Your heart has to be prepared ahead of time through faith and

Host: The fire in the hearth had burned low — a handful of embers glowed faintly in the darkened cabin, casting red veins of light across the wooden floor. Outside, a blizzard howled like a beast, shaking the windows, battering the walls. The mountain night was merciless — white, endless, and silent except for the storm’s rage.

Inside, two figures sat at the table, a single lantern between them.

Jack, his face drawn and hard, rubbed his hands before the fire. The lines around his eyes looked deeper in the flickering light. Across from him, Jeeny sat wrapped in a wool blanket, her hair damp, her eyes calm, her posture still.

The silence between them wasn’t emptiness — it was pressure. A living weight, shaped by what had been said before.

On the table lay a small, worn book — Falling Upward by Richard Rohr — opened to a single underlined line:

“Your heart has to be prepared ahead of time through faith and prayer and grace and mercy and love and forgiveness so you can keep your heart open in hell, when hell happens.”

The words hung there, like a gospel whispered to the storm.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, why Rohr said ‘when hell happens,’ not ‘if’? Like he knew it was inevitable.”

Jack: “Because he’s a realist dressed as a mystic. He knew what most people won’t admit — hell’s not some afterlife destination; it’s a recurring address. We all get the mail eventually.”

Host: The wind screamed against the windows, and the flame from the lantern bent, trembling but alive.

Jeeny: “But that’s not the point, is it? It’s not that hell comes — it’s whether your heart can stay open when it does. That’s what faith is. Not escape, not avoidance — openness.”

Jack: “Openness? To what? Pain? Suffering? That’s not faith, that’s masochism. When hell comes, you close your heart if you want to survive. That’s how you keep from breaking.”

Jeeny: “You don’t survive by closing off, Jack. You survive by remaining human in the midst of it. Rohr’s not preaching comfort — he’s teaching courage. The kind that forgives while burning.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but tell that to a man whose child dies. Tell him to keep his heart open while his world caves in.”

Jeeny: “He might be the only one who can. Because closing his heart won’t bring his child back — it will just kill what’s left of him.”

Host: The fire cracked, sending up a brief flare that lit their faces — two portraits of the same wound: one armored, one surrendered.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s armor, but it’s not. It’s a wound you choose to keep open. I’ve seen men in real hell, Jeeny — war zones, hospital rooms, addiction — and prayer doesn’t save them. It just gives their pain a vocabulary.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? Maybe that’s salvation — not erasing pain, but naming it. Faith doesn’t stop the fire; it keeps you from becoming it.”

Jack: “You think love can survive in hell?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that can.”

Host: The blizzard outside intensified. Snow struck the glass like shards of bone. The lantern light flickered, its halo shrinking and expanding, as if caught between faith and extinction.

Jack: “When my mother died, the priest said something similar. He said, ‘God is with you in your suffering.’ You know what I felt? Nothing. Just a hollow sound inside me, like an echo in an empty room. That’s when I learned — faith is just how people decorate the walls of their despair.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that echo was God. Maybe the silence wasn’t absence — it was waiting.”

Jack: “Waiting for what?”

Jeeny: “For you to speak back.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, uncertain. The words hit him not as argument, but as memory. For a moment, the howling wind outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet, rhythmic beating of something older — a heart learning to listen.

Jack: “You really believe love can exist in the middle of hell?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. In hospitals, when nurses hold the hands of dying strangers. In war, when soldiers risk their lives for people they barely know. In forgiveness, when victims look their abusers in the eyes and choose peace instead of revenge. That’s what Rohr means — a heart trained in mercy before the fire starts.”

Jack: “You’re describing saints, Jeeny. I’m talking about humans.”

Jeeny: “And I’m telling you — saints are just humans who refused to let hell win.”

Host: A long silence fell. The fire sighed, soft and low. The sound of the storm became distant, like the world outside was receding into dream.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like you?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That you can still believe in forgiveness. I can’t. Not anymore. Some things — some people — don’t deserve it.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t for them, Jack. It’s for you. It’s the only thing that keeps your heart from turning to ash.”

Jack: “You think mercy saves you?”

Jeeny: “No. I think mercy changes you. It keeps you human when hell tries to make you something else.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hands trembling slightly. The flame from the lantern reflected in his eyes — two tiny fires, fighting not to go out.

Jack: “You really think a heart can be trained to stay open in that kind of pain?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it has to start before it happens. That’s what Rohr means — you prepare your heart ahead of time. Through love. Through prayer. Through failure, even. So when hell comes — and it will — your love doesn’t flee; it endures.”

Jack: “And what if it breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then let it. Because broken hearts still feel. Closed hearts don’t.”

Host: A sudden gust of wind burst through a crack in the window, scattering ash from the fire. Tiny sparks lifted into the air, swirling like lost souls searching for warmth. Jeeny reached out, gently covered Jack’s hand with hers.

Jeeny: “You see? Even the ash still glows if you let the light touch it.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t simple. It’s sacred. The hardest thing in the world — keeping your heart open when everything begs you to shut it.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders sank. For the first time, the defiance in him seemed tired — not defeated, but humbled.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about believing in heaven. Maybe it’s about surviving hell without becoming part of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s the whole sermon.”

Host: The storm began to ease. The wind softened into whispers, and the snow outside fell slower, gentler. The cabin seemed to breathe again.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the white night. The world beyond was still cold, still vast — but not cruel. Just quiet.

Jack watched her, then reached for the book on the table. His fingers brushed the underlined line.

Jack: “Maybe he was right. Maybe you don’t prepare your mind for hell — you prepare your heart.”

Jeeny: “Because your mind will look for logic. But your heart… it will look for light.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly. He closed the book, set it down, and leaned back, his eyes softer, his breath slower.

Outside, dawn began to show — a faint line of silver on the horizon.

The last of the fire crackled, sending one final spark into the air — a fragile, glowing seed that hung for a moment before vanishing into the dark.

And in the hush that followed, their hearts, though scarred and weary, beat with quiet defiance — proof that even in hell, there is room for grace.

Because love, when trained by mercy, does not run from the fire.
It learns to keep the flame alive within it.