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Some say the blanket octopus is different from other octopuses because it has eleven arms instead of the usual eight. That’s not true — but honestly, if it did, that might be one of the least surprising things about it. Because the real differences? They’re far more astonishing than a couple of bonus limbs. Let’s start with what the blanket octopus does share with its relatives — the octopus family is already full of mind-bending wonders. Like others in its group, it has three hearts — two to move blood through the gills, and one to pump it through the rest of the body. And when it swims? That main heart actually stops beating. So the more it moves, the more quickly it tires. It isn’t built for speed — it’s built for stealth. Its blood isn’t red, either. It’s blue, thanks to a copper-based molecule that helps it absorb oxygen in the deep sea. Its brain is shaped like a doughnut and wraps around its throat — and most of its neurons aren’t in its head at all, but in its arms. That means its limbs can act independently, exploring and reacting almost before the brain checks in. Octopuses in general are clever — problem-solvers, tool-users, sometimes even tricksters. Some have been seen unscrewing jars, stacking coconut shells, or disguising themselves in plain sight. Oh — and yes, they have eight arms, just like the rest of the octopus family. That’s the kind of family the blanket octopus comes from — mysterious, flexible, quietly brilliant. But now we come to the real differences. Most octopuses, when threatened, have a go-to trick: ink. A sudden puff of dark liquid clouds the water, buying precious seconds to escape. It works as both camouflage and confusion — a natural smoke bomb in the sea. But the blanket octopus? It doesn’t produce ink at all. No smoke. No shadowy exit. Which raises the question — if it can’t vanish in a puff of darkness, how does it defend itself? Let’s start with the male — all one inch of him, fully grown and sexually primed. He’s a speck, barely visible, smaller than a paperclip. You could balance him on your fingernail. He has no chance in a fight. No bulk to scare anyone. No cape to unfurl. But what he does have… is a weapon. The male blanket octopus has been seen carrying the venomous tentacles of the Portuguese man o’ war — carefully plucked and held like electric whips. He uses them as a defense mechanism, waving them to warn off predators. Most creatures avoid the man o’ war at all costs. The male blanket octopus turns it into his personal stun gun. And incredibly, he’s immune to the sting. The female shares this immunity. She’s been observed using the same venomous tentacles — but not always, and not as her main strategy. She doesn’t rely on them. She doesn’t need to. Because she has a slight advantage over the male. She’s six feet long. That’s not an exaggeration — it’s the most extreme size difference between sexes in the entire animal kingdom. She can weigh 40,000 times more than he does. For years, scientists thought males were just babies because they were so comically small by comparison. But the female doesn’t just gain size — she gains spectacle. When she feels threatened, she unfurls her signature move: the blanket. Delicate sheets of skin stretch between some of her dorsal arms — shimmering like silk underwater. This feature is unique to mature females. With a sudden motion, she can flare them out like a cape, making herself appear twice her size. The “blanket” can ripple with vibrant reds, purples, and blues, catching and reflecting light in the open water. If that doesn’t deter the threat, she can detach the blankets and leave them behind as decoys while she glides away. And all of this — the entire display — takes place not on the reef, not near the shore, but in the open ocean, far from land or sea floor. The blanket octopus lives in the pelagic zone — a vast, drifting wilderness where almost no one is watching. One is small and dangerous. The other is large and dazzling. Neither has ink. Both have a plan. And Jehovah gave them exactly what they needed. Even their meeting is quietly remarkable. When it’s time to reproduce, the male uses a special arm — the hectocotylus — to transfer sperm directly into the female. In some species, including the blanket octopus, that arm actually detaches and stays with her, continuing its task even after the male drifts away, having fulfilled his purpose. She stores the sperm until she’s ready to lay her eggs — hundreds or even thousands of them — anchoring them in a sheltered place deep in the sea. And then, she waits. She protects them. She cleans them. She fans the water over them to keep them oxygenated. She never leaves. And most of the time, she never eats again. Her life — like his — is brief. The male blanket octopus may live only a few months, just long enough to mature, mate, and vanish. The female lives longer, sometimes up to three years, but her story ends much the same: she gives everything for the next generation. Not in defeat, but in fulfillment. When her young finally hatch, her task is done. And like the male, she dies — not in failure, but in quiet completion. A single lifetime. A single mission. And yet, it’s enough to continue a line that goes back to the beginning of creation. In Jehovah’s creation, greatness isn’t measured in size. The fully grown male blanket octopus could ride on the tip of a pencil — and yet, he’s equipped with one of the ocean’s most powerful defenses. His survival doesn’t come from bulk or strength, but from purpose. Isn’t that how Jehovah works? Quietly, precisely, and sometimes unexpectedly — creating beauty where we least expect it, equipping the overlooked with exactly the tools they require. If Jehovah puts this much creativity into a creature almost no one sees, how much more must He have in mind for you?

It starts green. You can try to eat it then, of course. Teeth squeak. Flavor’s not quite there. Feels like chewing a plantain with something to prove. But wait a few days, and the banana changes. The skin softens. A little sweetness creeps in. Those freckles start to show — first one or two, then a whole constellation. And just like that, it’s ready. According to modern health science, that shift matters more than taste. A ripe banana — mellow, yellow, and halfway slouching in the fruit bowl — is known for relieving constipation. It’s packed with soluble fiber that helps move things along. But eat it too early, while it’s still green and stubborn? That same banana can have the opposite effect. Its high starch content can actually cause constipation. One fruit. Two results. Timing makes all the difference. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “For everything there is an appointed time, even a time for every affair under the heavens.” (NWT) Most of us hear that and think big thoughts — life, death, heartbreak, healing. But sometimes it applies just as well to your intestines. Or your grocery list. Truth is, Jehovah built timing into everything. Not just fruit, but feelings. Decisions. Conversations. There’s a time to speak and a time to stay quiet. A time to hold back, and a time to take a chance. A time to reach for the phone — and a time to stop checking if they’ve texted you back yet. And if you try to rush any of those things, you may wind up just as knotted up as if you’d eaten the banana before it was ready. Now, no one wants to be the person explaining that to their doctor: “Well, see, I got impatient. It looked kinda yellow in the shadows…” But in all seriousness, it’s comforting to know that Jehovah understands ripening. He doesn’t judge a heart for being in-process. He waits. He works with time. Sometimes, he asks us to do the same — even when the waiting feels awkward, slow, or uncertain. So next time you see a banana on the counter, take a second look. Is it green with potential, or golden with promise? Is it ready… or just almost there? It may be a fruit bowl. It may be your life. Either way — trust the One who knows the time for everything.

You’re outside in the sun when someone calls your name from inside a dark garage. You step in—and for a moment, it’s like you’ve gone blind. But within seconds, the outlines return. A minute later, you can see almost everything. How? Light adaptation is just one reason the human eye stirs awe. In bright light, specialized cells in the retina adjust sensitivity by rapidly changing their response levels. Step into the dark, and other cells—the rods—gradually take over, boosting their sensitivity by regenerating a molecule called rhodopsin. But even more striking is how the brain gets involved. The pupils shrink or dilate, sure—but the visual cortex is also at work, recalibrating expectations and filtering noise as new input floods in. You don’t merely *see* again. You *adjust*, so completely and unconsciously that you forget you were ever blind in the first place. What if our spiritual vision could do the same? When we’re suddenly thrown into a dark experience, we might feel blinded. But Jehovah created us with more than just physical adaptation. He teaches us to perceive light even in hardship. Psalm 112:4 (NWT) says: “Light has flashed up for the righteous.” That light isn’t circumstantial—it’s spiritual. We can regain our footing because our Creator designed us to. We adjust, we wait, we keep seeking the light—and eventually, we see again.

We built towers that touched the sky. Then rockets that left it behind. We conquered gravity, crossed the void, and sent human footprints into ancient dust. We reached for the stars — and grabbed hold of the moon. And yet somehow, the greatest “wonder” wasn’t out there. It was here all along. Maybe it just took leaving Earth for a little while to finally see it. When the astronauts looked back — really looked back — they saw our planet with new eyes. Floating in a sea of darkness, Earth wasn’t just a home anymore. It was a jewel. A cradle. A shimmering swirl of blues and greens and clouded whites. So beautiful, it looked delicate. So complete, it seemed miraculous. Suspended on nothing… and spinning with life. They described it as peaceful, glowing, fragile — and impossibly precious. And for many of them, the moment of wonder didn’t come when they landed on the moon. It came when they looked back and realized what they’d left. Michael Collins, who orbited alone while his crewmates walked below, described Earth as “the only thing in the universe that has any color.” Edgar Mitchell called it “an overwhelming sense of oneness.” Bill Anders famously said, “We came all this way to explore the moon, and the most important thing we discovered was the Earth.” Isaiah 45:18 had already said it: “The true God… did not create it simply for nothing, but formed it to be inhabited.” Jehovah made this place to be lived in — not temporarily visited, not cautiously survived — but lived in with joy, balance, beauty, and meaning. And yet… somehow we forgot. We rushed to go beyond it. To escape it, outsmart it, leave it behind. And when we finally did — for three days or six or twelve — we came home in awe. What a “wonder” we didn’t know this already. Every feature, every force, every function — tuned by Jehovah with breathtaking precision. A breathable atmosphere — neither too thick nor too thin. Liquid water that flows, freezes, and floats. Rain that rises before it falls. A sun positioned just far enough to warm, but not scorch. A moon that steadies our axis like a silent partner in a delicate dance. Gravity strong enough to hold us — gentle enough to let us grow. Seasons that circle in rhythm. The water cycle that hydrates the soil and lifts rivers into clouds. The carbon cycle — steady and quiet — as plants inhale what we exhale and build themselves from the air. They drink in sunlight, draw down carbon, and give back the oxygen we need to breathe. Skin that heals. Lungs that stretch. Eyes that take in sunrise and tears. Bees that pollinate. Soil that remembers. Mountains that store snow. Oceans that churn nutrients from the deep. Colors that mean nothing to survival — but everything to joy. All of it — not just habitable. Beautiful. Not accidental. Intentional. Not just enough to live. Enough to love living. We talk about the “miracle” of spaceflight — but we wake up each day inside something far more miraculous. And the real tragedy isn’t that only a few got to walk on the moon. The tragedy is that billions walk this Earth without ever really seeing it. Without ever wondering who gave it to us… and why. Because we don’t need to orbit the planet to appreciate it. We don’t need a reentry capsule to cherish it. We don’t need a helmet to breathe here. We don’t need a rocket to reach awe. We just need a moment. A pause. A choice to look with new eyes. To acknowledge. To connect. It doesn’t take a space program to feel small — or deeply loved. It doesn’t take a pressurized suit to feel protected. It doesn’t take weightlessness to be humbled. Because right now — wherever you’re reading this — you’re standing on a planet Jehovah made with intention. One he filled with sights and sounds and living things. One he “formed to be inhabited.” One he made for us. That’s not sentimental. That’s scriptural. And once you see that — really see it — you can’t unsee it. So maybe the final wonder isn’t about what men did. Maybe it’s about what Jehovah has done. And maybe the real journey isn’t measured in miles. It’s measured in marvel. It’s a “wonder” we didn’t know this already. But we know it now. ⸻ Reference Isaiah 45:18 ⸻

It sounds like a sci-fi headline: Humans glow in the dark! But tucked behind the dramatic claim is a quiet, beautiful truth — one that most people have never heard. Japanese researchers equipped with ultrasensitive cameras set out to photograph something nearly impossible to see. Not heat. Not infrared. But visible light — light produced by the human body itself. And what they found is astonishing. Our skin emits a natural glow. It’s called ultraweak photon emission — not quite bioluminescence, but similar. This light doesn’t come from bacteria or glowing proteins. It comes from us — the chemical reactions of our own living cells. We glow most from our faces — especially around the cheeks, forehead, and mouth. And we glow brightest in the late afternoon. But don’t bother turning out the lights — this glow is a million times too dim for human eyes to see. Still, it’s real. And once you know that, it’s hard not to wonder… If we’re radiating invisible light all the time, what else might we be putting out that others can’t see? We speak kindness no one hears. We carry burdens no one notices. We pray quietly, act faithfully, and love deeply — often without visible recognition. But nothing is wasted. Jehovah sees what we can’t — including the hidden light in each of us. He sees our radiance. He sees our struggle. He sees when our internal “light” flickers or grows strong again. “Mere man sees what appears to the eyes,” but Jehovah? “He sees into the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7) So even if no one else ever notices… we still glow. (Image Note) This is a conceptual rendering of human bioluminescence. Scientists have confirmed that our skin emits ultraweak photon emission — a real but nearly invisible glow produced by natural cellular activity. This visual representation shows how that glow might appear if human eyes were sensitive enough to detect it. The warm light focuses on the forehead, cheeks, and mouth, where emission tends to be strongest. In reality, this glow is about a million times dimmer than anything we could see unaided — but it’s always there, quietly radiant.

There’s something quiet and reverent about it — when a horse finally lies down. Most of the time, they sleep on their feet. They can — by design. Jehovah gave them a built-in system called the stay apparatus — tendons and ligaments that brace their legs so they can rest without falling. That’s useful when you’re a prey animal. Grazing in the open. Light sleep, head high, muscles ready to flee. But for real sleep — the kind that brings dreams — the horse has to lie down. All the way down. And that doesn’t happen unless it feels safe. To enter REM sleep, the brain’s deepest rhythms need the body to relax fully. Not just the legs — the whole frame. No tension. No holding back. The horse has to stretch out or fold in. Chest or side to the ground. Breathing steady. Ears still. Vulnerable. If something feels off — if danger is near or the surroundings seem unsettled — it will stay standing. Sleep lightly. Wait. But eventually, the lack of real rest catches up. A horse deprived of REM sleep may begin to stumble, or collapse mid-step — not because it’s weak, but because it’s exhausted from the inside out. A strong body can’t carry a worn-out mind forever. And we understand that more than we like to admit. Some of us keep going because we think we have to. Standing watch. Carrying weight. On our feet — spiritually, emotionally, constantly. We try to convince ourselves it’s strength, but it’s often fear. A fear of what might happen if we actually let go. If we stopped trying to control the world around us. If we let ourselves lie down. But Jehovah knows the truth of us — and he says: “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, O Jehovah, make me dwell in security.” (Psalm 4:8, NWT) He doesn’t just allow rest — he creates the conditions for it. His peace isn’t just the pause between storms. It’s the shelter during them. The feeling of being watched over. Of knowing we don’t have to brace ourselves through every moment of life. That changes how we ask for help. Sometimes we pray for strength. But maybe, what we really need… is to feel safe. Safe enough to rest. Safe enough to surrender. Safe enough to lie down. And that doesn’t mean we stop being alert. Jehovah tells us to keep on the watch — but not like the world does. The world stays awake out of fear. We stay alert out of faith. We’re not pacing, panicking, flinching at shadows. We’re resting in our Shepherd’s field — eyes open, but hearts calm — because we know he’s the one keeping watch. That’s when real peace comes. Not because we’re done with the hard parts. Not because the system has changed. But because, in that moment… we trust him. And when we trust him — we lie down.

Long before rockets thundered into the sky, humans watched birds. We craned our necks, followed contrails with our eyes, folded paper planes, and built balsa-wood models just to see them float. One astronaut recalled getting his first ride in a barnstormer’s airplane as a child — a single loop around the family farm — and thinking this is it. That moment changed him. But flying wasn’t enough. Not forever. You can see it in their eyes — the men who became astronauts. Even before they wore the uniform, before they climbed into spacecraft or caught a glimpse of the Earth from above — something was already stirring. A hunger. A tilt of the heart toward something higher. “I wanted to fly,” one of them said. “As fast and high as I could.” And when Alan Shepard blasted off in 1961 — making more noise, going higher, and flying faster than any fighter pilot had before — those watching didn’t just feel impressed. They felt pulled. How do I get that job? There’s no denying it — politics got involved. So U.S. President John F. Kennedy stepped forward with a challenge — one that would shape the course of history. Land a man on the moon and bring him home, before the decade was out. Simple words — a staggering goal. It was as if someone pointed at the sky and said, “Build a ladder.” But somehow, we did. “We choose to go to the moon,” he said, “not because it is easy, but because it is hard.” Some laughed. Some doubted. And some just rolled up their sleeves. There’s something beautiful — almost irrational — about aiming for the stars with the knowledge that you might fail. The engineers and astronauts didn’t know if their machines would hold. Early Atlas rockets were blowing up more often than they weren’t. But they kept building. They kept learning. And one day, they strapped three men to the top of a Saturn V — a skyscraper filled with explosives — and pressed the button. The launch of Apollo 11 wasn’t elegant. It shook and groaned and bellowed. The engines ignited, and the whole rocket trembled like it had stage fright. One astronaut described it as a nervous driver trying to thread a wide car down a narrow alley. They weren’t even sure it would clear the tower. And then — it did. The rocket broke free — pulling against gravity, against fear, against the limits of what humans thought they could do. But why did they do it? Not to explore the heavens, or search for meaning, or honor their Creator. The space race was a contest of pride — a Cold War chess move played in the sky. Rockets were launched not to answer our deepest questions, but to prove whose flag could go higher. It was international posturing dressed as progress. And yet… even motives like that can’t erase the truth behind the action. Because when humans strive upward — even for the wrong reasons — it still tells us something: we look up. We imagine. We push. Not because the moon belongs to us, but because we can’t help wondering what lies beyond. And that wondering — that curiosity — is something Jehovah put inside us. “He has even put eternity in their heart…” (Ecclesiastes 3:11) Maybe that’s why so many wonder whether Jehovah’s purpose might one day include travel to other worlds. The heavens stir something in us. Not because we belong out there — not yet, anyway — but because the stars remind us of how vast Jehovah’s creation really is. The galaxies weren’t made for conquest — they were made to inspire awe. And today, as telescopes peer deeper into space than ever before, we’re only now beginning to see wonders Jehovah placed there long ago — not for us to reach, but to revere. What his future purpose for the stars may be, we can’t yet say. That yearning — that spark — doesn’t come from machines. It comes from the Maker of minds. The same One who designed Earth as our home also gave us the eyes to look past it — not from discontent, but from awe — and curiosity. When Apollo 14 astronaut Edgar Mitchell looked back at Earth, he described it as “a sparkling blue and white jewel” against the blackness of space (Awake!, June 8, 1971). That kind of beauty doesn’t just inspire science — it stirs the soul.

The label on the mint says sugar-free. The can of spray says fat-free. The cracker box boasts zero trans fat. Sounds healthy—until you read the fine print. Here’s the catch: In the U.S., if a serving contains less than 0.5 grams of something like sugar, fat, or trans fat, companies are legally allowed to round that down to zero. That’s right—trace amounts don’t count… as long as they’re tiny per serving. Take a “sugar-free” Tic Tac. It’s made with sugar. But because a single mint weighs just 0.49 grams, it stays under the limit. Voilà—sugar-free. Cooking spray? The serving size is “one-quarter second spray.” That’s not a practical measurement—it’s marketing. Powdered creamers, diet sweets, gum, even fat-free butter spreads—most of them play the same game. The trick? Make the serving size so small that you’ll never notice what adds up. It’s a clever use of math. Half a gram per serving times five servings is 2.5 grams of sugar or fat—but it’s still legally “zero” per label. Multiply that over a day or a week, and suddenly, you’re not quite sure what you’ve been eating. So what’s the takeaway? Labels are allowed to whisper zero… when they mean not quite. But there’s something comforting in knowing Jehovah never plays that game. His words are always straight. His promises never depend on fine print or rounded-off measurements. “Let God be found true, even if every man be found a liar.” —Romans 3:4 When He says something is pure, it is. When He says something is wrong, it is. And when He says He loves you? That’s not 0.49 grams of affection. That’s the real thing.

If you’ve ever joked that your snack habit is just “fuel for your brain,” you’re not entirely wrong. The human brain—though only about 2% of your body weight—uses roughly 20% of your daily energy, most of it in the form of glucose, a simple sugar. It’s the primary fuel for your neurons, which need a constant supply to transmit signals, form thoughts, store memories, and keep your entire nervous system in sync. So yes, your brain loves sugar. But not in the way that soda and candy would suggest. You see, the body doesn’t need added sugar to fuel the brain. It’s beautifully designed to break down complex carbohydrates—like whole grains, fruits, and vegetables—into just the right amount of glucose. That’s a slow, steady release of energy. Refined sugar, on the other hand, is like handing your brain a firehose when it asked for a faucet. Too much, too fast. That initial spike may feel like a mental “boost,” but it’s quickly followed by a crash. Over time, those surges can dull the brain’s sensitivity to insulin, a hormone that helps regulate sugar levels. And researchers now link chronic high sugar intake with brain fog, mood swings, and even memory issues. Still, it’s fascinating, isn’t it? The brain doesn’t store energy. It relies entirely on what we provide—and how consistently we provide it. So, if we’re serious about feeding our brain, maybe the best thing isn’t what’s sweet—but what’s wise. After all, “The wise one is cautious and turns away from evil, but the stupid one is reckless and overconfident” (Proverbs 14:16). That principle applies just as much to our diet as to our decisions. Overindulgence might feel smart in the moment—but wisdom thinks ahead. So the next time someone teases you for eating a banana instead of a candy bar, you can smile and say, “I’m feeding my brain. Just not frying it.”

First Breath, First Cry — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ (Part 9 of 9) — Everything has been leading to this. The lungs are primed. The heart is ready. The body is aligned. And then—after months of silence—a moment shatters the stillness. A cry. But how does it happen? As the baby exits the birth canal, its world changes instantly. Warmth becomes cold. Liquid becomes air. Pressure shifts. And in that moment, a cascade of events unfolds—flawlessly, automatically. The compression of the chest during delivery helps push fluid from the lungs, much like wringing out a sponge. As the baby emerges, the chest expands—and with it, negative pressure builds. Air rushes in. The lungs begin to clear. And just like that… breath. But it’s not just air entering. It’s oxygen. That surge of oxygen changes the chemistry of the blood, triggering the closure of the fetal bypasses—the foramen ovale, ductus arteriosus, and ductus venosus. Within seconds, the process begins—but full transition takes hours or days. The body flips from internal to external support in stages, with extraordinary coordination. And the baby doesn’t have to think about any of it. The cry that often follows isn’t just a sign of life—it’s a test of it. Crying helps clear remaining fluid. It expands the lungs further. It draws in more oxygen. And perhaps, just perhaps, it is the only appropriate reaction to the overwhelming shock of arrival. But let’s not miss what has just occurred. Can you hear it? In a matter of moments, a being that lived in water-filled silence begins to breathe air. A heart that routed blood around the lungs begins routing it through. The circulatory system reorients. Cells respond. Tissues adapt. The lungs, never before used, now become essential. And the brain? It has to adjust too. It begins regulating temperature, oxygen, feeding cues, and sensory input—all at once. The newborn body is thrust into a world it has never seen, never felt, never breathed… and it must survive. And usually—it does. Not because the baby knows how. But because Jehovah designed a system that does. Job 33:4 says, “The spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.” That first breath—drawn through tiny, trembling lungs—isn’t just a physical milestone. It’s the very moment when the unseen becomes undeniable. The womb gives way to the world. What was hidden… is now here. The cry marks more than just arrival. It is the voice of life itself.

We’ve followed the journey of a human life from spark to cry—from invisible instructions to audible arrival. And now, looking back, it’s almost too much to take in. Nine steps. Nine glimpses. Yet none of them tells the whole story. Not one entry could carry the weight of it all: the planning, the layering, the sequencing, the protection, the timing. All of it set into motion—not by accident or adaptation, but by love. Jehovah’s love. From the very beginning, that love wasn’t abstract. It was cellular. Anatomical. Biochemical. A system so thorough, so staggeringly complex, that scientists still haven’t finished describing it. And with each new discovery, one truth keeps emerging: Someone meant for this to happen. This wasn’t just biology. It was devotion. It was intention. It cost something. Because making a body isn’t enough. Jehovah made a soul—a whole, living person. Someone who could grow, feel, choose, reflect… and love. Someone who might one day choose to love Him back. So He designed the conditions. He orchestrated the timing. He safeguarded the passage. He prepared the lungs for breath—before they’d ever touch air. Before there was breath… there was love. And now, maybe for the first time, we’ve caught just a glimpse of it.

They even follow us camping. The lantern goes out, you’re zipped up in your sleeping bag, just starting to relax — and then it comes. That inevitable buzz in your ear. You swat at the dark, grumble under your breath, and wonder how something that small can be that annoying. And in the morning? You find out they’ve been eating you. But we’ll get into that in a future entry. Swatting, spraying, or stomping is often our default response. But maybe — just maybe — we’ve been overlooking some of Jehovah’s most generous workers. Researchers with the United Nations once published a report on how insects could play a major role in future food security. Not just as something to eat, but as pollinators, recyclers, protein sources, and even waste converters. One expert called them “nature’s solution hiding in plain sight.” Why would Jehovah choose something so small, so easily ignored, to handle such important work? Crickets, for instance, are incredibly efficient at converting food into body mass. They require twelve times less feed than cattle to produce the same amount of protein. They don’t release methane. They don’t need acres of land. And they thrive in small spaces — which makes them an ideal resource in areas where hunger is high and farmland is scarce. That’s why crickets are already being introduced into school lunch programs in parts of Africa and Southeast Asia — not as a novelty, but as a thoughtful, sustainable choice. But an even more efficient insect — the black soldier fly larva — rarely makes it to our plates. It’s edible, packed with nutrients, and capable of thriving on food scraps that would otherwise be wasted. Yet rather than eat it ourselves, we usually feed it to chickens. In fact, entire insect farms like Protix now exist just to raise black soldier fly larvae for livestock. And yes — that counts as farming. I’ve just never thought of bugs that way. But if raising them on purpose is what qualifies, then maybe those bread crumbs I never cleaned up from the picnic table? Put it on the résumé. Why would Jehovah design a creature with so much potential, knowing full well that most people wouldn’t want to look at it — never mind eat it? Jehovah’s provision comes in all shapes and sizes — sometimes with six legs and a job to do. Isn’t that just like Jehovah? Psalm 104 says the earth is “full of your creatures,” and it goes on to describe how Jehovah “provides food for them at the proper time.” He has filled the planet with life — and built into that life a system of giving, growing, and renewing. Bugs aren’t a backup plan. They’re part of the original blueprint. Some clean our wounds. Some carry pollen. Some break down waste so new life can flourish. And yes — some are even edible. Not as a dare, but as a design. Could it be that Jehovah wants us to rethink where we look for value? Could the “least” among creatures be the ones preserving life in ways we’ve barely noticed? It’s humbling to realize that Jehovah embedded provision not just into fields and trees and skies — but into the quiet corners, into the things that creep. The same buzzing nuisance that kept you up last night might be pollinating your breakfast. The beetle you brushed off your pants might be aerating the soil beneath your garden. Jehovah doesn’t need grand gestures to sustain life — just the quiet faithfulness of creatures doing exactly what they were designed to do. What if we judged less by what makes us comfortable — and more by what Jehovah made purposeful? He didn’t just create the big and the beautiful. He gave attention to the tiny, the creeping, the crawling — and built into them benefits we are only beginning to understand. He knew how to care for the whole earth long before we knew how to ruin it. What else might we be dismissing too quickly? What parts of creation — or even of ourselves — still carry hidden benefits Jehovah placed there for good?

It’s one thing to go somewhere no one has gone before. It’s another thing entirely to come back from it. When the astronauts of Apollo 11 lifted off from the moon, they weren’t celebrating yet. They had only left the surface. They were still a fragile craft orbiting a lifeless satellite, hoping that every component would hold together long enough to reunite with their command module pilot — and then steer home. Home. That word carried more weight now. After all the fanfare, the speeches, and the successful moonwalk, one question still hung in the air: could they actually return? The answer wasn’t automatic. A single malfunction — a faulty seal, a computer hiccup, a burned-out switch — and the entire journey would end as a story trapped in orbit, or worse, scattered as particles reentering Earth’s atmosphere. Because reentry is not gentle. The Apollo 11 capsule hit the upper atmosphere at over 25,000 miles per hour — more than 11 kilometers per second — faster than any human had ever traveled through air. At that velocity, the command module didn’t glide. It tore. It pushed against the atmosphere with such force that the air in front of it compressed and ignited. According to NASA engineers, the temperature outside the capsule surged to nearly 5,000°F. That’s hotter than lava — hot enough to destroy nearly any material known to man. But not this one. The capsule’s heat shield had a strange job: it had to burn, slowly and on purpose. It was made to ablate — a process of protective self-sacrifice. As it peeled away in layers, it carried the heat with it, casting off glowing fragments like embers from a divine forge. That was the design — and it worked. And then came the most astonishing part. Not a rocket. Not a brake. Just air. In the span of minutes, Earth’s atmosphere slowed the spacecraft from 25,000 mph to 300 mph — a 99% reduction in speed, using nothing but the resistance Jehovah built into the sky. The same invisible layer that lets birds fly, clouds form, and lungs breathe… caught a fiery capsule and slowed it enough for parachutes to take over. Three white canopies erupted into the sky — not for style, but for survival. From 300 mph to just 17 — soft enough for the ocean to catch. And when it did, the astronauts weren’t greeted by crowds or trumpets, but by the sight of gentle waves, a bobbing spacecraft, and blue skies above. And just like that, they were home. Commander Michael Collins, who had orbited alone while the others walked on the moon, said he never felt lonely. “I remember thinking, over there is every person I’ve ever known. Over there is all of human history. And here I am, on the other side. But not truly alone. Never that.” That statement echoes a deeper truth — one we don’t need a rocket to understand. According to Isaiah 45:18, Jehovah formed the Earth “to be inhabited.” Not the moon. Not space. Not some theoretical planet light-years away. The Earth — this round, blue, life-wrapped marble — is what He made for us. For all the grandeur of outer space, the moon never invited us to stay. And the astronauts knew it. They gathered samples, ran tests, admired the silence — and came back. Because their hearts, their mission, their purpose… was to return. That should tell us something. The Earth is not just a planet. It’s a place designed for breath, for beauty, for balance. A place that provides food, water, shelter, and joy. Even astronauts who weren’t especially spiritual often came back changed. One said, “I used to complain about traffic. Now I’m just grateful there are people around.” Another said, “We live in the Garden of Eden, and we don’t even see it.” We really are the only creatures who can look back on our planet and forget how rare it is. But space doesn’t forget. The silence out there reminds you. No air. No birds. No weather. No rainbows. No trees for shade. No rivers to drink from. No hugs. No laughter. Just math and rock and stars and questions. The Earth? It answers. So yes — it’s a “wonder” man returned to Earth. Not just because he could, but because Jehovah made it possible. He made this place — our place — worth returning to.

It wasn’t the launch that made people nervous. Rockets had launched before. We’d already sent satellites, dogs, chimps, and a few very brave humans into orbit. But what kept the world holding its breath this time was what came after the roar — when the engines shut down and the silence of space took over. From Earth to Moon is about 240,000 miles — give or take a few depending on the day. But the real distance wasn’t just in miles. It was in complexity. In courage. In math. They had to leave the Earth’s gravity and not miss. They had to sling through space along a path they couldn’t see, toward a target that was itself moving — all without brakes or second chances. The moon wouldn’t stop to let them catch up. It wouldn’t meet them halfway. They had one shot. And it had to be perfect. And somehow — it was. Three days in a capsule no bigger than a small camper. Three men sealed inside a floating question mark, being carried by momentum and mid-course corrections. The tiniest miscalculation could’ve sent them hurtling into deep space — or crashing back to Earth. And all they could do was trust the math. Trust the computers. Trust the people back home watching the blinking numbers on their screens. The rest of us? We watched, too — through grainy TV sets and radio broadcasts that sounded like they came from another planet. And in a way, they did. What we heard wasn’t speeches or headlines — it was telemetry. Heartbeats. Fuel levels. Angles and orbits. And silence. So much silence. Because after all the noise it took to leave Earth, space was quiet. And in that quiet, a tiny dot on a black-and-white screen moved closer to a goal no one had ever reached. That they even got there is a marvel. But the journey itself — the in-between — is its own wonder. Because space isn’t just empty. It’s exacting. Every thrust, every adjustment, every moment of stillness mattered. The universe doesn’t grant do-overs. That trip — that transit from one world to another — was a thread through the eye of a cosmic needle. And yet — it happened. Not by chance, but by design. Not by miracle, but by math. And that math? That ability to measure, to compute, to plan — it came from somewhere. Jehovah gave us minds capable of solving problems so vast they might as well have been written across the stars. (Ecclesiastes 3:11) But let’s not forget: this mission wasn’t born from humility. It was about pride. It was about politics. The moon race was a contest of nations — a Cold War between superpowers looking for proof of superiority. As the Awake! put it in July 1971, “National prestige was very much at stake.” Success in space wasn’t just about exploration — it was about making a statement. Planting a flag. Winning. Still, Jehovah knew what mankind could do when united — even for the wrong reasons. At Babel, he saw how far human ambition could go and said, “Nothing that they may have in mind to do will be impossible for them.” (Genesis 11:6) The Awake! continued: “Although man may have learned how to get to the moon, he still has not learned how to live in peace and harmony with his fellowman.” (Awake!, July 8, 1971, pp. 4–5) And that’s the paradox. Humans can reach the moon — but not each other. We can leave the planet — but still fail to love the people on it. That kind of course correction takes more than math. Even so, it’s a wonder. Not just that they made it — but that Jehovah allowed it. The God who formed the stars also formed the minds that mapped their way through them. And when human ability meets divine permission, it’s not surprising what can be done. It’s just breathtaking.

In the forests and savannas of South America, there lives a tiny, emerald-green bird no bigger than a thumb. It’s called the green-rumped parrotlet. Cute, chatty, and utterly unremarkable to most who pass by — unless, of course, you listen a little closer. While studying these birds in the wild, Dr. Karl Berg and his colleagues discovered something extraordinary. These parrotlets don’t just squawk or chirp — they name each other. Each adult bird has a unique, learned call that functions like a personal name. When a chick hatches, the parents don’t pass down their own signature sounds — they create new ones. Individual whistles are composed for each chick, who learns to recognize that special call as its own. Not inherited. Not borrowed. Invented — then learned. But it doesn’t stop there. The chicks don’t just receive a name. As they grow, they begin to use the signature calls of others — calling out to siblings, responding to their parents, even using their parents’ names. These are not random squawks in the dark. This is a system of recognition, belonging, and relationship. They’re not just talking. They’re calling out someone. “I know you. You’re mine.” And they answer in kind. The scientists were amazed. But should we be? This level of social intelligence — this careful, intentional exchange — was built in. Not evolved. Not random. Designed. From the moment we draw breath, Jehovah knows our frame. He sees not just a species, not just a crowd, but individuals. “I have called you by your name,” He says in Isaiah 43:1, “You are mine.” If birds can do this for their babies, how much more so our Creator?

You’re walking in the woods when something moves just off to the side. You didn’t *look* at it—yet somehow, you *saw* it. That’s peripheral vision. The human eye has a surprisingly wide visual field—nearly 180 degrees in total. While central vision is sharp and detailed, the periphery is tuned for motion and contrast. Specialized rod cells dominate this region, making it easier to detect movement, especially in dim light. But seeing motion in the periphery isn’t just about safety. It also helps with spatial awareness, navigation, and balance. Your brain fuses input from both eyes into a seamless panorama, alerting you to threats or changes without needing to turn your head. For those with vestibular disorders, like vertigo, peripheral vision can become overwhelming. Too much movement in the outer field can trigger dizziness or nausea. The very system designed to protect us can feel like it’s betraying us. But even this breakdown highlights the brilliance of the design. It works so well—until it’s disrupted. Spiritually, too, we need a kind of wide-angle awareness. Not just focusing on one task or issue, but watching how our choices ripple outward. Galatians 6:7 (NWT) says, “God is not one to be mocked. For whatever a person is sowing, this he will also reap.” In other words, don’t miss what’s happening at the edges.

Your eyes move faster than any other muscle group in your body. Each shift in gaze—called a saccade—lasts only milliseconds. Yet in that time, six tiny muscles surrounding each eyeball contract in complex coordination to point both eyes at the same target. That’s not easy. These muscles aren’t just moving in one direction; they’re balancing rotational force, managing speed, and compensating for the slightest head movement. Your brain performs calculations in real time—adjusting even for things you’re not aware of, like pressure changes or muscle fatigue. When something goes wrong—like with vestibular neuritis, a condition that affects balance—the coordination can fall apart. The eyes may drift or lag, making the world seem like it’s bouncing or spinning. Tests like the head impulse test can reveal delayed correction, as the brain struggles to command the eyes to lock onto a target. Still, most of the time, your eyes get it exactly right—hundreds of thousands of times a day. That kind of precision points to deliberate design, not random chance. Hebrews 12:2 (NWT) urges us to keep “our eyes fixed on Jesus.” In a spiritual sense, we need the same rapid correction—adjusting for distractions, anchoring on truth, compensating for internal or external motion. Like our literal eyes, we don’t stare blankly—we lock on. And we keep refocusing until our vision holds.

Out Where the Shield Grows Thin — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ — In 1977, two small spacecraft — Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 — were launched toward the edge of everything. They were never meant to last this long, nor to travel this far. Yet here they are, over 46 years later, still whispering faint signals back across billions of miles. They’ve left the planets far behind. They’ve passed through the invisible boundary that marks the outer limit of our sun’s reach. And now, they’re out in the interstellar deep — in places where the rules are different, the light is dimmer, and the protection we once had begins to fade. What protection? Earth has a magnetic field, of course. It shields us from solar wind and cosmic radiation, deflecting harmful particles that would otherwise fry our DNA. But that shield is just one layer in a much larger system — a system powered by the sun itself. As the sun burns and breathes, it constantly blows out a stream of charged particles known as the solar wind. This stream travels outward in every direction, pushing against the surrounding interstellar medium like an inflating balloon. The bubble it creates is called the heliosphere — a vast, egg-shaped zone of influence that surrounds and shelters all the planets. The heliosphere is not a solid wall. There is no bright line or glowing dome. But its presence is real — and so is its boundary. Scientists call the outer edge the heliopause, where the solar wind finally loses its strength and the pressure from interstellar particles pushes back. Beyond this lies something even stranger: a chaotic zone filled with magnetic turbulence, particle storms, and something NASA scientists are now calling a “wall of fire.” According to a June 2025 Scientific American report, both Voyager probes have begun reporting sharp, unpredictable shifts in particle density and magnetic field direction — even though they are now more than 15 billion miles apart. That wasn’t expected. If space were smooth out there, both probes should be detecting the same thing. Instead, it appears there are unknown forces shaping the edge of our solar system — perhaps folds, ripples, or even scars in the sun’s magnetic boundary. Voyager 1, despite being well into interstellar space, is still sensing “echoes” of the heliosphere’s pressure, while Voyager 2 keeps dipping in and out of a mysterious transition zone. It’s almost as if the boundary is alive — breathing, stretching, defending. Jehovah designed that shield. He’s the one who filled the sun with power and wrapped our little family of planets in a sphere of protection. Long before anyone called it the heliosphere, it was already part of the plan — another quiet safeguard wrapped around his creation. But even that outer shield isn’t permanent. Voyager is showing us that it thins out. Weakens. Fades. Like the strongest parents, like the tallest trees, like the best technology humans can build — it doesn’t last forever. Which raises a question: what if He does? In Isaiah 33:20, Jehovah is described as “a place of broad rivers and canals” — a boundary that no enemy can cross. Psalm 125:2 adds, “Just as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so Jehovah surrounds his people.” The sun’s magnetic shell is impressive, but it cannot forgive. It cannot decide. It cannot love. Jehovah can. And does. When scientists peer into the data from Voyager, they see a complex system of physics. But behind the physics — we see a person. Not in the stars. Not in the field lines or the wall of fire. But in the mercy that made them. In the patience that sustains them. And in the wisdom that will one day replace them with something better. Because the farther you go, the more fragile everything seems. And the more grateful we are — that Jehovah is not fragile. ⸻ Reference: Scientific American, “NASA’s Voyager Probes Find Puzzles beyond the Solar System,” June 2025 The Daily Galaxy, “NASA’s Voyager – Mysterious ‘Wall of Fire’ at Edge of Solar System,” June 2025

Some things are hard to unsee. Like the time a friend cracked open a protein bar and saw the word “cricket” on the label. He blinked. Read it again. Then quietly folded the wrapper back over and set it on the table like it was radioactive. “You going to eat that?” I asked. He shook his head. “You?” “…maybe.” There’s something about insects — even clean, cooked ones — that makes many people instinctively recoil. We know they’re edible. We just don’t want to. But that reaction isn’t built into us — it’s built into our culture. In some parts of the world, eating insects is as normal as eating fish. In others, it’s a challenge on a reality show. But neither reaction changes the facts: insects are sustainable, nutritious, and — in some cases — even recommended by Jehovah himself. Leviticus 11 lists a few categories of insects as clean. One verse says: “You may eat these: the migratory locust according to its kind, the edible locust… the cricket and the grasshopper.” That’s not a dare. It’s just a detail — tucked into a chapter about holiness and hygiene. And centuries later, Peter was told in a vision: “Stop calling defiled the things God has cleansed.” (Acts 10:15) That wasn’t about diet — it was about people. But the language is striking, isn’t it? When Jehovah calls something clean, it’s not our place to say otherwise. So what happens when cultural disgust collides with scriptural permission? Well — nothing, really. People eat what they eat. But it’s worth noticing how much of our reaction is shaped by habit, not truth. Today, crickets are being farmed intentionally and used in school lunch programs across parts of Africa and Southeast Asia. Not as a dare — but as a design. Protein-dense. Easy to raise. Affordable. It’s a thoughtful choice in places where thoughtful choices matter. In fact, crickets provide more protein per pound than beef — with far less feed and space. They don’t release methane. They thrive in small, sustainable setups. Jehovah built a food source into something we’ve spent most of our lives swatting. So no, you don’t have to eat bugs. You probably won’t. But it’s a little humbling to realize that if you did — you’d be participating in something Jehovah describes as clean. Eat bugs. Only kidding. Still — what else have we dismissed because it didn’t look right? And what can we learn about Jehovah from a design that still works… even when we squirm?

There’s a reason a swarm of bees can cause panic — and it’s not just the stingers. It’s the sound. That synchronized buzz, like a warning that something is happening — fast, focused, and entirely beyond your control. But step back. Watch longer. You’ll notice a rhythm. A pattern. A purpose. Bees don’t waste time — or space. Each one has a role, and together they build something astonishing: combs shaped with mathematical precision, hexagons that maximize storage and strength using the least material possible. Engineers have studied that pattern for years, trying to match its efficiency in everything from airplane wings to solar panels. It’s called biomimicry — when human invention tries to keep up with divine design. And bees are just the beginning. Termites — yes, the same ones that chew through your deck — are actually world-class architects. Without blueprints or verbal instruction, they construct towering mounds that regulate temperature, humidity, and airflow. Their colonies function like living cities. Inspired by this, scientists in Zimbabwe designed a shopping center that cools itself naturally, using principles learned from the humble termite. We think we’re so clever. But maybe we’re just observant. What does it say about Jehovah that He placed such ingenuity into tiny, overlooked creatures? What kind of mind equips an insect with the ability to sense airflow and adjust the structure it’s building — not with trial and error, but with instinct? Job 12:7–9 says to “ask the animals” and “the birds of the heavens,” and they will teach you. Even “the fish of the sea” can explain. But what if the greatest lessons are crawling just beneath our notice — quite literally? We don’t always see the ants planning. But Proverbs 6:6–8 tells us to consider their ways — how they store up in summer and work without supervision. What can we learn from that kind of forward thinking? Jehovah made these creatures not just to function — but to demonstrate wisdom in action. And without ever speaking a word, they teach. If we really paid attention, what structures — physical or spiritual — might we build better by learning from them? What systems in our life would improve if we worked like bees, planned like ants, or built like termites? Maybe being “wise-hearted” doesn’t always mean being loud, famous, or seen. Maybe it means doing exactly what we were designed to do — even when nobody notices. Because Jehovah sees. And sometimes the smallest builders make the strongest foundations.

You can smell it before you see it — that sour-sweet reminder that something has gone soft behind the fridge. Or maybe it’s the compost bin you forgot to empty. Either way, it’s not just gross… it’s active. But if you step back — maybe plug your nose first — something beautiful is happening. Decay doesn’t mean defeat. It’s actually the beginning of renewal. All across creation, Jehovah designed small, tireless workers to carry out one of the most humbling jobs in existence: breaking things down. Maggots, beetles, worms, and even flies — they move in when everyone else moves out. Their mission? To transform what looks like loss into life. Take the dung beetle. Most people picture them somewhere in Africa, rolling a ball of elephant dung across the savanna. That’s the image I had for years. But they’re not just out there — they’re everywhere. I only learned this recently: dung beetles live on every continent except Antarctica. They clean up after cows in Australia, help fertilize fields in Texas, and do their part in your own backyard — if you’ll let them. Farmers worldwide are grateful. Without dung beetles, pastures would be unusable and disease would run rampant. But Jehovah didn’t stop at cow pies and compost. He equipped some insects with an even more astonishing ability: to tackle toxic waste. Scientists at Wageningen University have studied the black soldier fly larva for years. These larvae don’t just handle leftovers — they thrive on manure laced with antibiotics, food waste contaminated with heavy metals, and even certain petroleum byproducts. Their bodies don’t hoard the toxins. Instead, they pass through, break down, or safely lock them away. In other words, they cleanse. Who else but Jehovah would build purifiers… into larvae? Most of us wouldn’t touch these insects, never mind thank them. But their digestive systems — and the microbes living inside them — are doing environmental damage control on a scale we’re only beginning to understand. Some researchers are even exploring how to use these insects to reduce pathogens in human waste — bringing dignity and sanitation to regions with limited infrastructure. Why design a creature for a place we’d never willingly go? Why build in beauty that works best in decay? Maybe because Jehovah sees value where we see mess. Maybe because He knows that not everything rotten is ruined. Ecclesiastes 3:20 reminds us that “all are from the dust, and all are returning to the dust.” That’s not a punishment — it’s a process. And He’s designed that process with renewal in mind. The things we want to throw away — the spoiled, the stinking, the spent — are often just waiting to be made useful again. Not everything that breaks down is breaking apart. Sometimes it’s breaking open. So the next time you wrinkle your nose at the compost bin or sidestep something crawling in the soil, maybe ask: What else have I dismissed because it made me uncomfortable? And what if Jehovah still sees purpose there?

There’s a reason why nearly every story ends with the characters heading home. That’s when the relief sets in — when the tension breaks, the dust settles, and you can finally exhale. But for those who actually went to the moon, the story wasn’t over once they arrived. In some ways, that’s when the danger peaked. The Eagle had landed. The world rejoiced. But the crew of Apollo 11 — and every crew after them — still had to pull off something far more delicate than the landing. They had to leave. That may sound simple. It’s anything but. Picture two men — tired, cramped, layered in dust — lying on their backs inside a module no bigger than a walk-in closet. Beneath them is the descent stage — spent fuel tanks and skeletal struts. And above them? A narrow capsule with a small engine that had never been test-fired in space. If it didn’t ignite, they’d die there. They were perched atop a spindly framework of metal, powered by a tiny ascent engine that wasn’t designed to fail — but also wasn’t proven to succeed. There was no rescue plan. No backup lander. No daring mission to go retrieve them. The physics didn’t allow it. The budget didn’t permit it. And the technology couldn’t support it. In the worst-case scenario, NASA anticipated that the lunar module might never fire its engine. So much so, they prepared a full protocol — later known as “In Event of Moon Disaster.” If the ascent stage failed, Mission Control would permanently cut communications — ending all contact with the astronauts. A clergyman would be called to commend their souls, following a ritual like that used for sailors lost at sea. It would be quiet. Unannounced. Final. According to the July 8, 1971 issue of Awake!, even cosmic radiation posed dangers NASA hadn’t fully anticipated. Their engineers called it “the greatest hazard of space travel.” The uncertainty of leaving the moon was so real that a speech was written for the President to deliver — in case they couldn’t get off the moon. You can read about it in our very first Glimpse of Wonder blog. A link will be provided at the end of this entry. That moment — when the countdown began for ascent — was quieter than liftoff. No crowd. No cameras. Just two astronauts hoping that a delicate series of switches, valves, and wires would behave. They flipped the final lever. The ignition command was given. The small golden ascent stage stuttered… and rose. Back on Earth, a room full of engineers and mission controllers didn’t cheer. Not yet. They waited. Waited for confirmation that it was actually working — that the angle was right, the thrust was stable, and the rendezvous would be possible. It was. Just barely. But it was. There’s something deeply human about the fear of being left behind. We all feel it — not just in space. It taps into something primitive. Something wired into our brains from birth. But there’s something divine about knowing — truly knowing — that you’re not alone, even there. “If I were to ascend to heaven, you would be there…” (Psalm 139:8) Some may scoff at the idea that Jehovah sees everything. That He would care enough to extend His reach to the moon. But to those who understand the Creator’s presence — not as superstition but as certainty — the entire event becomes more than engineering. It becomes evidence. Survival was not guaranteed by machinery. It was permitted. And even in the barren silence of the moon, Jehovah was not far. This wasn’t just a return to orbit. It was a delicate ballet. The ascent stage had to align just right with the command module — a fast-moving target overhead. A single missed calculation, a bent antenna, a broken signal — and the Eagle would float alone until its batteries gave out. But the connection was made. The rendezvous worked. The lunar module rejoined Columbia in orbit, and the men who walked on the moon came home. The lunar ascent engine had only one job — and one chance to do it. It worked. They were no longer stranded. And though the journey wasn’t over yet, it had been given permission to continue. ⸻ For more on the speech that was quietly prepared in case the astronauts couldn’t return, see: “The Speech That Never Was — Nixon’s Contingency Plan for a Moon Disaster” https://jwtalk.net/blogs/entry/23-the-speech-that-never-was-nixon%E2%80%99s-contingency-plan-for-a-moon-disaster/

There’s something oddly calming about wiping the dust off a leaf. It doesn’t make much noise. It doesn’t require a degree. And the plant doesn’t respond with a thank-you card or a parade. But in that quiet moment—just you, a damp cloth, and a stubborn layer of fuzz—you feel it: a sense of order returning. A little beauty restored. Something inside you exhales. That reaction isn’t random. Jehovah’s first assignment to humans wasn’t to build cities or name constellations. It was to care for a garden. “Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, and subdue it,” He said—have in subjection… And even today, in a cramped apartment or a cluttered home office, that ancient calling still stirs (Genesis 1:28). Science is only beginning to catch up. Studies now confirm that tending to plants—watering, pruning, repotting—can lower blood pressure, ease anxiety, and increase happiness. No wonder. We were made to interact with creation, not just survive alongside it. And houseplants, humble as they are, give us a way to do just that—without hiking boots or a hedge trimmer (1 Timothy 6:17). Some plants forgive easily. They tolerate the missed watering, the wrong window, the pot you never got around to upgrading. And in return, they grow—slowly, quietly, without applause. But not without effect. They soften sharp rooms. They anchor our eyes. They remind us that life, even in a little pot, is still life (1 Timothy 4:4). Maybe that’s why a peace lily in the corner can feel like company. Why a pothos trailing across a shelf can feel like progress. These green companions don’t just decorate our space—they stir something planted deep inside us, something old and good. A whisper from Eden. A nudge toward care, order, and peace (Isaiah 55:12). And it all starts with a leaf. And a little dust. And the time to notice.

Inspired by a riddle @Tortuga shared. July 7, 2016 The wind blew. Not a storm, not a gale — just one of those sudden, cheeky gusts that slips through the house when a door swings wide. The frame on the shelf wobbled. A photo of a little girl, maybe five or six, holding up a fishbowl with both hands and a grin you could hear. The frame fell. The glass bowl shattered. And Mary — Mary was the goldfish. She didn’t make a sound. She never did. But the silence afterward felt heavier than it should have. Heavier than something so small and orange and ordinary. That day, someone cried. Not for the cost. Not even for the mess. But because love, when it attaches itself to something tiny — a fish, a hamster, a turtle named Speedy — doesn’t measure in years or species or size. It just loves. Isn’t it something that Jehovah notices sparrows? (Matthew 10:29) Do you think He smiled once at a girl naming her fish Mary? Do you think He remembers? What if… the One who made the oceans also noticed the drop that held Mary? Just something to wonder.

The cornea has no blood vessels. If it did, your vision would be permanently cloudy. But how, then, does it stay alive? The answer is a fluid pump—built right into the cornea itself. Tiny endothelial cells along the back surface of the cornea form a living pump system that constantly moves water out of the stroma, the thick middle layer. Without this action, fluid would accumulate, scattering light and turning your clear window milky. It’s not just a matter of staying dry. The balance has to be exact. Too much dehydration, and the cornea becomes brittle and damaged. Too little, and it clouds over. So these pump cells maintain a razor-thin margin of precision, pulling just enough water out while letting nutrients come in from the aqueous humor. And they never take a break. Unlike some parts of the body that can repair or regrow easily, corneal pump cells are limited in number—and irreplaceable if destroyed. Imagine if we treated our spiritual transparency the same way. Are we letting in just enough nourishment—Jehovah’s word, loving counsel, upbuilding association—to keep our spiritual sight clear? Are we guarding against anything that might cloud it?

You may want to sit down for this one. The average human produces about 1.5 quarts — or 1.4 liters — of mucus every single day. That’s enough to fill a large soda bottle. And here’s the kicker: you swallow most of it. Yep. That drip from your nose? That tickle in your throat? It doesn’t just disappear. It’s working overtime — and then taking the express train down your esophagus. But mucus isn’t just some gooey nuisance. It’s one of the body’s most underappreciated marvels. Mucus acts like a biological flytrap. It’s sticky, stretchy, and surprisingly smart. It catches pollen, dust, viruses, bacteria, smoke particles — anything that doesn’t belong — and locks them in before they can reach your lungs or bloodstream. In fact, a 2020 study at MIT found that mucus can actually slow down or neutralize harmful pathogens, letting the body decide what gets absorbed and what gets tossed out. And it’s not just in your nose. Your eyes have a layer of mucus to keep them moist and clear. Your mouth and throat rely on it to coat tissues, trap germs, and move food smoothly. Your lungs use it to sweep out debris with little hair-like structures called cilia. Your entire digestive tract is lined with it — a slick, protective film that keeps stomach acid from eating you alive. Even your sense of smell needs mucus. Scent molecules have to dissolve in it before your receptors can detect them. So technically, you smell through slime. Romantic, right? Oh — and that thicker, stickier version that shows up when you’re sick? That’s phlegm — just mucus with more immune cells, ramped up to fight off infection. Think of it as mucus in battle armor. Gross… but glorious. So where does it all go? Mostly, you swallow it. All day. All night. Without thinking. And that’s the genius of it — this constant, quiet cleansing system that works behind the scenes, protecting you while you breathe, speak, taste, and move through the world. And it made me wonder… what else in us works like that? Our conscience comes to mind. It’s not flashy. It’s not something we show off. In fact, like mucus, we usually only notice it when it becomes uncomfortable — when we feel that inner nudge or irritation telling us something’s not right. But that uneasy feeling is a gift. Like phlegm in the throat, it alerts us to spiritual irritants — pride, dishonesty, selfishness — and gives us a chance to deal with them before they spread. When trained by God’s Word, the conscience becomes a filter — catching harmful patterns, softening harsh responses, even protecting relationships before they get infected. Hebrews 5:14 (NWT) says that mature people are “those who through use have their powers of discernment trained to distinguish both right and wrong.” That’s a mucus-level kind of maturity — silent, steady, and always at work. So the next time you sniff, swallow, or clear your throat, don’t cringe. Be amazed. Even your phlegm was designed with purpose. And your conscience? Even more so.

The moon had always been distant — a cold companion admired from afar. Poets described it, farmers relied on it, and children pointed toward it from their backyards. But no one had ever touched it. Not until now. Apollo 11 changed that. With fuel nearly spent and alarms flashing, the lunar module skimmed across the surface like a skipping stone. A boulder field loomed beneath them — ancient, cratered, uninviting. Neil Armstrong, calm and precise, scanned for a flat patch. Buzz Aldrin monitored fuel. Mission Control held its breath. When the call came — “Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed” — grown men exhaled for the first time in minutes. Some wept. Some prayed. It wasn’t just an arrival — it was a crossing. A threshold had been breached. Man was no longer just looking at the moon. He was standing on it. And yet, even there — on dust untouched by any life but Jehovah’s — the first human impulse was not to conquer. It was to marvel. Before stepping outside, they paused for something surprisingly mundane: breakfast. The first food ever eaten on the moon? Bacon. Not the sizzling, pan-fried kind, but thermostabilized bacon squares, compact and cold. They weren’t fooling themselves — this wasn’t a picnic. But in its own quiet way, it grounded them. A familiar ritual in a place where nothing was familiar. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. One of mankind’s most extraordinary mornings… began with one of Earth’s most ordinary. Neil stepped down the ladder slowly. The world watched. More people witnessed that single step than had ever watched anything before. And with careful, poetic control, he said it: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” But those watching didn’t feel triumphant. They felt hushed. Humbled. It was as if all of Earth had collectively whispered: We’re not alone. The astronauts were far from casual tourists. Every movement was rehearsed. Every moment was borrowed from a thin window of breathable air and limited battery power. They were professionals — but even they couldn’t help pausing to admire the view. The moonscape was like a desert with no beginning, no wind, no color — just sharp shadows and silence. Aldrin called it “magnificent desolation.” Fitting. From Earth, the moon had always seemed smooth. Up close, it was anything but. Craters, ridges, and powdery regolith covered everything. Lunar dust clung to suits like charcoal — fine as talc but unshakable. The American flag was planted — not to claim territory, but to signal: we made it. This happened. And before resuming their checklist, Buzz took a moment to acknowledge the Creator. Not just the success of the mission — but the invisible framework that made it possible. Gravity, orbital mechanics, engine thrust, trajectories, pressure seals — none of it worked by chance. It all obeyed fixed laws — laws Jehovah Himself established when He formed the heavens and the earth. In that quiet moment, standing on another world, the overwhelming feeling wasn’t pride. It was gratitude. Reverence. A deep awareness that without the Creator’s precision, they never could have made it off the launch pad — let alone land on the moon. Was Jehovah watching? Of course. As one astronaut later said: If I had blown out that window, I’d have been gone in a second. Death was an inch away. And yet — I felt no fear. I felt… awe. Mission Control had their rules. Alarms had thresholds. Timers clicked down to fuel cutoffs. One minute longer, and Armstrong might have been ordered to abort. But he didn’t. Not out of rebellion — but because he saw what was ahead. A safe place. Just beyond the rocks. It took extra fuel to get there, but they made it. Just barely. One of the team later admitted: We were 60 seconds from having to call it off. But we didn’t. He landed it. He did — but only because Jehovah allowed it. The moon hadn’t changed. It was the same body suspended in space by God’s hand. And the Earth — seen now from the moon’s surface — hung silently in the blackness, vibrant and whole. A blue and white sphere, cradled by nothing. As Job described: He stretches out the northern sky over empty space, suspending the earth upon nothing (Job 26:7). Never had that scripture looked more literal. Even scholars have acknowledged the verse as “a remarkable vision” — especially for its time. According to Awake! (October 22, 2001), the Bible’s image of the Earth suspended in space reflects an understanding far ahead of ancient science. And now, thanks to a few brave astronauts, we’ve actually seen it. And perhaps no photograph has ever captured humanity so completely as the one taken by astronaut Michael Collins, alone in lunar orbit while his crewmates walked below. From his vantage point, he looked back and framed the Earth in his lens. Other than himself, and the two men on the moon, every living person was in that shot — every country, every city, every life. It was a picture of home… and of just how small it really is. And for a moment, humanity touched that nothing — and found it real.

Heart of the Matter — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ (Part 8 of 9) — The human heart starts beating just three weeks after conception. Before the brain forms. Before the limbs take shape. Before the mother even knows she’s pregnant… a tiny pulse begins. But what begins as a flicker becomes a thunderous transformation. Inside the womb, the baby’s heart doesn’t function like yours does. Not yet. It’s running a temporary, alternate design—tailored for a world where lungs don’t breathe air. Blood must bypass the lungs, which are still developing and filled with fluid. So Jehovah designed a clever workaround: three special shunts, or detours, that reroute blood through the fetal body. The most famous is the foramen ovale—a small flap-like opening between the right and left atria of the heart. It allows oxygen-rich blood from the placenta to flow directly from one side of the heart to the other, skipping the lungs entirely. Then there’s the ductus arteriosus, a temporary vessel that connects the pulmonary artery (which normally sends blood to the lungs) directly to the aorta (which sends it to the body). This helps ensure that most blood flows through the body without detouring to the non-functioning lungs. And finally, the ductus venosus channels oxygen-rich blood from the umbilical vein directly to the heart, bypassing the liver’s filtration system, which isn’t fully online yet. All of this means blood is distributed precisely—prioritizing oxygen to the brain and heart, even in the womb. But here’s what’s astonishing: this isn’t just a patchwork system. It’s a temporary operating mode. These detours are designed to shut down. And they do—within moments of birth. The moment the baby takes its first breath, pressure in the lungs drops. Blood flows in. Oxygen levels rise. These changes trigger an internal switch. The foramen ovale begins to close. The ductus arteriosus constricts and seals. The ductus venosus fades from use. All three fetal bypasses are phased out, often within hours or days. Eventually, they leave only tiny remnants—evidence that this backup system once ran the show. If any one of these fails to close, serious problems can occur. And yet… in most births, they do. Perfectly. Automatically. No surgery. No technician. No reboot. Who wrote that code? Psalm 104:24 says, “How many your works are, O Jehovah! You have made all of them in wisdom.” The human heart—especially in its fetal form—is one of the most intricate displays of that wisdom. It’s not just a pump. It’s a system that anticipates change. That runs in one mode before birth and flips to another at just the right time. What kind of mind prepares a heart to beat one way… and then change completely, the moment it meets the world? Jehovah didn’t just give us life. He gave us the ability to transition into it.

Have you ever hit your “funny bone”? If so, you know it’s anything but funny. That sudden jolt of tingling pain shoots down your arm, stopping you mid-sentence and stealing your breath away—like some invisible prankster jabbed a lightning rod into your elbow. But here’s the twist: it’s not even a bone. The so-called funny bone is actually the ulnar nerve, and it runs just under the skin at your elbow, right near the humerus—the upper arm bone. That’s where the pun comes in: humerus, humorous. A clever wordplay. But for anyone who’s knocked it against a table edge or car door, it’s a punchline that doesn’t land. Still, think about what’s happening beneath the surface. That little nerve runs from your neck, past your elbow, all the way into your hand—serving your ring and pinky fingers. Its exposure at the elbow makes it vulnerable… but also a marvel. And that zap you feel when you bump it? That’s not electricity—it’s your ulnar nerve being compressed. Unlike most nerves that are cushioned deep inside your body, the ulnar nerve passes through a shallow groove near your elbow, just under the skin. So when it gets struck or pinched, your brain interprets the sudden pressure as a burst of intense sensation—sometimes sharp, sometimes tingling, often unpleasant. It feels like electricity, but it’s really your nervous system doing its job… loudly. Like the others, the ulnar nerve carries signals that let us feel touch, temperature, and texture, especially in the pinky and part of the ring finger. These nerves also work together in a deeper way—contributing to our sense of proprioception, the awareness of where our body parts are without needing to see them. That built-in awareness—being able to find our hand in the dark or adjust our grip without thinking—speaks to a design that is quiet, intelligent, and purposeful. While the ulnar nerve runs along the inside of the arm and controls much of the pinky and ring fingers, it’s not working alone. Two other major nerves help complete the hand’s coordination. The median nerve travels down the center of the forearm and passes through the carpal tunnel in the wrist—a narrow passage formed by bones and ligaments—before reaching the thumb, index, middle, and part of the ring finger on the palm side. The radial nerve runs along the back of the arm, branching out to extend the wrist and fingers and provide sensation to the back of the hand. But among the three, it’s the ulnar nerve—unprotected and placed so near the surface—that demands our attention most dramatically. It reminds us, often with a jolt, just how finely tuned our body’s design really is. So while all three nerves deserve credit, it’s the ulnar nerve, tucked just beneath the skin and easily overlooked, that stands out. When it’s not playing tricks at the elbow, it’s doing something remarkable: connecting us to the world with grace and precision. Not humorous—but humbling. A small voice in the body that quietly reveals Jehovah’s thoughtful craftsmanship. The apostle Paul once wrote that “God composed the body” in a way that gives even our less glamorous parts special care. (1 Corinthians 12:24) We humans might find a play on words between humerus and humorous, but what truly deserves our awe is the craftsmanship behind it all. The structure of the arm, the path of the ulnar nerve, and the body’s ability to send warning signals—these weren’t built for laughs. They were built for life. And every detail points to a Creator whose care runs deeper than even our nerves.

It’s easy to admire a dahlia from the top down. Stand in any late-summer garden and they’ll stop you in your tracks — a riot of color, shape, and surprise. Some look like firecrackers in full explosion. Others, delicate tea saucers arranged by a very fussy bee. Petals fold in layers or spike out wildly, as if the flower just couldn’t decide what mood it was in when it bloomed. Ivory, peach, blood orange, deep violet, even nearly black — all glowing like stained glass under sunlight. But tug gently at the stem — and you’re in for a surprise. Beneath all that showy beauty is a thick, knobby tuber. Looks a little like a sausage got lost in the garden. Or maybe a cluster of fat toes. Not exactly a crowd-pleaser — until you realize that every bit of brilliance above the ground was fed by that lumpy thing under it. And it gets better: you can eat it. That’s right — long before the dahlia made its way into wedding bouquets and prize-winning garden shows, it was growing wild in the mountains of Mexico and Guatemala. And back then? It wasn’t a flower. It was food. The Aztecs roasted dahlia tubers. Spanish botanists classified them as vegetables, because they were edible — starchy, crunchy, with a flavor somewhere between a potato and a radish. (Some say with a hint of apple. Depends on who you ask. And what kind of dahlia you’re chewing.) To this day, the dahlia’s underground portion stores water and nutrients — helping it survive dry seasons and re-grow year after year. And while seeds do exist, most gardeners skip them. Seeds don’t guarantee anything. You want predictable beauty? You plant a tuber. That’s the anchor. That’s the food source. That’s where the life comes from. And maybe that’s the wonder. Because despite the hundreds of varieties — tall and short, spotted and solid, stiff and flowing — they all work the same way. Every bloom draws its life from the same type of root. Doesn’t that sound familiar? Look around your congregation — or a convention crowd — and you’ll see a garden of every shape and shade. Sisters in sunhats. Brothers in wheelchairs. Elders from the islands, pioneers from the mountains, and newly baptized teens with shy smiles and wrinkled suits. Every single one of them a bloom. Different in appearance. Different in experience. But all of them fed by the same source — the arrangement Jehovah put in place. It doesn’t matter whether we came into the truth on a college campus or through a prison Bible study. Whether we were raised around spiritual things or stumbled into the Kingdom Hall holding a cigarette and a question. We’re all drawing nourishment from the same provision — the faithful and discreet slave (Matthew 24:45), delivering food at the proper time. Not a hundred versions of the truth. Not personalized arrangements for different climates or cultures. One root system — feeding all of us. The same talks, the same magazines, the same Bible, the same hope. And look at the beauty that springs from it. Dahlias bloom late in the season — right about the time other flowers are calling it quits. As the air begins to shift and gardens grow quiet, dahlias keep going — throwing color into the cooling world like they were saving the best for last. A final burst of brilliance before the frost. It doesn’t need a metaphor. It’s beautiful enough on its own. But maybe next time you see a dahlia — or better yet, plant one — think about what’s happening below the soil. The bloom catches the eye, but it’s what’s hidden that makes it all possible. And in a way, the beauty we see in our brothers and sisters, and in Jehovah’s organization as a whole, isn’t about drawing attention to itself — it reflects the One who feeds it. The faithful and discreet slave delivers the food. Jehovah provides the life. And the bloom — every act of faith, every spiritual victory, every display of unity — magnifies Him.

While commonly referred to in some circles as the “Elvis Presley shield bug,” the actual species in question is Catacanthus incarnatus (Kat-uh-KAN-thus in-kar-NAH-tus), also known as the man-faced stink bug. This rare giant shield bug has captured imaginations with its unique markings that resemble a human face. For some observers, these markings evoke the eyes, nose, and iconic hairstyle of Elvis Presley, while others see something completely different. Regardless of interpretation, this insect’s design is fascinating. A Rare Find in the Bug Kingdom The man-faced stink bug (Catacanthus incarnatus (Kat-uh-KAN-thus in-kar-NAH-tus)) is not only unique for its markings but also for its wide distribution. Found in tropical and subtropical regions across Madagascar, India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Thailand, China, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Papua New Guinea, New Caledonia, Japan, and South Korea, this bug thrives in warm climates. Shield bugs, in general, are part of the Pentatomidae (Pen-tah-TOM-ih-dee) family, known for their protective, shield-like backs. The man-faced stink bug stands out due to its size and the distinctive pattern on its carapace. Markings Fit for a King The most striking feature of this insect is, of course, the black markings on its back. With a little imagination, the pattern forms a human face—complete with eyes and a nose—leading to its nickname. Some have likened these markings to the face of Elvis Presley, while others see a resemblance to fictional characters like Bert from Sesame Street. Entomologists believe these markings are part of Jehovah’s thoughtful provision for protection, as their appearance may confuse predators. This demonstrates the ingenuity of the systems Jehovah put in place to preserve His creations. How Did a Southeast Asian Bug Get a Celebrity Nickname? The name “Elvis Presley shield bug” reflects the influence of global pop culture. Although there’s no officially recognized species named after Elvis Presley, the resemblance of the markings to his iconic look inspired the informal nickname. This kind of cultural naming trend isn’t unusual. For example, a gall wasp has been named Preseucoela imallshookupis (Pre-sue-COE-luh i-mall-SHOOK-uh-pis), a nod to Elvis’s famous song “All Shook Up.” Similar practices include naming a trilobite Norasaphus monroeae (Nor-uh-SAY-fus mon-ROE-ay) after Marilyn Monroe and a beetle Grouvellinus leonardodicaprioi (Grov-eh-LINE-us lee-oh-NARD-oh-dee-CAP-ree-oh-eye) after Leonardo DiCaprio. These names bridge the worlds of science and pop culture, making fascinating species more relatable to the public. Elvis, Bert, or a Masterpiece of Creation? Whether you see Elvis, Bert, or simply an artistic masterpiece, the man-faced stink bug serves as a reminder of the endless variety and ingenuity in creation. Its intricate patterns, protective features, and vital role in its ecosystem highlight the thoughtfulness behind all living things. Jehovah’s Creativity in the Details The man-faced stink bug is yet another testament to Jehovah’s creativity. Its intricate markings, protective adaptations, and vital role in its ecosystem reflect the incredible diversity of life on Earth. As Job 12:7-9 says: “But ask, please, the animals, and they will instruct you; Also the birds of the heavens, and they will tell you. Or give consideration to the earth, and it will instruct you; And the fish of the sea will declare it to you. Who among all these does not know That the hand of Jehovah has done this?” This small insect, with its striking design, reminds us of the wisdom and artistry that Jehovah has imbued in all living things. Sources 1. Wikipedia: Information on Catacanthus incarnatus (Kat-uh-KAN-thus in-kar-NAH-tus) (Man-Faced Stink Bug). 2. National Geographic: Adaptations of tropical insects. 3. Journal of Entomology: Mimicry in shield bugs. 4. Encyclopedia of Rainforest Biodiversity: Habitat and behavior of shield bugs. 5. New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures: Job 12:7-9.

The Breath Before the Breath — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ (Part 7 of 9) — A baby’s first breath is a moment we celebrate. Cameras flash. Applause erupts. Tears flow. But long before that air ever fills the lungs, the body is preparing—in ways we’re only beginning to understand. Inside the womb, a baby does not breathe air. Oxygen arrives through the umbilical cord, carried in the mother’s blood, passed through the placenta. The lungs? For now, they’re closed for business. And yet, they are far from idle. Around the 10th week of pregnancy, the lungs begin filling with fluid. Not amniotic fluid, but a special liquid produced by the baby itself—rich in proteins, growth factors, and hormones. This fluid expands the airways, shapes the alveoli (tiny air sacs), and keeps the lungs inflated. It’s like blowing up balloons gently over time so they’ll be ready for the big day. Then come the breathing motions—yes, actual breaths. Even though no air enters, the baby practices. These movements are slow and irregular at first but grow more coordinated as time passes. They help develop the diaphragm and chest muscles and prepare the lungs to one day inflate. But they do more than that. These “practice breaths” stir amniotic fluid, signal readiness, and even impact brain development. Still, the most remarkable preparation happens in the final weeks. Just before birth, the lungs begin releasing a signal—a protein called surfactant protein A (SP-A). It doesn’t help the baby breathe yet. Instead, some research, particularly in animal studies, suggests it triggers something astonishing: labor. That’s right. When the baby’s lungs are mature enough, they may send a message to the mother’s body… “I’m ready.” The signal travels through the amniotic fluid, sparking inflammation in the uterus that leads to contractions. In other words, the baby may announce its own arrival. Surfactant itself is another miracle. It lines the alveoli, reducing surface tension so they don’t collapse when the baby exhales. Without it, the first breath would be nearly impossible. Preterm babies often struggle because their lungs haven’t produced enough surfactant yet. But in most full-term births, Jehovah has timed it perfectly: just enough, just in time. What’s more, in the hours and days before labor, hormones begin absorbing the lung fluid. Some of it is swallowed. Some is pulled into the lymphatic system. The rest is squeezed out during birth, especially in vaginal deliveries. By the time the baby enters the world, the lungs are empty and primed—like a dry sponge, ready to soak in life’s first breath. Ecclesiastes 11:5 reminds us: “Just as you do not know how the spirit operates in the bones of the baby in the womb of a pregnant woman, so you do not know the work of the true God.” And indeed, this silent choreography—the practice, the signaling, the transformation—unfolds entirely out of view. The breath before the breath is unseen. But it is no less miraculous. It is preparation without applause. A whisper before the roar.

Silent Witnesses — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ (Part 6 of 9) — Inside the womb, a child develops in secret. No breath. No sound. And yet… not alone. From the earliest days of pregnancy, a complex conversation begins between mother and child. Not with words or thoughts, but with molecules. Proteins. Signals. Each one sent and received in precise timing. Some of these silent exchanges are expected—hormones that help the placenta grow, blood vessels that dilate to increase oxygen flow, antibodies that cross into the baby’s bloodstream for protection. But others? They’re only just being discovered. And they’ve changed the way science views pregnancy. One of the most remarkable discoveries is that of microchimerism—a phenomenon where cells from the baby enter the mother’s bloodstream… and stay there. Not just during pregnancy. Not just for months. Sometimes for decades. Tiny fetal cells have been found in a mother’s heart, brain, lungs, and even her skin—long after the child is born. Some scientists believe these cells may help repair maternal tissue, like stem cells sent from within. Others think they may influence the mother’s immune system, offering protection or, in rare cases, confusion. Whatever their role, one thing is clear: a mother is never quite the same after carrying a child. She doesn’t just remember them in her heart. She carries pieces of them in her body. And it goes both ways. Cells from the mother also cross into the fetus, training the baby’s immune system not to attack its own mother. This process—called immune tolerance—is part of why the baby’s body doesn’t reject her, even though it recognizes her cells as “other.” It’s not just biological—it’s peaceful coexistence, written into our chemistry. Other silent witnesses include exosomes, tiny packages of RNA and protein that pass messages between placenta and parent. These nanoscale couriers help regulate inflammation, influence maternal metabolism, and may even prepare the mother’s brain for the demands of caregiving. Some studies suggest placental signals may contribute to a mother’s sense of attachment—her desire to protect and nurture—even before she’s aware of the baby’s presence. And incredibly, the placenta itself may act as an interpreter. It reads the baby’s needs, translates them into hormonal cues, and broadcasts those needs into the mother’s body. If the baby is under stress, the placenta adjusts. If nutrients are low, it modifies absorption. If danger looms, it sends alerts. All of this happens without a single conscious thought. It’s instinct. But it’s not primitive—it’s precise. Targeted. Designed. Isaiah 49:15 asks, “Can a woman forget her nursing child?” Biologically, the answer may be no. Her body remembers. Her blood remembers. Her brain is rewired. Her very tissues bear the imprint of the child she carried—even if that life was brief. There is no such thing as a “former” mother. Once the womb has spoken, its messages echo forever. Silent witnesses, still speaking.

A Glimpses of Wonder Entry There’s something strange happening out there, and it’s not hiding in the woods or floating past Saturn. It’s closer. Much closer. In fact, it’s lodged right between a headline and a hashtag. It’s the kind of thing you hear when someone leans forward and says with great conviction, "This is the first time this has happened since the last time it happened." Well. Stop the presses. We used to reserve the word “first” for fire, flight, and falling in love. Now it gets tossed around like free mints at the counter. First snow since last month’s snow. First time that team has won at home in a red jersey on a Thursday in over a year. First Tuesday since last Tuesday. We are drowning in firsts that are not firsts. It’s like we got bored with real wonder and decided to start spray-painting the word AMAZING on yesterday’s leftovers. Let’s rewind a bit. Imagine the second guy to light a fire. The first guy’s still standing there, holding a stick that’s somehow glowing and crackling and keeping wild animals slightly more confused than afraid. The second guy lights his fire and announces, “This is the first time we’ve had fire... since yesterday.” No one claps. No one cares. They just toss another stick on the flames and get back to not freezing to death. Same with the wheel. Maybe it took four to make anything roll, but it didn’t take long before somebody tried to reinvent it and claim credit for the whole invention. That’s how we got PowerPoint. And let’s talk about gravity. It didn’t start the moment Newton got bonked in the head by a falling apple. It had already been hard at work since the beginning—holding oceans in place, keeping birds grounded when necessary, and ensuring toddlers fell down just often enough to learn caution. Newton didn’t invent gravity. He just noticed it in a particularly fruit-forward way. Same thing with discovery. Columbus didn’t discover a land where people were already making soup. Leif Erikson might’ve beat him there. But truth be told, the folks already living on the land don’t get enough credit for being home when all these explorers arrived. If discovery means showing up and pointing at something someone else already owns, then I’ve discovered my neighbor’s lawn furniture twice this week. And then there’s technology. Remember your first cell phone? It had buttons. It probably flipped open. If you were fancy, it had a tiny antenna you could dramatically extend for better reception while trying to impress someone who wasn’t looking. And yes, you butt-dialed people. You did. We all did. But now? We have our first smartphone. Our first smart TV. Our first voice-activated AI that answers the doorbell and possibly judges our music taste. These aren’t new firsts. They’re sequels. Shinier, louder, software-updated sequels. And like most sequels, they don’t quite hit the same. You don’t have to hype the firsts. That’s it. Because some firsts are actually worth remembering—and they don’t come with a press release. They come with heart. Remember... the first car I called my own—it wasn’t the first car ever, or even new. My uncle had it before me. But it was mine, and somehow, it still smelled like freedom. Remember... the first time I kissed my wife—how everything else just fell away. Remember... the first time my wife gave birth—when love took on weight and breath. Remember... the first time I ate at Five Guys—when that first bite brought back the unmistakable taste of my grandmother’s hamburgers, and all the love that came with them. Remember... the first time I held my grandchild’s tiny hand—like time started over. Remember... the first time I realized I could still love more—when I thought I’d run out. And then there are Jehovah’s firsts. His first spirit son—the one who was beside Him "as a master worker." The first day light appeared. And He simply said it was good. The first plants. The first animals. The first man. The first woman—the first mind to think and feel like hers. And we all agree... It was good. And yes—I realize you probably read this... on the Internet. But don’t worry. It really is the first time I’ve ever written it (even if, technically, we’ve rewritten it eight times just trying to put it together).

In 1969, as NASA prepared for the historic Apollo 11 mission, the White House took precautions against potential disaster. Speechwriter William Safire drafted a contingency speech titled “In Event of Moon Disaster,” intended for President Richard Nixon to deliver if astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin were stranded on the lunar surface. The speech honored the astronauts’ bravery and acknowledged their potential sacrifice in advancing humanity’s quest for knowledge. Safire’s memo, dated July 18, 1969, outlined procedures for such a tragedy. President Nixon would personally contact the astronauts’ families, and the nation would observe a period of mourning. While the speech never mentioned a “burial-at-sea” ritual, it reflected the solemnity of such a situation. Fortunately, the Apollo 11 mission succeeded, and the speech remained unused, later becoming a poignant artifact of the era. Despite the mission’s success, conspiracy theories emerged, alleging that the moon landing was staged. Some theorists speculated that filmmaker Stanley Kubrick, famed for 2001: A Space Odyssey, assisted NASA in creating a “backup film” of the moon landing. These claims, however, lack credible evidence and contradict overwhelming proof, including telemetry data, lunar samples, and photos taken on the moon. The existence of Safire’s unused speech underscores the inherent risks of the Apollo mission and NASA’s transparency in preparing for potential failure. The enduring conspiracy theories serve as a reminder of the challenges in combating misinformation. However, the undeniable legacy of the Apollo program rests on the courage of the astronauts and the extraordinary achievements of the team that sent them to the moon—and brought them home safely. For those interested in viewing the speech itself, this link will take you to a copy of that unnecessary speech: https://www.archives.gov/files/presidential-libraries/events/centennials/nixon/images/exhibit/rn100-6-1-2.pdf