt alive — not heavy, not hollow, but quietly sacred.

Jeeny walked down the aisle, her footsteps echoing in the vast stillness.

Jeeny: “I always wonder about moments like that. When people say they’ve had a ‘real experience’ — what does that mean? A vision? A voice? Or just the sense that for the first time, they weren’t alone?”

Jack: “I think it’s when belief stops being intellectual and becomes visceral. When it stops being a story someone told you — and becomes the only truth that can hold you together.”

Jeeny: “So faith isn’t found in churches.”

Jack: “No. But sometimes, it finds you in one.”

Host: A shaft of light slipped through the colored glass — red, blue, gold — painting the aisle in muted wonder. The church smelled faintly of wax and memory.

Jack: “You know, Jakes’s father dying wasn’t the end of something for him. It was the beginning of his ministry. His pain became the seed of his purpose.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred — when grief turns into service.”

Jack: “Or when the broken heart becomes the open door.”

Jeeny: “But why does it have to hurt first? Why does it always take loss to wake us up?”

Jack: “Because joy never asks questions. Only grief does.”

Jeeny: “And questions lead to God.”

Jack: “Or to silence. Which, sometimes, is the same thing.”

Host: The rain deepened, the sound a low rhythm, like the heartbeat of the world outside. Jeeny lit one of the smaller candles and placed it at the base of the altar, her reflection trembling in the flame.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what he meant by ‘a real conversion.’ Not a conversion of belief, but of being. Something inside you dies with the person you lose — and the version of you that remains has to decide what to do with the space that’s left.”

Jack: (quietly) “So you fill it with God.”

Jeeny: “Or hope.”

Jack: “Or both.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re not so different.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the door faintly. Somewhere in the back, the faint hum of a heater turned on, filling the church with a soft mechanical warmth.

Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, eyes lowered.

Jack: “I never had a conversion moment. No bright light, no vision. Just… slow forgiveness. For myself. For the world. Maybe that’s my kind of faith.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That sounds like the quieter kind — the one that doesn’t shout, but still saves.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I think my faith comes and goes like the tide. But every time it returns, it leaves something softer in me. A little more trust, a little less need to know why.”

Jack: “So you’ve made peace with not knowing?”

Jeeny: “Not peace — just companionship with mystery.”

Host: The flames wavered again as a draft passed through, as if the candles themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, though — that he found his rebirth in a Oneness church. That doctrine of unity — God as one, Christ as the embodiment of that wholeness. It’s fitting. In loss, everything feels divided. Faith is the stitching back together.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what salvation really is — not rescue, but reconciliation. Learning to live whole again, after something’s been torn.”

Jeeny: “And finding that God was the thread all along.”

Jack: “Even when you couldn’t feel it.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The clock tower struck softly in the distance — the sound deep, patient, echoing through the empty space. The light had dimmed further now, but the candles kept the room alive with their small, faithful glow.

Jeeny sat beside Jack in the pew, her hands folded over his. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t emptiness — it was presence.

Jack: (softly) “You think everyone gets a conversion moment like that?”

Jeeny: “No. Some get miracles. Some get silence. But everyone gets an invitation — a moment when life offers them a chance to choose grace over despair.”

Jack: “And the ones who take it?”

Jeeny: “They’re never the same again.”

Host: Outside, the rain had slowed to a whisper. The candles burned lower, their light now small but steady. The church was almost dark, but not empty — filled with something unseen, something infinite.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. The idea that something as cruel as death could lead to something as holy as awakening.”

Jeeny: “It’s not strange. It’s divine symmetry. Love and loss are just the inhale and exhale of the same breath.”

Jack: “And faith?”

Jeeny: “Faith is what keeps you breathing through both.”

Host: They stood at last, the pew creaking softly beneath them. Jack looked back once at the candles — a small forest of flickering faith, each one burning for someone’s story.

And as they stepped out into the damp night, the cool air met their faces like a benediction. The city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, reflecting in broken gold.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what T. D. Jakes really found that day — not religion, but reunion. The moment when grief and grace finally look at each other and say, I see you.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the closest any of us ever come to Christ.”

Jeeny: “Not believing in Him — but meeting Him, right where we break.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The world was still. The air smelled like renewal.

And somewhere beyond the clouds, unseen but certain, a quiet light began to rise —
the kind that doesn’t blind,
but reveals,
softly,
that in every loss
there waits a resurrection.