You, Eternal Trinity, are my Creator, and I am the work of Your

Host: The cathedral was nearly empty — a cavern of stone, shadow, and gold light. Candle flames trembled along the walls, throwing restless shapes that danced across the faces of saints carved in marble. From somewhere above, the faint echo of a choir rehearsal bled into the silence, a chant rising and fading like a breath between worlds.

At the far end, near the altar, Jeeny knelt, her hands clasped, her head bowed, a strand of black hair falling loose across her cheek. Jack stood a few pews behind her, arms folded, his coat collar up, his grey eyes tracing the flicker of light that spilled from the votive candles.

Host: The air was thick with the scent of incense and something ancient — the stillness of faith older than doubt. Outside, rain pressed against the stained glass, and each drop seemed to echo faintly inside, like time remembering itself.

Jack: “You really believe someone’s listening when you do that?”

Jeeny: without turning “Always.”

Jack: “Even after all the silence?”

Jeeny: “Especially after the silence.”

Host: Her voice was soft, yet carried the strength of someone who had wept her way into conviction. She lifted her gaze toward the great crucifix that hung above the altar — the figure of Christ, carved in wood, bathed in pale gold light from the candle stands below.

Jeeny: “Catherine of Siena once said: ‘You, Eternal Trinity, are my Creator, and I am the work of Your hands.’ I’ve always loved that. It’s not about religion, Jack — it’s about the intimacy of being made, and being loved by what made you.”

Jack: “Loved by what made you? That sounds like a dangerous kind of comfort. Look around you — half the world burns, the other half prays for rain. If a god loves His work, He’s got a cruel way of showing it.”

Jeeny: “You’re looking for fairness in creation. Catherine wasn’t. She found beauty in the very act of being — in knowing that the Creator still delights in what’s broken, what bleeds, what tries to stand.”

Host: A bell tolled somewhere beyond the nave — slow, deep, resonant. The sound filled the cathedral like a pulse.

Jack: “You call that delight? Look at us — we’re contradictions in skin. We build, destroy, pray, and repeat. If we’re God’s workmanship, He must be either exhausted or insane.”

Jeeny: turning to face him now “Maybe both. Maybe love, when it’s infinite, has to go mad to understand us.”

Host: The candlelight shimmered across her face, and for a moment, her eyes looked almost luminous, reflecting both the light and the sorrow.

Jeeny: “When Catherine spoke of the Trinity being ‘enamored’ of its creation, she meant something impossible — that the divine sees beauty even where we see failure. That’s not madness, Jack. That’s mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy’s just another way of saying indulgence. If the divine forgives everything, nothing means anything.”

Jeeny: “You always think forgiveness erases meaning. It doesn’t. It reveals it.”

Host: The choir above began to sing again — faint voices threading through the arches, Latin syllables floating like dust through sunlight. Jack’s eyes flicked upward, not in reverence, but in curiosity — as though listening to something he couldn’t name.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve spoken with God.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe we all do — in pain, in awe, in the silence between breaths. You just stopped answering.”

Jack: “Because I got tired of praying to walls.”

Jeeny: “The walls only echo what you bring into them.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, a flicker of anger, of ache. He stepped closer, the sound of his boots soft against the stone floor. The flames seemed to tremble as he passed.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — where was this enamored Creator when your sister died? When hospitals ran out of beds? When kids prayed for miracles that never came?”

Jeeny: quietly “He was there. In every tear, every hand that held another’s. He never promised to stop death, Jack. He only promised not to abandon us in it.”

Jack: “That’s just a convenient translation of absence.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s the language of love written in endurance. Catherine knew that too. She lived through plague, exile, and silence. And still she said — ‘You are enamored of the beauty of Your workmanship.’ She believed God could look at humanity, drenched in its own failures, and still say: You are beautiful.”

Host: The rain outside grew harder, drumming against the stained glass like a thousand whispered doubts. Inside, the light flickered, the air alive with the shimmer of flame and faith colliding.

Jack: “So what — we’re just paintings that don’t get to see the painter? Puppets in love with their strings?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’re mirrors. And when we forgive the cracks in ourselves, we finally reflect what made us.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. The defiance in his eyes wavered beneath something older — maybe grief, maybe memory. He walked toward the altar, stopping a few feet from it, staring up at the crucifix.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to light candles for everyone in the family. Said each flame was a prayer that could be seen in heaven. I stopped doing that after she died. Thought it was superstition. But lately… I’ve started wondering what she saw that I couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “She saw what Catherine saw — that love doesn’t need to be understood to be true.”

Host: Jeeny rose and joined him. For a moment, they stood side by side before the altar, two small figures dwarfed by the vast space around them — by the arches, the light, the eternity of quiet.

Jack: “You really think something divine could love this — this mess of a world?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s the only kind of love that matters — the kind that stays when it shouldn’t.”

Host: Jack’s hand drifted to the edge of a candle stand. He took one of the small unlit candles, held it for a long moment, then set it gently in its place and struck a match. The flame caught, rising uncertainly before steadying into soft light.

Jack: “For her?”

Jeeny: “For you.”

Host: The flame reflected in his eyes, trembling but bright. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The music above swelled faintly, and the light from the stained glass turned the stone floor into a tapestry of shifting color — blues, reds, golds — like grace made visible.

Jeeny: “See? Even now — creation answers back.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about being perfect, but being seen. Even in the cracks.”

Jeeny: “Especially in the cracks.”

Host: The choir’s final note drifted down like a feather. Outside, the rain began to fade, the sky softening toward dawn. The candles flickered one last time, and in their glow, Jack and Jeeny stood quietly — two souls caught between earth and eternity, between doubt and wonder.

And as the light began to seep through the stained glass — painting the world anew — the cathedral seemed to breathe, as though even stone could feel the pulse of being loved.

Host: “In that sacred silence,” the world seemed to whisper, “the Creator gazed upon His creation — flawed, finite, unrepentantly human — and was still enamored.”

And the flame, trembling in its glass, burned on.