The roof hums when rain begins. A soft tapping, then a wild drumroll. And inside, your chest hums too — from pressure you can’t shake. Maybe it’s the rent that’s due, the doctor’s voicemail waiting unheard, or the silence of someone who used to call but doesn’t anymore. The storm outside feels almost personal. Too loud. Too close. Too much.

Scientists call rain a puzzle. They map the air, count the droplets, chase the clouds. But after all the charts and equations, they still confess they don’t fully know why water falls when it does. And yet — it falls. Every garden, every field, every dusty city street drinks and comes alive. Rain does not wait for our explanations. It simply comes, like mercy too vast to schedule.

That is why Paul could speak so confidently. He said of Jehovah: “He did not leave himself without witness in that he did good, giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, filling your hearts to the full with food and good cheer” (Acts 14:17, NWT). Imagine that — the very downpour soaking your window tonight is evidence that you are not forgotten.

And lightning? It terrifies. It splits the dark, cracks the air with force beyond our control. A single thunderstorm can unleash energy rivaling a nuclear weapon — sometimes many times more. And Jehovah bends even that power for life. Each flash forges nitrogen compounds in the sky, carried down by rain to enrich the soil. Farmers may never see it, but their crops grow stronger for it. The very bolt that makes you flinch is the same bolt that feeds you. “He is making grass sprout for the cattle and vegetation for mankind’s use” (Psalm 104:14, NWT).

Right now, about two thousand thunderstorms crackle somewhere across the earth. Add them up over days and months, and it becomes millions each year. So what if the storm you fear is also the storm that sustains? What if the noise outside your window is Jehovah’s way of saying: I am still here, I am still providing, I am still enough?