Women have always been the world's burden bearers. Ever since

Host: The church ruins stood beneath a bruised sky, the kind of twilight that felt like memory more than moment. Columns, broken but defiant, reached upward into the dying light like prayers that had forgotten the words. The air carried the mingled scent of rain, ashes, and wild lavender growing stubbornly through the cracks.

In the center aisle—where pews once stood—Jack walked slowly, his boots echoing against stone. His coat clung to his shoulders, damp from the storm. Near the altar, Jeeny knelt before a fragment of stained glass, its colors fractured, but still glowing faintly—crimson and gold, like the last pulse of faith itself.

Host: Above the crumbling archway, engraved but almost worn away by time, the words of Gutzon Borglum remained:
“Women have always been the world’s burden bearers. Ever since history began the great burden of the world’s faith, its belief in immortality has been carried in the arms of its women.”

Jeeny: “You feel it, don’t you? This place still breathes. Even the stones remember.”

Jack: “They remember suffering, not faith.”

Jeeny: “Suffering is faith. It’s the language women have spoken since the world began.”

Jack: “No. It’s the language the world forced them to speak.”

Jeeny: “And still—they spoke it. They carried what men broke. Borglum understood that. The weight of the world doesn’t rest on strength, Jack. It rests on endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance isn’t glory. It’s survival. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is the glory.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the ruins, scattering leaves across the stones. The remnants of the stained glass cast fractured light across Jeeny’s face—as if the world itself couldn’t decide whether to sanctify her or shatter her.

Jack: “You really believe women carry the world’s faith?”

Jeeny: “Don’t they? Who else has kept hope alive when every war, every law, every god turned away?”

Jack: “Faith’s not gendered, Jeeny. It’s human.”

Jeeny: “You say that because you’ve never been asked to bear it. Women have always held the broken pieces. The mother at the grave. The lover at the window. The daughter burying her father’s sins. Men build cathedrals; women light the candles.”

Jack: “So men destroy and women redeem? That’s a convenient myth—beautiful, but dishonest.”

Jeeny: “It’s not myth—it’s memory. Look at every story, every scripture. Eve takes the blame, but Mary bears salvation. The cycle never changes.”

Jack: “And yet men wrote both stories.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they couldn’t have existed without the women who lived them.”

Host: The rain began again—light, persistent, like whispered absolution. Jack leaned against a pillar, the stone cold beneath his hand. The echo of Jeeny’s words lingered like smoke, curling around the silence between them.

Jack: “You talk like suffering’s sacred. But faith shouldn’t demand pain to prove itself.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not faith—it’s convenience. Real faith costs something.”

Jack: “It shouldn’t cost everything.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to the women who prayed through famine, through plague, through loss. They didn’t ask for miracles—they became them.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But maybe they endured because they had no choice.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what makes it noble.”

Host: The thunder rolled, low and distant, like history clearing its throat. Jeeny’s voice softened but gained weight—an ancient kind of strength that didn’t shout; it simply stayed.

Jeeny: “Faith has always been the art of carrying what’s too heavy to name. Women have done that for centuries. Through childbirth, through grief, through silence. Every cradle is a question of hope. Every act of care is defiance against despair.”

Jack: “And yet, history remembers the builders, not the bearers.”

Jeeny: “Because history’s written by men who forget who carried them to safety.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe because faith’s quieter than conquest.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it lasts longer.”

Host: The rain gathered on the altar, forming small pools that reflected the fractured light above. Each shimmer looked like a tear suspended in time—neither fallen nor forgotten.

Jack: “You really believe women carry immortality?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not in their bodies, but in their remembering. They keep the dead alive by speaking their names, by passing down their stories. That’s what immortality is, Jack—not eternity, but memory that refuses to fade.”

Jack: “And yet, every civilization forgets eventually.”

Jeeny: “Then women begin again.”

Host: The storm outside broke into flashes of lightning, painting the sky in furious white. The light burst through the ruins, illuminating their faces—Jeeny’s calm, resolute, Jack’s haunted, questioning.

Jack: “You make it sound like women are saints. But they’re not untouched by cruelty either. There are women who’ve betrayed, destroyed, commanded wars.”

Jeeny: “Of course. To bear the burden of faith doesn’t mean you’re free from sin. It means you never stop hoping in spite of it.”

Jack: “Hope is exhausting.”

Jeeny: “So is love. And yet, the world survives on both.”

Jack: “And you think men don’t carry that?”

Jeeny: “Some do. But most are allowed to forget. Women aren’t.”

Host: The rain slowed, becoming a soft drizzle. The air smelled clean now, purged, as if confession had already happened. Jack walked toward the shattered altar, tracing his fingers along the wet stone.

Jack: “You know… my mother used to pray every morning before work. She’d sit at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand, rosary in the other. I never understood it. She wasn’t religious. But she said it kept the world from breaking.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s exactly what Borglum meant. The faith of women isn’t about doctrine. It’s about holding the world together when it falls apart.”

Jack: “And she did. Even when my father left, even when she got sick—she never stopped believing things could be good again. I used to think that was naïve.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: after a pause “Now I think it was strength disguised as hope.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith always is.”

Host: A beam of moonlight slipped through the clouds, falling across the cracked floor. The light touched the remnants of stained glass, setting the red and gold fragments ablaze. For a moment, the ruins didn’t look broken—they looked holy.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, men have always built monuments to gods. But women—they carry the gods in their arms. In their children, their patience, their pain. They don’t build faith—they bear it.”

Jack: “And that’s why it survives.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because faith doesn’t live in stone—it lives in breath.”

Host: The storm’s last echo faded into the distance. Jeeny rose slowly, her shadow long against the altar. Jack stood beside her, both looking at the glowing glass.

Jack: “You think the world will ever remember that?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to. We remember it for it.”

Host: The wind brushed past them, gentle now, carrying the scent of wet earth and lilies from the field beyond. Somewhere, a bell rang faintly in the distance—three soft notes, like an ancient benediction.

Jeeny turned toward Jack, her voice almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “Faith survives because women refuse to let it die. That’s the quiet miracle of history.”

Host: And as they stepped out into the soft silver rain, the ruins behind them glowed—not with holiness, but with endurance.

Host: For faith, like woman, doesn’t demand worship.
It simply carries—
And never sets the burden down.