The world tilts under our feet. One day it’s a steady sidewalk, the next it’s a patch of black ice you never saw coming. You grab at air, you land hard, and suddenly all the things you thought were nailed down start sliding. Plans unravel. Friends let you down. The doctor’s tone turns heavy. And lying there, staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., you whisper, Where is the solid ground?

Jehovah has already laid the ground under you, thicker than bedrock, older than the mountains that scrape the clouds. David once spilled his awe onto parchment: “Many things you yourself have done, O Jehovah my God, even your wonderful works and your thoughts toward us; there is none to be compared to you.” (Psalm 40:5, NWT). That wasn’t poetry for poetry’s sake. That was the gasp of a man who felt the floor give way beneath him, then realized the hands of the universe had been under his ribs the whole time.

That’s why Jehovah didn’t hand Job a pamphlet or a neat slogan when his life collapsed. He aimed Job’s eyes at the stars. “Where were you when I founded the earth?” (Job 38:4, NWT). In other words: Job, you’re standing on my masterpiece, breathing my air, under my stars — and you think I’m absent? He thundered with questions, yes, but each question was really a hug in disguise.

And what if we answered those same questions? What if, when our chest clenched with dread, we dared to step outside? The streetlamp hums, the traffic growls, but above all that — Orion still holds his belt. What if the sparrow, wobbling on the wire, preached a better sermon than the day’s cruelty? What if autumn air itself wrapped around you and said, Jehovah remembers you, even here, even now?

Isaiah once pleaded, “Lift up your eyes to heaven and see. Who has created these things?” (Isaiah 40:26, NWT). He saw a night sky dripping with constellations. We see smog and city haze, but even so, a stubborn star breaks through. Different backdrop, same reminder: creation still points to its Maker.

Jehovah hasn’t gone anywhere. His fingerprints are on the raindrop, the sparrow’s wing, the sidewalk crack sprouting a weed. His questions still echo, steadying trembling souls. His thoughts are still deeper than your panic.

He will not leave you. He never will.