Leaderboard

The Boston Pops were on TV, performing the piece that opens 2001: A Space Odyssey. That’s what I call it, because I don’t know how to pronounce its real name. I happened to be walking through the room as my dad was watching the performance, and when they announced what piece they would play, I stopped to hear it. This was not the first time I had heard it, so I stood about ten feet from the television set — this was before stereo TV. The brass crept in — ba… ba… baaaaa… — a pause, then ba, baaa… The sound seemed to hang in the air, stretching the silence. And then — the timpani. BOOM . . BOOM. The drums thundered again, like the earth itself answering back. My eyes filled. I was somewhere between 17 and 19 then. I’ve always had an appreciation for music. I grew up listening to the classics, which also carried me into many movie scores — the Pink Panther theme (still one of my favorites) and, of course, musicals. As you can tell, this glimpse means a lot to me. I wasn’t in Symphony Hall; I was at home, more than 30 miles away. Yet because it was live, the music reached straight through the screen — immediate, overwhelming, as if I were there. Why does music do this? Why does it move us in ways that words alone cannot? Part of the answer lies in our very design. Neuroscientists at McGill University discovered that music triggers dopamine in the brain — the same chemical linked with joy, reward, even love and Salsa - the hot dip for your corn chips. The build-up of a melody, the release of a chord, the swell of drums — these moments light up the limbic system, the emotional core. That’s why a timpani roll can shake tears loose. It’s not just heard; it’s felt. Interestingly, dopamine is also released in other paradoxical ways. Take spicy food: salsa or chili peppers create a burning pain on the palate, you feel it, yet that very sensation triggers dopamine and endorphins. We wince, but then we reach for another bite, because the same system ties pain and pleasure together. Music can work like that too. Some of our Kingdom melodies stir tears of grief as we remember brothers and sisters we’ve lost. Yet those same melodies remind us of Jehovah’s promise to bring them back — and that fills us with hope. Pain and joy meet in the same moment, and both are processed through the gift Jehovah designed. Another part comes from timing. Studies show that live performance affects us more deeply than recordings. Even through a broadcast, the awareness that this was happening now heightened the impact. It wasn’t canned or stored away; it was unfolding in real time, and my heart responded to the immediacy. Jehovah wove this response into us. From Miriam’s song after the Red Sea to David’s choirs in the temple, from the psalms that shaped Israel’s prayers to the command for Christians to sing with their hearts, music has always been more than decoration. It is a bridge between truth and joy, mind and emotion, words and awe. When we sing to Jehovah, the very mechanisms of bonding, memory, and reward he placed within us are activated to draw us closer to him. That means when we read the songs recorded in Scripture, we shouldn’t just skim the words. Take the time to feel them. Let them stir your heart as they were meant to. And one day, when David and the other inspired poets return, perhaps we’ll hear their psalms performed as they first were — not only words on a page, but living music filling the air. And where does that leave us? With feeling — always feeling. Music stirs us to tears, to joy, to awe. Yet through it all, we are never touching it. Ironically, it remains untouchable, and still it touches us. Music beyond worship has power too. Awake! once described it as “a gift from God” that can calm, stir, and lift the spirit. jw.org reminds us that music can brighten mood, forge unity, and even transport us back in memory. At the same time, it cautions that not all music leads in good directions — discernment is essential. Jehovah doesn’t hand us lists of forbidden songs; instead he invites us to train conscience, to notice what music is doing to our heart, and to keep it in its place. All of this explains why music feels essential to life, and why it feels essential to worship. It is not only the sound of instruments or voices. It is the touch of a gift designed to reach what nothing else can. At the end, the thought of one artist captures it best: Moby once said: “It’s the one art form that technically doesn’t exist. You know, you can touch musical instruments. You can touch CDs or vinyl that contain the music, but you can never actually put your finger on music. It’s just air moving a little bit differently. All music is doing is providing some structure to these air molecules… If someone’s playing cello, it’s pushing the exact same air molecules against our ear, just in a different structured way. And there’s something odd, but really, really interesting and powerful about that.” And yet, while we cannot touch it, it has no trouble touching us. When it does, it reminds us of its Source. It is Jehovah’s gift — meant to move us closer to him. When you hear certain music, do you get goosebumps? Does a melody ever make you afraid to step into the water, or stir excitement for the ministry, or even make you long for the day when Jehovah’s promises are fulfilled and you hear what will truly be music to your ears? Music carries us into these feelings, even while remaining . . . untouchable.

The worst thing you can do, when someone needs comfort, is nothing. Most people mean well. They pause beside a grieving friend or an anxious brother, searching for words that heal but finding none. Silence stretches. They walk away wishing they’d said something helpful. Yet Jehovah never fails to act. He never stands idly by. He is the God “of all comfort.” (2 Corinthians 1:3, 4 NWT) Comfort is not just something Jehovah gives; it is who He is. Just as “God is love” (1 John 4:8 NWT), so He is comfort — steady, tender, and personal. When He draws close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18 NWT), He brings relief that reaches deeper than pain. When He says, “As a mother comforts her son, so I will keep comforting you,” He reveals the tone of His heart — active, constant, and near. (Isaiah 66:13 NWT) What a privilege, then, that Jehovah allows us to share in His comfort. We are not expected to generate our own soothing words or rely on empty sympathy. He first comforts us so that we “may be able to comfort others … with the comfort that we receive from God.” (2 Corinthians 1:4 NWT) That means every time we open His Word and share a verse that reaches someone’s heart — perhaps a psalm that calmed us, or a promise that steadied us — we are passing along the very comfort that once healed us. It is not about eloquence. It is about allowing Jehovah’s own words to travel through us. The comfort is His; the privilege is ours. And when someone’s tears slow because a scripture reminded them that Jehovah sees, listens, and still cares — that moment is sacred. The God of comfort has spoken again, this time through one of His servants.

Before there was light, before there was matter, before there was even the first tick of what we call time — there was Someone. Not something. Not a force. Someone. Jehovah simply was. We talk about beginnings because everything we touch has one. A cry marks the start of a life. A dawn announces the day. Even stars, those ancient fires in the heavens, are born and will one day burn out. But when Moses lifted his eyes and spoke to God, he said, “From everlasting to everlasting, you are God.” (Psalm 90:2, NWT) That single verse steps beyond everything our minds can measure. Try counting backward. Past your childhood, past Adam, past the first atom — and there He still is. Try counting forward, beyond tomorrow, beyond a thousand years, beyond the very idea of “end” — and there He remains. Jehovah doesn’t travel through time; time flows from Him. Paul felt the same awe when he wrote, “O the depth of God’s riches and wisdom and knowledge!” (Romans 11:33) His point wasn’t that we shouldn’t think — it’s that our thoughts will never find the bottom of that depth. The human mind can hold many things, but not infinity. And yet, Jehovah asks us to trust what we can’t yet grasp. Jesus confirmed it when he said of God’s Word, “Your word is truth.” (John 17:17) If the Word says He had no beginning, then that is truth — whether or not our imagination can catch up. We actually live with hints of this idea every day. Think of numbers. You can keep counting — 1, 2, 3 — and never find the last. Or count down forever and never reach the first. That’s how time stretches for Jehovah, except He stands outside the line completely. He isn’t aging along it. He’s the reason it exists at all. Some people ask, “But who made God?” That question sounds clever until you chase it. If someone created God, then who created that someone? The circle never ends. There must be a starting point — not of time, but of being. And that starting point is Jehovah, “the King of eternity.” (1 Timothy 1:17) Everything else — the angels, the galaxies, and yes, even Jesus himself — had a moment when they began. (Colossians 1:15-16) But not Jehovah. His existence never started and will never stop. And that truth isn’t cold or distant. It’s warm. Because the same psalm that calls Him eternal also calls Him “a dwelling place for all generations.” (Psalm 90:1) His timelessness isn’t about being remote; it’s about permanence. He doesn’t fade, forget, or grow weary. We come and go like shadows crossing a wall, but Jehovah remains the wall itself — solid, unmoving, sheltering. His endless past guarantees our endless future. The One who had no beginning offers us a life with no end. That’s not philosophy. That’s comfort. So when the world feels temporary and fragile, remember who holds it. The God who never began will never abandon what He has made. He was there before the first sunrise, and He’ll still be there when you awake in the new world’s dawn — unchanged, unending, and utterly faithful. The Watchtower July 2010

Seek Counsel Humbly.html The fire crackled in the courtyard, sparks lifting like frightened stars into the cold night. Peter edged closer to its warmth, trying to steady his breathing. Moments earlier, soldiers had led Jesus away — the One he had promised never to abandon. Yet now, surrounded by strangers and suspicion, his courage began to unravel. “You were with him,” a servant girl said, her voice sharp in the still air. The words pierced deeper than he expected. “I do not know the man,” he muttered. Then again. And again. Each denial scraped at his soul until the sound of a rooster split the darkness. In that instant, Jesus turned and looked at him. One glance — no anger, only sorrow — and Peter remembered. His heart collapsed under the weight of his own certainty. All his bold words, all his promises to stand firm… gone like smoke in the dawn wind. He stumbled out into the quiet streets and wept until his voice was gone. Those tears were not of defeat but of awakening. In that breaking came something holy — a space for humility to enter, where wisdom could finally take root. Days later, beside the Sea of Galilee, Peter sat among the waves he once walked upon. The morning smelled of charcoal and salt — the same scent that haunted him since the courtyard. Jesus stood on the shore, cooking breakfast. Not a word of accusation passed his lips. Only a question, repeated like waves against the heart: “Do you love me?” Each time, Peter’s answer trembled between guilt and longing. “Lord, you know I love you.” With every confession, the wound closed a little more. The man who had boasted now simply leaned on mercy. That morning was not about shame. It was about re-commissioning. Jesus did not scold Peter for his collapse; he invited him to shepherd others with the same tenderness he had just received. Strength was no longer the sound of confidence — it was the sound of listening. That is where wisdom begins. “Presumptuousness leads only to strife, but wisdom belongs to those who seek advice” (Proverbs 13:10). Pride blinds us, making our own reasoning feel sufficient. But when we approach others with a humble spirit — willing to listen rather than defend — we open ourselves to perspective that guards us from costly mistakes. It takes strength, not weakness, to admit we don’t know everything. “Plans fail when there is no consultation, but there is accomplishment through many advisers” (Proverbs 15:22). The humble person values counsel as part of Jehovah’s arrangement, recognizing that wise advice often comes from those who see what we cannot. What if the counsel that corrects you today is the safeguard that saves you tomorrow? What if the humility that feels small now is the soil where faith grows strong again? The truly wise listen more than they speak. And when they act, their choices reflect peace — not pride. He blesses the listening heart. He blesses the teachable one.

The Silence That Spoke - a Glimpse of Wonder™ entry.mp3 During the global lockdown of 2020, San Francisco, a major bustling city, grew quiet in a way only a few could remember. Streets emptied. Trolleys sat still. The famous fog horns called into a silence that actually answered back, the echo not muted by traffic. And across the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge — that red arch of motion and noise — suddenly sounded alive. Before, the constant hum of engines had swallowed every softer sound. But as traffic thinned . . . the bridge began to breathe again. Its cables thrummed gently in the wind, like the strings of an enormous musical instrument. Below, the tides murmured. Yes, you could hear the waves crashing hundreds of feet below. And from the brush-covered slopes came a sound long hidden: birdsong. The white-crowned sparrows that live near the bridge had always sung through the noise. But now, with the noise muted, their voices changed. Researchers at Cornell University recorded them and found something remarkable — the sparrows were singing new songs. Their notes dropped lower, purer, and stronger. What had once been forced and thin became fluid again, stretching twice the distance. It was as if the birds had taken a deep breath and remembered who they were. They did not have to compete with the sounds of traffic. Silence can do that — not erase, but restore. The bridge didn’t change, the birds didn’t change — the noise did. Remove the interference, and what was true had space to be heard. Creation had been waiting, patient as always, for humanity to pause long enough to listen. It’s humbling to think about how much we miss when life grows too loud. The sparrows were not newly gifted; their melody was simply unmasked. What about us? How many quiet gifts of Jehovah wait beneath our own noise — beneath the endless hum of schedules, headlines, and notifications? This glimpse of the restorative power of his creations causes us to wonder, and praise him. It’s no coincidence that Scripture links silence with praise. Psalm 65:1–2 says, “To you silence is praise, O God in Zion.” Some praise is sung; some is whispered; some is simply felt in the stillness. The sparrows’ song wasn’t new music — it was renewed music . . . born of quiet. Maybe our worship deepens the same way. When the noise of worry fades, when explanations and arguments fall away, when we stop filling the air and start listening — other voices rise. Gratitude, peace, faith — all begin to sing again. The world beneath the bridge was never mute. It was only waiting for room to speak.

When the world fell quiet in 2021, the beaches changed first. For the first time in decades, loggerhead turtles came ashore to nest without dodging crowds, chairs, or lights. The sound of waves replaced the shuffle of feet. Tracks led straight from water to dunes, uninterrupted. According to marine biologists monitoring the coast of Florida, nesting success rose from about 40 percent to over 60 percent during that season of silence. Without beach traffic, the sand held its shape. Without glare from resort lights, hatchlings found the moon and not the parking lot. Nature, it seemed, remembered exactly what to do once the noise stopped. When human interference paused, life flourished — just as Jehovah designed it to. The rhythm of creation has always carried its own instructions. Tides pull. Stars guide. Instinct answers. Each turtle, in its slow persistence, follows a pattern that began in the mind of the Creator long before any beachfront hotel or floodlight. Job once urged, “Ask the animals, and they will teach you… In his hand is the life of every living thing” (Job 12:7–10, NWT). The quiet beaches became classrooms, teaching what our cities had forgotten — that the world was made to balance, not to compete. Maybe that’s why the stillness felt sacred. Not because the noise was gone, but because something older and wiser had returned. Creation does not need our help to heal. It only needs room to breathe.

The Work Beneath the Ache.html Sometimes strength looks like nothing more than breathing through another minute. Not charging forward. Not fixing what’s broken. Just staying — right there — when you could so easily drift away. Jehovah told Asa, “Be strong and do not become discouraged, for your activity will be rewarded” (2 Chronicles 15:7). That wasn’t spoken to a man standing in victory. It was said to someone in the thick of exhaustion, when faith had become heavy and progress felt invisible. We usually think strength means momentum. Something visible. Something measurable. But Asa’s “activity” wasn’t dramatic — it was obedience. Keeping the altar clean. Repairing the temple. Rebuilding what neglect had hollowed out. Day after day, stone by stone. That kind of strength doesn’t roar. It breathes. And sometimes that’s all a person can do. Breathe. Whisper a prayer that doesn’t sound eloquent. Fold laundry when the heart feels numb. Sit at the bedside of a friend and hold silence instead of answers. Jehovah sees it. He calls it strength. Ecclesiastes says, “Better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for that is the end of every man, and the living should take it to heart” (Ecclesiastes 7:2). That verse unsettles us because mourning isn’t comfortable. It’s honest. It strips away the small talk. It reminds us of what lasts — and what doesn’t. At the house of mourning, you stop pretending that time is endless. You feel your own heartbeat and realize how fragile it is. You watch someone cry over a life that mattered, and you wonder if you’re living yours with the same weight. What if the house of mourning isn’t just a place of death, but the place where life finally becomes real? What if grief is the classroom where compassion grows — where you learn that being present in pain is sacred work? We don’t stay there forever. But we visit, because that’s where the noise dies down enough to hear Jehovah whisper, “I am still with you.” And then there’s that quiet reassurance in John’s words: “By this we will know that we originate with the truth, and we will assure our hearts before him regarding whatever our hearts may condemn us in, because God is greater than our hearts and knows all things” (1 John 3:19, 20). There it is — the heart that condemns. Not the world, not Satan, not critics — your own heart. That voice that says, “You failed again.” The one that keeps replaying your missteps until guilt drowns out grace. But Jehovah knows the parts of you that no one sees. The fight to keep praying when you feel unheard. The struggle to stay kind when the pain makes you irritable. The decision to open your Bible again when the words blur with tears. He knows. And that knowledge outweighs your self-accusation. The goal was never to win the race — only to finish it. Paul wrote, “I have fought the fine fight, I have run the race to the finish, I have observed the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7). That’s what Jehovah values — not speed, not spectacle, just a heart that keeps showing up. Even when you stumble, you keep running toward Him. Even when you’re wrong, you keep believing, like Job — still speaking, still reaching, still refusing to let go. Faith isn’t flawless performance. It’s holding on when you don’t understand. All those names in Scripture — Moses, Ruth, Jeremiah — they were just like us. Jeremiah called himself “a man who sees affliction” (Lamentations 3:1). They weren’t born into certainty. They walked it out, mistake by mistake, prayer by prayer. And the same God who steadied them steadies you. If the Bible were written today, it would tell the stories of faith being lived now — the quiet acts of endurance, the unseen faith that keeps finishing the race. But Jehovah already gave us enough. Every heartbeat of human faith is somewhere in those pages. And maybe that’s the real finish line — not the end of motion, but the moment you realize He’s been running with you all along. He doesn’t wait for perfect form. He matches your pace, keeps you in the race, and calls it victory just because you stayed. So breathe again. Even here. Because this ache — this quiet, trembling perseverance — is your worship. And He is already rewarding it. The Work Beneath the Ache.html

The Bible acknowledges the pain of unfulfilled longings. Many faithful ones have felt “yearning for a better place” (Hebrews 11:16, NWT). It can be difficult when our lives don’t match what we hoped for, especially when others seem to move forward while we feel stuck. Jehovah does not ask us to deny that pain — he keeps track of every tear (Psalm 56:8). Contentment, however, is something that must be learned. The apostle Paul admitted: “I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am” (Philippians 4:11-13, NWT). The word translated “content” (arkeo) conveys the idea of having enough to keep going, to be adequate for the situation — not having every desire satisfied. It means trusting that Jehovah provides what is truly necessary for today. True contentment is not about suppressing desires or settling for misery. It is about anchoring our peace of mind in Jehovah’s unchanging promise: “I will never leave you, and I will never abandon you” (Hebrews 13:5). That assurance allows us to endure while we wait on better circumstances — whether small improvements now or the complete fulfillment of our desires in the new world to come. So yearning itself is not wrong. But contentment grows when we shift our focus from what we lack to what cannot be taken from us: Jehovah’s loyal love and constant help.

A lightning bug drifts low over the grass, its glow blinking on and off like a lantern guided by an unseen hand. It hovers for a moment, then dips and lands on a leaf. Another spark, then a slow float to a nearby blade of grass. Another blink, another drift, as though the whole meadow breathes with its rhythm. Glitter and float. Glitter and float. In the distance, a storm gathers. The horizon flickers with lightning, far off at first, just a flash at the edge of the sky. The firefly glows again, softer than a heartbeat. Glitter and float. But the storm moves closer. A brighter flash, then another. Thunder rolls low. Soon the sky itself crackles, the great strokes of lightning overwhelming the little light. The firefly is gone, swallowed in the storm. And this is where our story begins — with a flash. Not of summer lightning, but of the entire universe itself. Scientists call it the Big Bang theory. The theory does not describe the instant of the bang. That moment — time zero — lies beyond our reach. The Big Bang theory begins after it. It starts with the first measurable sliver of time. The threshold is unimaginably small. But from there onward, physics can speak with clarity. This boundary is called the Planck time. Why does it matter? Because before this instant, our equations fail. General relativity explains the grand sweep of galaxies, quantum mechanics explains the subatomic flickers — but at the Planck time the two collide. The math collapses. Human physics stops working. We cannot say what happened before. But from the Planck time forward, the Big Bang theory holds. Evidence falls into place like pieces of a puzzle: the faint glow of the cosmic microwave background, the proportions of hydrogen and helium written into the stars, the rippling pattern of galaxies across the heavens. Not one find, but many. Together they sing the same story — that the universe has a beginning, and that from this smallest measurable instant, its growth can be traced with astonishing reliability. Yet Scripture goes further. It speaks of the One who was already there before time itself began. “From everlasting to everlasting you are God,” says Psalm 90:2. And verse 4 adds, “For a thousand years are in your eyes just like yesterday when it is past” (NWT). Jehovah is not bound by seconds, millennia, or Planck times. He created them all. He stands outside the limits of our equations, not just initiating matter and energy, but calling time itself into existence. Every Glimpse of Wonder™ is just that — a flicker. Tinier than a firefly’s glow, tinier even than a ten-duo-trigintillionth of a second. And yet each flicker is enough. Enough to remind us of the greatness of Jehovah’s creation, and of the timeless One who holds both the smallest instant and eternity itself in his hands.

Two lightning bolts strike. To Albert Einstein, this was more than a storm; it was a thought experiment that cracked open our understanding of time. He imagined two bolts flashing at opposite ends of a railway. To a person standing on the platform, the bolts might flare at the same instant. But to someone speeding past on the train, one flash comes first, the other a beat later. Which is correct? Both. Einstein’s lesson was that simultaneity is relative. Two observers can watch the same world and yet disagree on what happened “at the same time.” There is no single, universal, “now.” That’s a dizzy thought. We like to believe the universe keeps a tidy calendar, that its seconds march in lockstep like a parade. Instead, relativity shows us that time is elastic — stretched and squeezed depending on your point of view. But isn’t life like that? Two people sit in the same meeting. A kind word lands as encouragement for one, but it triggers an old wound in another. To one, the moment is filled with warmth; to the other, with pain. Same event, different timing inside the heart. Physics says simultaneity depends on where you stand. Experience, says the same. Take rainbows. If you and I stand shoulder to shoulder, we do not see the same rainbow. My rainbow is stitched together by drops of water aligned with my eyes, the sun, and the sky. Your rainbow is stitched by droplets aligned with yours. We can nod and say we’re seeing “the” rainbow together — but in truth, we’re not. Mine is mine. Yours is yours. We’ve explored that in depth before, in A Rainbow of Wonder: Understanding How We See Color. But here, the rainbow reminds us of something subtler: Jehovah is not just Creator of physics. He is Witness of perception. He knows what my rainbow looks like, and what your rainbow looks like. Each is personal — a covenant bent in light for the individual. And the reaction to that rainbow is just as personal. For me . . . I often pause in reflection . . . letting it register as a moment shared . . . between Jehovah and me. (Don’t worry, you will have your moments!) Sometimes I remember it is his reminder, a sign he placed long ago. But for most people, seeing a rainbow is pure awe. They’re not analyzing it — they’re lost in it. Or they’re thrilled, quick to share it: a picture, a shout to a friend, “Hey, look out the window!” Still, in that instant, their thinking is personal. Their rainbow is theirs. Let’s go back to our opening scene — the railway and the lightning. One brother blurts something sharp. You hear only the sting. Jehovah hears the sting too — but also the knot of fear in his chest that made him lash out. A sister breathes slowly, folding her hands, speaking with restraint. Jehovah sees not just her composure but the storm she silenced with prayer before she opened her mouth. A child laughs at the wrong time. You hear rudeness. Jehovah hears innocence and sees the ache it causes in another heart. From our seat by the tracks, events flare at once, or out of order, or not at all. But Jehovah sees not just what happened — he sees the frame of reference. He knows how trauma, fatigue, or discipline shaped each reaction. He reads the rainbow that only you could see. And if his vision holds us in these personal moments, how much more when he speaks of time itself? And that is where scripture steadies us. The apostle Peter wrote: “One day is with Jehovah as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day” (2 Peter 3:8, NWT). To us, time stretches or contracts, moments drag or vanish. To Jehovah, there is no distortion. His frame of time is perfectly clear. The prophet Habakkuk heard Jehovah’s reassurance: “It will not be late” (Habakkuk 2:3, NWT). To us, fulfillment may seem to stagger, promises may appear delayed. But Jehovah is never behind schedule. His timing is exact. And through Isaiah, Jehovah declared: “My thoughts are higher than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:9, NWT). To us, reactions are tangled, perceptions collide, motives get misread. To Jehovah, every angle is visible. His perspective rises higher than ours. So the wonder is this: Jehovah doesn’t just hold the cosmic master clock. He holds yours. He knows exactly why the lightning strikes looked simultaneous to you but not to your neighbor. He knows why the rainbow you saw was different from the rainbow another saw, and why both mattered. He reads your timing, your perception, your frame of reference — and he judges with perfect compassion. When you feel misunderstood, remember: “No creation is hidden from his sight” (Hebrews 4:13, NWT). He is not fooled by appearances. He knows why you said what you said, why you broke down or held back, why your “now” doesn’t match someone else’s. And still, he bends the light of his promises so that you can see a rainbow meant just for you.

“There is not a word on my tongue, but look! O Jehovah, you already know it well.” (Psalm 139:4, NWT) Have you ever sat in silence, unsure how to explain yourself? Have you ever swallowed a sob, too tired to pray? What if you knew that Jehovah already understood the word you could not speak? Before your lips move, before your mind can arrange a single phrase, Jehovah knows. He knows the fear that seizes your chest like iron. He knows the racing thoughts that will not be quiet. He knows the wound hidden in your silence. He knows. The world is quick to overlook, to shrug at suffering, to measure people by what they can produce. But Jehovah is different. Where others may dismiss you, he leans closer. Where the world sees weakness, he sees worth. His knowing is not casual awareness; it is tender attention. And if he knows this deeply, what will he do with that knowledge? He promises. “They will not cause any harm or any ruin in all my holy mountain, because the earth will certainly be filled with the knowledge of Jehovah as the waters cover the sea.” (Isaiah 11:9, NWT) Can you picture it — a world where harm simply ceases to exist? What would it feel like to wake up to that kind of peace? Could anything compare to a knowledge so vast it leaves no room for fear? Imagine Jehovah’s knowledge like a rising sea — wave upon wave, sweeping over valleys, cresting over ridges, touching every place. No injustice left standing. No wound left unattended. No cry left unanswered. But until the tide rises to its fullest, we still walk the shorelines of a broken world. Do you feel that tension — knowing what is coming, yet living in what still is? How do we endure in this in-between? Jehovah does not only promise; he acts. He strengthens. “And may you be strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may endure fully and be patient with joy.” (Colossians 1:11, NWT) Have you felt your own strength fail you? What if you drew instead from his glorious might — the very power that raised Christ? Would your steps feel lighter, your heart steadier, your spirit more at peace? His strength is not rationed in teaspoons. It is poured out according to his glorious might — boundless, immeasurable, eternal. Out of that strength comes endurance. Patience. Even joy. But does this really happen? Or is it just words on a page? Lives in Russia — Jehovah’s Strength Made Visible When you hear of Oleg Danilov, imprisoned for his faith, do you wonder how he endures? Could it be anything but Jehovah’s spirit that keeps joy alive in a cell? Oleg himself reflects on his grandparents and uncle, who faced persecution under the Soviet Union, and he says their joy under trial proves the power of Jehovah’s spirit. If Jehovah sustained them then — is he not sustaining Oleg now? And what of four brothers — Oleg Katamov, Aleksey Kuznetsov, Aleksandr Shchetinin, and Aleksandr Starikov — sentenced to six years in prison? Imagine the moment the gavel struck. Would your heart not tremble? Yet one recalls how the tools Jehovah provides — his Word, his people, his spirit — calm him under pressure. Another says, “Fear of Jehovah gives me strength.” If Jehovah steadies them behind bars, will he not also steady you in your daily storms? What about the families in Yaroslavl who watched homes invaded and property confiscated? Could their endurance come from anywhere but Jehovah? What about the 75-year-old brother in Chelyabinsk, sentenced at an age when most men can barely carry their own bodies? Is it not Jehovah who carries him still? When you read their stories, do you not feel the truth of Colossians 1:11 pulsing like a heartbeat? Human weakness meets divine strength. Promises become real. Endurance grows. Your Quiet Struggles Matter Too But what if your trial is not a courtroom or a prison? What if it is the heavy fog of depression that will not lift? What if it is the strain of bills that never match the paycheck? What if it is the quiet, exhausting labor of caring for someone day after day? Do these struggles matter less to Jehovah? Does he only strengthen in dramatic trials? Or does his power flow just as surely to the one who sits crying in a parked car as to the one who sits in a prison cell? If Jehovah strengthens them, can you not trust he will strengthen you? Drawing It Close So ask yourself — what if you truly believed this right now? What if you rested in the certainty that Jehovah knows, that he promises, that he strengthens? Wouldn’t your heart breathe easier? Wouldn’t your spirit rise? He knows. He promises. He strengthens. Always. “There is not a word on my tongue, but look! O Jehovah, you already know it well.” (Psalm 139:4, NWT)

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?

Snow doesn’t wait politely. It sweeps in overnight, stacking white barricades across the driveway, pressing silence onto the streets. And just when you’re tempted to sigh at the inconvenience, Jehovah leans down and asks a question that stirs awe: “Have you entered into the storehouses of the snow?” (Job 38:22). Picture it. Not shovels, not plows, not winter jackets. Picture vaults. Endless vaults. Each shelf lined not with sacks of grain or jars of oil, but with countless flakes. Fragile, crystalline slips, each one stitched differently. You could inventory them until your hands tremble and your hair grays, and still never reach the end. Scientists tried. Forty winters bent over a microscope, chasing flakes like stars fallen onto glass. Not once did they catch perfect twins. Can you feel it? Heaven’s reminder that variety belongs to Him. And even now, with satellites circling above and instruments piercing clouds, the journals still admit — the spark of freezing remains a mystery. How does a droplet hanging at minus forty suddenly harden into ice? That secret stays in Jehovah’s keeping. He tucks it away like treasure, reminding us: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways.” (Isaiah 55:9). So the next time the storm slows your steps, the next time pressures weigh on your chest like heavy drifts, pause. Catch one flake. Just one. Hold it before it vanishes. Ask yourself: If my Father crafts galaxies of variety in something so fleeting, what care must he weave into me? If he has storehouses for snow, what storehouse of mercy waits for my soul? He is not wasteful. He is not absent. He is here. Even in the snow.

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.

Jehovah will never force your hand. He speaks not with fear, but with a Father’s plea. Not with commands shouted from a distance, but with the nearness of one who walks beside you and whispers: Please choose life… for your sake. “What is Jehovah your God asking of you?” Moses asked the people — and then answered it himself. “Only this: to fear Jehovah your God, to walk in all his ways, to love him, to serve Jehovah your God with all your heart and all your soul, to keep the commandments and statutes of Jehovah… for your own good” (Deuteronomy 10:12, 13, NWT). For your good. Not his. What kind of God speaks this way? What kind of Sovereign, with unmatched power, refuses to coerce even a child? A God who is love. A Father who aches for loyalty — not out of fear, not out of guilt, but out of love returned. This is why he calls. Why he reasons. Why he waits. And when he speaks — it isn’t with thunder. He is close enough that we can hear him . . . whisper. Close enough . . . that we don’t have to raise our voice to pray. Close enough . . . that the words “This is the way. Walk in it” can reach us from behind (Isaiah 30:21). He bends low. He leans in. He comes near the brokenhearted — not to lecture, but to listen (Psalm 34:18). And sometimes, in our lowest moments, when even lifting our head feels too hard, his presence is so near . . . we don’t hear words. We feel them. “I am here.” “I see.” “I still want you.” What if we could feel that waiting? What if we could sense the moment his gaze softens, not because we’re perfect — but because we chose him again today? For many parents, this touches something deep. We long for our children to love Jehovah — not just to obey rules or follow routines, but to form their own heartfelt bond with him. So we guide. We model. We talk. We pray. But still — we must not control. Because love can’t be forced. Not by us. Not even by Jehovah. He has always invited worship, not imposed it. Even young ones must come to that decision on their own. And how precious it is when they do — not out of pressure, but because they’ve seen for themselves that Jehovah is worthy of their love. So we let go. Not of our love — but of our grip. We give them space to hear him whisper, too. Near the end of his life, Moses put it this way: “I take the heavens and the earth as witnesses against you today that I have put life and death before you, the blessing and the curse; and you must choose life… by loving Jehovah your God, by listening to his voice, and by sticking to him, for he is your life” (Deuteronomy 30:19, 20, NWT). What if we memorized that phrase — he is your life — and whispered it to ourselves when we were afraid? What if we trusted that letting go of control was the most faith-filled way to help our children fall in love with their Creator? What if every law was not a fence, but a hand stretched out in rescue? Jehovah will not trap us into obedience. He will not drag our children into love. He simply waits. He reaches. He whispers, Choose me… I am your life. And when we do, he rejoices. Quietly, deeply. He will not force. But he will never stop loving. ⸻ Reference: w23.11 21 ¶5; 23 ¶12