“No resident will say: ‘I am sick.’” — Isa. 33:24.

Picture the moment: Armageddon ends, silence like the pause after thunder, and then the world exhales. Someone blinks twice, takes off their glasses, realizes they can see every pine needle on a distant hill. Another tosses crutches into the air — they clatter like cymbals on pavement — while wheelchairs roll away, riderless, like shopping carts nobody needs anymore. Hearing aids buzz once, then are flicked into drawers that will never open again. The whole planet becomes a giant lost-and-found of discarded sickness. (Isa. 35:5, 6; Rev. 21:4)

And survivors? They won’t tiptoe cautiously into the future. No, they’ll surge forward with the energy of kids set loose in a brand-new playground the size of the earth. Soil will be turned over with joy, trees planted like fireworks in slow motion, and houses built with laughter leaking out the windows before the roof is even finished. (Ps. 115:16)

We know it isn’t fantasy because Jesus already staged the trailer. His healings were sneak previews: blind men gasping at sunsets they couldn’t name yet, lepers staring at skin so new it looked borrowed, paralyzed men dancing like their legs had been waiting years to jump. Each cure was stamped with his signature — compassion in thick ink, love in bold letters. (Rev. 7:9; John 10:11; 15:12, 13)

That compassion wasn’t a side project. It was Jehovah’s heartbeat, made visible in human hands. Jesus said it himself — every miracle, every tear wiped away, was his Father’s brushstroke painting a world where sickness would vanish into history’s attic. (John 5:19)