You will never cease to be the most amazed person on earth at

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city street washed and shining under the dim amber glow of the streetlights. The air smelled of wet earth and iron, a quiet reverence after the storm. Inside a small diner tucked between two silent buildings, a radio hummed an old gospel tune — distant, as if remembered from another life.

Jack sat by the window, his reflection faint against the glass, smoking in slow pauses, each exhale a ghost that vanished before it could linger. Across from him, Jeeny cupped a mug of coffee, her fingers trembling just slightly, her eyes still wet from something neither of them had named.

Jeeny: “Oswald Chambers once said, ‘You will never cease to be the most amazed person on earth at what God has done for you on the inside.’”

Jack: “That’s a comforting line for people who need something to hold on to.”

Host: The steam from the cups curled upward, catching the light like tiny spirits escaping from earth to heaven.

Jeeny: “It’s not about comfort, Jack. It’s about transformation — something beyond what you can measure. You’ve felt it too, haven’t you? That quiet shift inside, when something you couldn’t fix suddenly begins to heal?”

Jack: “No. What I’ve felt are consequences, not miracles. People change because they have to, not because some invisible hand rearranges their insides.”

Jeeny: “You think the only real changes are the ones you can see?”

Jack: “Yes. People talk about God changing them ‘inside’ — but what’s inside? Chemistry, memory, emotion — all mechanical. You hurt, you learn, you adapt. That’s human biology, not divine intervention.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered — OPEN, CLOSED, OPEN — as if the universe itself were undecided.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Viktor Frankl? The psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz? He said, ‘Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude.’ Even in hell, he found meaning. Isn’t that something divine — to have your soul rearranged in the midst of unspeakable darkness?”

Jack: “Frankl didn’t find God. He found purpose. There’s a difference. He used his mind to survive, not his faith.”

Jeeny: “But maybe his mind was touched by faith without him realizing it. Sometimes God works quietly — like light through a cracked door, not a thunderstorm.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but her eyes were steady, full of that quiet fire that always made Jack’s skepticism stumble. The diners around them faded — just the two of them and the steady drip of rainwater from the roof.

Jack: “I used to believe, you know. When I was a kid. My mother prayed every night that my father would stop drinking. He never did. She died still praying. Tell me, Jeeny — what kind of miracle hides in that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the miracle wasn’t in him, Jack. Maybe it was in her. The strength to keep loving when there’s no reason left. The ability to hold on to hope — that’s something no science can explain.”

Jack: “Hope is a survival mechanism. You cling to it because otherwise, you’d collapse.”

Jeeny: “And yet… hope keeps us alive when reason gives up. Isn’t that the point? What God does ‘on the inside’ isn’t about erasing pain — it’s about giving it meaning.”

Host: A truck passed outside, splashing water onto the curb, breaking the stillness for a moment. Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes narrowed — as though trying to see something invisible just beyond Jeeny’s words.

Jack: “So you think every bit of suffering is just divine sculpting? That God chisels pain into purpose?”

Jeeny: “Not every pain. But I think… He doesn’t waste any of it. When you survive something, and you find compassion where there used to be bitterness — that’s what Chambers meant. The amazement isn’t about what happens to you. It’s about what happens in you.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But amazement fades. People get hardened. They forget.”

Jeeny: “Only if they stop listening.”

Host: Her words fell softly, but they hit with the weight of truth. Jack looked away, out into the wet street, where the puddles caught fragments of light like broken stars.

Jack: “You talk as if faith is some eternal flame inside people. But for most, it’s just ashes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe those ashes are sacred too. The fact that they burned at all means something once lived there.”

Jack: “You always find poetry in the ruins.”

Jeeny: “And you always find ruins in the poetry.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep, like the pause between lightning and thunder. In that stillness, Jack’s breathing slowed, and the faint tremor in his voice betrayed something soft — regret, maybe, or longing.

Jack: “You really believe God changes people — from the inside out?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not like flipping a switch, but like growing roots. Quietly. Imperceptibly. Until one day, you realize the storm didn’t break you — it planted you.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t want to be planted? What if I just want to stop hurting?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where it starts. The honesty of that hurt. That’s where God meets you — not in the pretending, but in the rawness.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, resting gently on Jack’s. The contact was simple, human — but it carried the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s surrender.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To something bigger than the story you’ve been telling yourself.”

Host: Outside, a faint dawn began to bloom — not yet sunrise, just that first thin silver line that divides night from hope.

Jack: “You really think that kind of change — that amazement — still happens?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. In people who’ve lost everything, and somehow become gentler. In children who forgive parents that broke them. In myself… after the fire.”

Jack: “You never talk about that night.”

Jeeny: “Because it burned away more than just the house. It burned away who I thought I was. And what was left — what survived — wasn’t my strength. It was grace.”

Host: The light from outside now reached their table, washing over Jeeny’s face, turning her tears into faint crystals. Jack stared at her, the usual sharpness in his eyes softening.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the real miracle isn’t about things getting better. It’s about us becoming… different.”

Jeeny: “That’s the amazement Chambers meant. That we wake up one day and realize — we’ve been remade from within, without even knowing how.”

Jack: “And maybe… that’s why it scares me. Because if that’s true, I’m not in control.”

Jeeny: “You never were. None of us are. But maybe that’s not a loss — maybe that’s freedom.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — a single sound that broke the fragile quiet. Outside, the rain had stopped for good, leaving only the shine of the world reborn in silver and gold.

Jack leaned back, his cigarette burning low, and let out a slow, tired laugh — not bitter this time, but human.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe I’d like to be amazed again.”

Jeeny: “Then stop looking outside for proof, Jack. The miracle’s been waiting inside you all along.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The camera of morning widened — the diner, the street, the city waking to a fragile new day. The light poured in, soft and forgiving, and for once, neither of them tried to define it.

And in that quiet, something shifted — not in the world, but within them. The kind of change that cannot be seen, only felt.

The kind of grace that, once found, leaves you forever amazed.