The night is swollen with silence. You lie there staring at the ceiling, the sheet cool against your skin. The faint smell of stale coffee lingers from the counter, and the air feels heavy, almost metallic, like hospital antiseptic clinging after bad news. The shadows stretch longer than they should, and even the clock ticks louder than it has any right to. Your chest is tight — not just from worry, but from the sheer weight of being small in a world that will not stop spinning. And in that darkness, don’t you ache to know if it all means something? Don’t you crave an answer strong enough to steady you, an answer that comes from someone who actually holds the storm?

The silence deepens.

It presses in.

And then — Jehovah speaks.

Not softly, but in questions that split the stillness like lightning:

“Have you come to know the statutes of the heavens,

or could you put its authority in the earth?

Can you raise your voice even to the cloud,

so that a heaving mass of water itself may cover you?

Can you send forth lightnings that they may go and say to you, ‘Here we are!’?” (Job 38:33-35, NWT)

These words do not crush Job. They lift him. And they lift us. Jehovah points past the dust and heaviness, beyond the clods of earth stuck together — into the mystery of rain, lightning, and stars. As if to say: Child, if I can govern this… can I not also hold you?

The constellations above our heads? Not one hangs without Him. The raven’s ragged cry, the horse’s thunder-hooves, the eagle’s flight — all exist by His design. (Job 38:31-33; Psalm 50:10, 11) His questions roll like waves, but every crest carries reassurance: You don’t need every answer. You only need Me.

He numbers the clouds.

He commands the lightning.

He steadies you.

Always.