From Whisper to Roar

 

 

Part Two begins small.

 

Not with thunder.

With a brook.

You can hear it before you see it.

 

Stand near a shallow stream and listen. Water slips over stones, weaving around roots and gravel. The sound is gentle—soft pops, faint clicks, a quiet rush that comes and goes. If you look closely, you can see why. Tiny bubbles form where the water tumbles over rock. They rise, break, and disappear almost as soon as they’re born.

 

It’s important to be clear about this: it is not the water itself that makes the sound. Smooth water moving smoothly is nearly silent. The noise of a babbling brook comes from bubbles—air that gets trapped in the water as it tumbles and drops. When those bubbles rise and pop, they push on the surrounding air. That push is what reaches our ears as sound.

 

If there were no bubbles, there would be no babble.

No whisper.

No music in the stream at all.

 

Each bubble makes a sound.

 

But that sound isn’t just one thing. From the instant the surface snaps open to the moment the ripples fade, a single bubble pop is layered. Fast vibrations ride on slower ones. Sharp edges blend into softer tails. Our ears can detect roughly a couple dozen distinct sound frequencies during that brief moment. It only feels like one sound because it happens so quickly.

 

And even then, we’re not hearing everything.

 

A bubble pop creates far more sound frequencies than human hearing can detect. Some are too high. Some too low. A sensitive microphone could record them, but our ears never will. We hear only part of what actually happens—and yet, it’s enough.

 

One pop.

Then silence.

 

Another pop.

Then silence again.

 

Nothing builds. Nothing lingers. The brook stays gentle because each sound has time to fade before the next one arrives.

 

Now pause.

 

If each bubble pop only gives us that same limited range of sound…

If our hearing only picks up that small band of frequencies…

The roar doesn’t come from new sounds appearing.

It doesn’t even come from louder sounds.

 

So how can the same sounds, at the same strength, fill the air with that kind of volume?

 

Follow the stream downstream. The water speeds up. It drops harder. It collides. Bubbles form everywhere—along rock faces, in plunges, in white foam. They no longer wait their turn. One pop overlaps the next. And the next. And the next.

 

The sound hasn’t changed what it is.

It has changed how long it stays.

 

Each bubble still produces the same kinds of sounds.

The same frequencies.

Nothing new is added.

 

But the pops arrive so quickly that silence never returns. The same sounds are reinforced again and again, stacking pressure in the air until the space itself feels full.

 

That’s when volume is born.

 

Now stand before Victoria Falls.

 

You don’t hear millions of separate pops. You hear one roar. Not because the water found new sounds to make—but because the same sounds never stop arriving. The air is constantly being pushed. Pressure waves overlap without rest.

 

The same thing happens in an orchestra.

 

When you attend a concert, the sound doesn’t grow because one violin plays louder than its strings can vibrate. It grows because there are many violins playing the same notes. The same is true of flutes, French horns, and cellos. Each instrument stays within its limits, but together they fill the hall.

 

No new notes are added.

No single instrument overpowers the others.

 

The sound becomes larger because it is reinforced, not because it is forced.

 

Here’s where the lesson widens.

 

Jehovah did not design us to react to every single event as if it stood alone. Just as our ears don’t treat one bubble pop as a roar, our hearts are not meant to treat every moment as decisive. What matters is repeated reinforcement.

 

Small things repeated gain weight.

Quiet signals, when they don’t fade, demand attention.

 

A babbling brook whispers because its sounds have time to disappear.

A great waterfall commands attention because they do not.

 

That’s why Jesus could say, “Let the one who has ears listen.” —Matthew 11:15.

 

And He didn’t say it just once.

 

Matthew records it. Mark records it. And years later, in Revelation, Jesus repeats the same call again and again to the congregations. He wasn’t repeating Himself. He was reinforcing.

 

Jehovah teaches us to listen the same way—not for isolated moments, but for what keeps returning, what keeps building, what no longer gives silence a chance.

 

Sometimes the sound that fills the space isn’t sudden at all.

 

It’s just been there long enough to matter.

 

 

 

 

Hearing the sound is one thing; knowing what it means is another.