Your faithfulness makes you trustworthy to God.

Host: The chapel was quiet — the kind of quiet that hums rather than sleeps, filled with the faint smell of wax, stone, and the echo of old prayers. Candles flickered before the altar, their flames bending gently in the draft like small souls learning to bow. The night pressed against the stained-glass windows, and the colors — ruby, gold, sapphire — shimmered faintly across the marble floor.

Jack sat in the back pew, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at nothing in particular. The look in his eyes was not disbelief, but distance — a man staring at God as though through a fogged window.

Jeeny entered quietly, her steps soft, respectful of the silence. She didn’t carry a Bible or a rosary, only a kind of peace that seemed borrowed from the stillness itself.

Jeeny: “You always pick the back row.”

Jack: “I like exits. Faith feels safer when there’s a door nearby.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You sound like a tourist in your own soul.”

Jack: “Maybe I am.”

Host: She sat beside him, the bench creaking under the shared weight of unspoken thoughts. The candlelight trembled on their faces — gold, fragile, merciful.

Jeeny: “You know what Edwin Louis Cole said once?”

Jack: “Another preacher, right?”

Jeeny: “A teacher. He said, ‘Your faithfulness makes you trustworthy to God.’”

Jack: “Faithfulness.” (he exhaled) “That’s a word people throw around like it’s easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. That’s what makes it holy.”

Jack: “Holy doesn’t feed the rent.”

Jeeny: “No, but it feeds the reason you pay it.”

Host: A distant clock chimed, soft and deliberate — each note carrying the weight of reflection.

Jack: “So what does that mean — being faithful makes me trustworthy to God? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Jeeny: “It already is. He’s always been trustworthy to you. Faithfulness is how you answer back.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a conversation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Most people just never stop talking long enough to hear the other side.”

Host: Her eyes caught the glow of the nearest candle — warm, steady, unwavering.

Jeeny: “Being faithful isn’t about being perfect, Jack. It’s about showing up — in prayer, in pain, in silence. Even when you don’t feel like it.”

Jack: “That sounds like loyalty without reward.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s loyalty without condition.”

Jack: “And that makes me ‘trustworthy to God’?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means you can be trusted with His silence.”

Host: The air between them thickened — not heavy, but sacred, as if something larger had drawn closer to listen.

Jack: “I used to think faith was proof — you believe because you’re sure. But now… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe faith’s what you do when you’re not sure at all.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith without uncertainty isn’t faith. It’s certainty in costume.”

Jack: “So where does faithfulness fit in?”

Jeeny: “Faith is belief. Faithfulness is endurance.”

Host: The words fell like slow drops of rain — gentle, deliberate, true.

Jack: “And endurance makes me trustworthy?”

Jeeny: “Because trust isn’t built in passion, Jack. It’s built in repetition — the choice to stay, to pray, to believe, again and again. That’s what makes you dependable to God. That’s what makes love last.”

Host: The candles burned brighter now, as if echoing her meaning — steady flames, unconcerned with how long the night would last.

Jack: “You think He notices? When we keep showing up like that?”

Jeeny: “Always. Even when we think He’s not looking.”

Jack: “You say that like you’ve seen Him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe not with my eyes. But faithfulness trains you to see Him everywhere else — in mercy, in survival, in small acts that no one applauds.”

Jack: “That’s hard.”

Jeeny: “So is trust. That’s why it’s rare.”

Host: A soft wind slipped through the open door at the back of the chapel, and one of the candles flickered, its light bending dangerously before righting itself again.

Jeeny: “See that?” (gesturing toward the flame) “That’s faithfulness. It doesn’t avoid the wind — it learns how to move with it without going out.”

Jack: “And the wind’s what? Life?”

Jeeny: “Doubt. Disappointment. Time. Everything that tries to convince you you’re burning for nothing.”

Host: He looked at the candle for a long moment, his eyes reflecting its glow.

Jack: “You really think God tests faith that way? By watching who keeps the flame alive?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think He tests us. I think He invites us — to see how deep love can really go when it stops needing proof.”

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

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe they’re the same thing when love’s involved.”

Host: The sound of rain began — faint at first, then steady, drumming gently against the roof, syncing with their breathing.

Jack: “You ever think about how easy it is to lose faith? One tragedy, one silence too long, one unanswered prayer — and people walk away.”

Jeeny: “They don’t lose faith. They lose sight. The two aren’t the same.”

Jack: “You make it sound like faith’s a muscle.”

Jeeny: “It is. And faithfulness is how you keep it from atrophying.”

Host: The storm outside deepened — thunder rolling softly in the distance, the chapel trembling slightly, but the candles held their ground.

Jack: “So, being faithful means I can be trusted with His absence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because only someone who keeps walking through silence will know what to do when the voice returns.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You make me want to believe again.”

Jeeny: “Good. Just don’t try to believe like before. Believe like someone who’s seen the dark — and still lights a candle.”

Host: The rain softened. The storm passed. The world beyond the stained glass shimmered under a faint moonlight.

Jack leaned back, his shoulders easing for the first time that night. He looked toward the altar — the rows of candles glowing steadily, like quiet witnesses to invisible faith.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Cole meant. That faithfulness isn’t about God trusting us to be perfect — it’s about trusting us to stay.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. God doesn’t need our brilliance. He needs our consistency.”

Jack: “Like love.”

Jeeny: “Like love.”

Host: The wind moved through the chapel one last time — soft, cleansing, and alive.

They sat there in silence, not praying, not preaching — just present.

And for the first time, Jack didn’t look toward the exit.

He looked toward the altar — the steady flames, the patient light, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but earns it through endurance.

Because, as Edwin Louis Cole once said,

Your faithfulness makes you trustworthy to God.

And perhaps, in that stillness, Jack finally understood —
that being trustworthy to God wasn’t about strength,
but about staying lit
in the wind.