When the storms of life come, if they come to me personally, to

Host: The storm had been raging for hours — rain slashing against the windows, thunder shaking the bones of the old house. Outside, the world was a blur of water and wind, trees bending like tired dancers. Inside, a single lamp burned on the table, casting a golden pool of light that trembled every time lightning tore the sky apart.

Jack stood by the window, his hands braced on the sill, his shirt damp from checking the roof earlier. Jeeny sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes following the fire that crackled weakly in the hearth. The air was heavy — not just from the storm, but from something unspoken between them.

Jeeny: (softly, over the rumble of thunder) “Anne Graham Lotz once said, ‘When the storms of life come, if they come to me personally, to my family or to the world, I want to be strong enough to stand and be a strength to somebody else — be shelter for somebody else.’”

Host: Her voice blended with the sound of the rain, gentle but unyielding — like a prayer whispered into the wind. Jack turned from the window, his face lit by lightning, his grey eyes carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too many tempests — inside and out.

Jack: “You really think anyone’s ever ready for the storm?”

Jeeny: “Not ready. Willing.”

Jack: (scoffing lightly) “Willing to what? Pretend they’re unshakable?”

Jeeny: “No. Willing to stay standing when others can’t.”

Host: The fire snapped, the flame flaring bright before settling again. Jack moved closer, sitting across from her. The thunder outside was distant for a moment, giving their words room to breathe.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been through a few.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Haven’t we all? The storms don’t always come with rain. Sometimes they come with phone calls. Or silence.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the firelight, but her tone remained calm — the steadiness of someone who’d learned to carry pain without letting it spill. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought strength meant not breaking. Keeping it together no matter what.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think strength is learning how to break without disappearing.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. To bend, not collapse. To be both the storm and the shelter.”

Host: The wind howled against the house, a violent symphony of nature’s defiance. But inside, their voices held steady, soft anchors against the chaos.

Jeeny: “Anne Graham Lotz didn’t say she wanted to avoid the storm. She said she wanted to stand in it — to be shelter for someone else.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful thought. But what happens when the storm takes everything? When the roof caves in, the power goes out, and all that’s left is you — alone in the dark?”

Jeeny: “Then you light a candle, Jack. And someone else finds you because of it.”

Host: Lightning flashed again, illuminating her face — strong, tender, unwavering. Jack looked at her, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You really believe people can be shelter?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Shelter doesn’t mean saving someone from the rain — it means standing with them in it. Letting them know they’re not alone.”

Host: He exhaled, leaning back, the sound of the storm softening as his heartbeat slowed to match her calm.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to say storms make you honest. Said you can’t hide who you are when everything’s falling apart.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then honesty is the first step toward strength.”

Jack: “And what’s the second?”

Jeeny: “Compassion. You can’t build shelter out of judgment.”

Host: The fire flickered, its light painting their faces in gold and shadow. The rhythm of the rain became almost musical — less rage, more rhythm.

Jack: “You ever been someone’s shelter?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Once. My brother. He lost everything — job, marriage, hope. I stayed with him for months. Some nights we didn’t talk at all. We just sat in the quiet. I didn’t fix anything. I just stayed.”

Jack: “And that was enough?”

Jeeny: “It was all I could give. Sometimes presence is the only roof you can offer.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He looked into the fire, and for the first time all night, his reflection there looked less like a man bracing for impact and more like one finally exhaling.

Jack: “You know, when the world shakes, I keep thinking I have to fix it. Patch every leak. Hold every wall.”

Jeeny: “That’s how walls crumble — when they forget they’re not meant to hold alone.”

Host: A quiet moment passed. The storm outside began to fade — the rain easing, the thunder rolling farther away. The sound of dripping from the eaves filled the silence like gentle punctuation.

Jeeny: “Being shelter doesn’t mean you have to be unbreakable, Jack. It just means you keep your door open — even when you’re afraid.”

Jack: “And when no one comes?”

Jeeny: “Then you stand anyway. Because someone will. Eventually.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, then steadied. The rain had slowed to a whisper now — soft enough to sound like forgiveness.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what strength really is. Not fighting the storm — but staying kind inside it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be soaked and still soft. That’s what makes you shelter.”

Host: The camera drifted back — two figures framed by fading firelight and the calm after chaos. Outside, the first star appeared between the thinning clouds, faint but certain.

Host: Because storms are inevitable.
They come for every house, every heart.

But as Anne Graham Lotz said, strength isn’t surviving for yourself.
It’s surviving for someone else.

To stand when others fall.
To reach out when hands are shaking.
To light the candle, even when your match is damp.

And in the hush after the storm, as the last raindrop fell, Jack looked at Jeeny — and smiled, small but real.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe I’ve spent too long being the roof. Maybe it’s time I learn how to be the light.”

Jeeny: (smiling back) “Maybe the light’s been waiting for you all along.”

Host: The fire crackled, the rain stopped, and the world — tired but cleansed — began again.

Because storms don’t just test what’s built;
they reveal what’s worth keeping.

And somewhere between thunder and silence,
Jack and Jeeny found that strength isn’t loud —
it’s quiet, steady, human —
the kind that stands in the rain
so someone else can rest beneath it.