Worry is spiritual short sight. Its cure is intelligent faith.

Host: The wind sighed through the narrow street, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and rain-soaked pavement. The city was winding down; the neon signs flickered uncertainly against the gathering fog. Inside a small corner café, time seemed to hesitate — the clinking of cups, the low hum of conversation, and two souls suspended in the rhythm of quiet thought.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the drifting mist, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea slowly, watching the swirling steam as though it were the map of her own mind.

Jeeny: “Paul Brunton once said — ‘Worry is spiritual short sight. Its cure is intelligent faith.’”
She lifted her eyes to meet Jack’s. “Do you believe that?”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “I believe that sounds poetic enough to sell in a bookshop.”
He tapped the cigarette ash into the saucer. “But faith isn’t a cure. It’s a lullaby. It helps you sleep through problems instead of solving them.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it helps you see past them.”

Jack: “That’s the problem — seeing past instead of seeing through. Worry, Jeeny, is realism in disguise. It’s the mind doing its job — preparing for failure before it happens.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, the sound bouncing off the wet walls. Inside, the light flickered from amber to gold, catching the soft movement of steam between them like fragile smoke. Jeeny smiled faintly, not mocking — understanding.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live as if disaster is always waiting around the corner?”

Jack: “It usually is.”

Jeeny: “That’s not wisdom, Jack. That’s exhaustion.”

Jack: “Call it what you want. It’s survival. Faith doesn’t stop bad things from happening. It just makes you feel better while you wait for them.”

Jeeny: “And yet people have survived wars, plagues, and despair not because they worried — but because they believed.”

Jack: “Believed in what?”

Jeeny: “In something bigger than themselves. In the possibility that not everything depends on control.”

Host: A pause. The clock above the counter ticked softly, like the heartbeat of the café. Jack leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling where it twisted into vague, uncertain shapes.

Jack: “You know what I think? Faith is a kind of blindness people decorate to make it look like hope. You call it intelligent, but what intelligence ignores evidence?”

Jeeny: “The kind that sees beyond it.”

Jack: “You’re speaking in riddles.”

Jeeny: “No. In truth. You think worry protects you. It doesn’t. It just shrinks the world to the size of your fear.”

Host: The air between them grew dense, thick with unspoken challenge. Outside, a bus passed, splashing through a puddle, its headlights slicing briefly across their faces — his sharp, hers soft — like two sides of a question that had no easy answer.

Jeeny: “Do you know what spiritual short sight means, Jack? It means focusing so hard on the cracks that you forget the whole wall still stands. Worry is looking at the shadow and calling it the truth.”

Jack: “And faith is pretending the shadow isn’t there.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is remembering the light that cast it.”

Host: Her words landed quietly, but with the weight of something that could bruise. Jack stared at her, jaw tense, a small muscle twitching near his temple. He took another drag, the glow of the cigarette briefly lighting the sharp lines of his face.

Jack: “Tell that to the man who lost his job last week, or the mother praying in a hospital corridor. Do you think faith fixes that?”

Jeeny: “No. But worry doesn’t either. At least faith leaves room for strength to enter.”

Jack: “Strength comes from planning, not praying.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it comes from refusing to let fear write your plans for you.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, steady, tender as confession. The café’s glass window blurred, streaks of silver trailing like veins of memory. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes burned with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the story of Viktor Frankl?”

Jack: “The psychiatrist from Auschwitz, right?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He lost everything — his family, his freedom. But he said the one thing no one could take was the power to choose his attitude. Even in a camp, he found meaning. Not by worrying about the next beating or the next loss — but by believing that suffering itself could be transformed.”

Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s philosophy.”

Jeeny: “And yet philosophy was his faith.”

Host: Jack’s fingers trembled slightly as he set his cigarette down. The ash fell in uneven trails across the saucer — like a tiny ruin. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up, his eyes tired but alert.

Jack: “Maybe. But he was exceptional. Most people break under worry. They don’t transcend it.”

Jeeny: “Which is exactly why faith — intelligent faith — matters. Not blind hope, but a deeper trust that your mind and your spirit are on the same side, not at war.”

Jack: “You think faith can be intelligent?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Intelligence sees what is. Faith sees what could be. Together, they build courage.”

Jack: “And when courage fails?”

Jeeny: “Then faith carries it.”

Host: Her voice had dropped to almost a whisper now, but it cut through the hum of the café like a steady flame in the dark. Jack looked away, out toward the street, where the rain glowed beneath the passing headlights — tiny galaxies falling to earth.

Jack: “You talk like it’s easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s work. Every day. To not let your imagination become a weapon against you. To see possibility instead of threat.”

Jack: “That’s dangerous optimism.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s intelligent faith.”

Host: The café door opened briefly — a rush of cold air, the smell of wet asphalt, the sound of someone’s hurried footsteps. Then it closed again, sealing them back into their small universe of warmth and smoke.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Jack: “You really think worry is just… spiritual short sight?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because when you worry, you’re staring at the ground so hard, you forget the sky exists.”

Jack: “And faith lifts your chin?”

Jeeny: “Faith reminds you the sky was never gone.”

Host: Silence again. Only the rain speaking now — a soft percussion against the glass. Jack’s expression shifted; the skepticism in his eyes dulled into something quieter, something that almost resembled peace.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “I used to think faith was for people who couldn’t handle the truth. But maybe worry is for people who can’t trust it.”

Jeeny: “That’s closer to wisdom than you realize.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Don’t tell me you’ve converted me.”

Jeeny: “I didn’t need to. You already believed in something — you just called it logic.”

Jack: “And you call it love.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing, seen from different distances.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. The rain lightened. The last customers drifted out, leaving the café almost empty. The barista wiped the counter in lazy circles while the faint music from the speaker hummed — a melancholy jazz note fading into the hum of electricity.

Jeeny gathered her things, pulling on her coat. Jack stood, slipping the cigarette back into its pack, his expression unreadable but calmer. The fog outside pressed against the glass like a quiet spectator.

Jeeny: “You know what intelligent faith really is, Jack?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “It’s not believing everything will be fine. It’s believing you’ll be fine, even if it isn’t.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long, motionless moment. Then he nodded once — not in agreement, but in surrender to something gentler than argument. She smiled, just barely, and turned toward the door.

The bell above it chimed softly as she stepped into the night.
Jack lingered by the window, watching her umbrella open beneath the falling rain, a small, dark bloom against the silvery world.

He sat back down, picked up her half-finished tea, and took a sip.
It was cold — bitter — but real. He smiled faintly.

Host: Outside, the fog lifted, revealing a faint glimmer of moonlight breaking through. The city breathed again. And somewhere in the echo of her words, a thought settled — quiet, steady, like faith itself:

That maybe, to see clearly, one must first learn to trust the unseen.