When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is

Host: The sun was sinking behind the hills, laying its last light like a benediction on the lake below. The air shimmered with the color of fading gold and whispered blue, that fragile hour between day and night when everything feels possible and already gone.

The old pier stretched out into the water, worn and splintered, every board carrying the weight of time and footsteps long vanished. Jack sat at the end of it, his boots dangling just above the mirrored surface. Beside him, Jeeny knelt with a jar, scooping fireflies into its open mouth, their light flickering like captured prayers.

Host: The world was still, save for the quiet lapping of water and the soft chorus of crickets—a universe humming the language of small miracles.

Jeeny: (looking up) “Helen Keller once said, ‘When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “She believed in miracles?”

Jeeny: “She believed in effort. The miracle is what comes after, invisible and unexpected.”

Jack: “Effort doesn’t guarantee anything, Jeeny. You can do your best, and the world still breaks you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But doing your best is the only way to make peace with the breaking.”

Host: A breeze rippled across the lake, scattering reflections into pieces of light. Jack leaned back on his hands, his face turned toward the dusky sky.

Jack: “You sound like you think every good deed sends a ripple through the universe.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I do. You might not see where it lands—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t move something.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But naïve. The universe doesn’t reward good behavior. It’s indifferent.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it keeps making sunsets.”

Host: Her words landed softly but sank deep. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly, as though her faith bruised something old in him.

Jack: “You think Helen Keller’s words were about faith, or comfort?”

Jeeny: “Both. She knew what it meant to live in darkness, to speak without sound. And still, she believed her actions mattered. If that’s not faith, what is?”

Jack: “It’s courage. And maybe delusion.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s courage because it includes the delusion. You don’t have to believe the world is kind to act kindly. You just have to believe the act itself means something.”

Host: The light dimmed further, the sky deepening into violet. The first stars appeared, small and uncertain, like shy witnesses to their argument.

Jack: “You always make it sound easy—like doing your best is enough. But what if it isn’t? What if your best doesn’t fix anything?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe fixing isn’t the point.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “Then what is the point?”

Jeeny: “The trying. The reaching. The unseen miracle Keller talked about—it’s not about success, Jack. It’s about unseen impact. Maybe you fail your own story, but save someone else’s without knowing.”

Host: She released the jar of fireflies. The small creatures lifted into the air, scattering light around them, fragile but fearless. For a moment, the pier glowed like a constellation brought down to earth.

Jack: (quietly) “You think we really change people without knowing it?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Every word. Every silence. Sometimes the smallest kindness changes the trajectory of a life.”

Jack: “And what if your smallest cruelty does the same?”

Jeeny: “Then you spend your life choosing which side of the ripple you want to stand on.”

Host: The lake stilled again. The released fireflies hovered briefly before drifting toward the trees—tiny suns returning to their galaxy.

Jack: “You always see hope in the invisible.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the truth hides. The things we can’t see are often the ones saving us.”

Jack: (bitterly) “You talk about miracles like they’re ordinary.”

Jeeny: “They are. You just don’t recognize them until they’re gone.”

Host: He looked at her then—really looked. Her face in the starlight was soft, earnest, illuminated by the reflected glow of something purer than belief.

Jack: “You ever see one? A miracle?”

Jeeny: “Once. My mother used to write letters to strangers in hospitals. Just little notes—‘You’re loved,’ ‘You’re brave,’ things like that. One day, years after she died, I got a letter back. From someone who said those words kept her alive during chemo. That’s what Keller meant. You never know who you’ve saved.”

Jack: “And maybe you never know who you’ve hurt.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you do your best—to tip the scales.”

Host: The moonlight caught the water now, drawing a silver road across its surface. Jack stared at it, his reflection shimmering beside hers—two imperfect lights merged by stillness.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent most of my life thinking miracles were fairy tales. But maybe they’re just math we can’t see. Cause and effect too vast for us to track.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t trace the light back to the match that started it. But it still burns.”

Jack: “So doing our best is like striking a match in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not to banish the dark—but to remind it it’s not the only thing that exists.”

Host: A long silence followed. The night pressed close, wrapping them in its velvet quiet. Somewhere, a distant owl called, and the sound echoed like a question answered by faith itself.

Jack: “You ever think Helen Keller envied people who could see miracles?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she pitied them—because they had to see them to believe.”

Host: The water shimmered as the first ripple spread—a fish beneath the surface, or perhaps the lake itself exhaling.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, miracles aren’t loud. They’re the quiet things—the letter you never knew saved a life, the apology whispered too late but still felt, the stranger who holds a door open on the worst day of your life.”

Jack: “Or the friend who refuses to give up on you.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. Especially that one.”

Host: The stars were brighter now, reflected in the lake like an infinite scattering of faith.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the best thing we can do is keep doing our best—and let the universe do the math.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Keller believed. Effort itself is prayer.”

Host: The night wind moved through the reeds, whispering over the water. The last of the fireflies disappeared into the dark, their light not gone but simply unseen.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, we don’t need to witness miracles to make them. We just need to live as if we might be one for someone else.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe that’s the most human thing I’ve ever heard.”

Host: The moon climbed higher, spilling silver into every shadow.

And as the two sat in silence—
one still skeptical, the other still believing—
the lake reflected them both, equally,
their outlines glowing softly,
as if the universe itself were saying:

This too is a miracle—
not in sight,
not in sound,
but in the simple act
of trying.