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There are times when courage does not feel brave at all. It’s not easy to describe. It can feel quiet. Sometimes heavy. Maybe it’s just getting through the day without falling apart. Those are the very things that matter most to Jehovah. Some trials are not loud. They’re not tough decisions. They can show up in small places… You get up in the morning and you’re still exhausted. You’ve still got the same problems you had before you went to bed. People look at you, and you just smile, because you don’t want to tell everybody how it really is. Courage can be just putting your feet on the floor and starting the day. We’ve all been there — when you’re in that mode where you’re going over things again and again in your head. And then you realize you have no idea how to deal with what you’re dealing with. You’ve pondered. You’ve done the homework. But nothing’s coming of it. What you thought you had within yourself, you find that it’s not even there anymore. That’s why the words at Proverbs feel so real: “Trust in Jehovah with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding.” — Proverbs 3:5 And somewhere in all of that, it clicks. You see how much you’ve been leaning on yourself. Not because you meant to push Jehovah aside, but because that’s what we tend to do. And you see it, and you know it, and you believe it. Trusting in Jehovah was never supposed to come later. It was supposed to come first. Sometimes the prayer is simple. Not polished. You’ve just emptied yourself out. You’re not trying to sound right. You’re saying what it is. You might say, “I don’t see where this is going, and I don’t have any idea what to do next.” But that takes courage too. Not what most people notice — just the kind that shows up when you stop pretending you’re fine. The thought from Proverbs keeps coming back. “In all your ways take notice of him, and he will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:6 There it is. You’re letting Him be part of it. That doesn’t mean the problem goes away. You’re just not lost in it anymore. The problem is still there, but your feet become sure in their path because you’re not wandering on your own. Some of us have things deep down inside that we never share with anybody. It might be a health issue. It may be anxiety, that pops up every once in a while. Stress in the family that hasn’t been settled yet. We keep working on it, like we have for years. Life keeps going, and so do we. The Bible doesn’t offer fantasy. Faith doesn’t make life easy. “Many are the hardships of the righteous one, but Jehovah rescues him from them all.” — Psalm 34:19 That’s just a fact. But we’re on solid ground. Jehovah has never left us through it all. He’s with us from start to finish. He doesn’t wait for us to totter before He helps. Joshua had a big responsibility, and he knew he couldn’t do it on his own. He didn’t get a step-by-step plan laid out in front of him. But he did get a good plan. The best plan. “Have I not commanded you? Be courageous and strong. Do not be afraid or be terrified, for Jehovah your God is with you wherever you go.” — Joshua 1:9 That is the difference! We know how it’s going to turn out. We know we’re going to get through it. We know Jehovah is going to sustain us, because we’re not doing this by ourselves. When you look back, people often say the same thing. They don’t know how they got through it. They just know they did. And they know they didn’t do it on their own. Strength showed up when it was needed. Never early. Just at the right time. And just enough to get through that day. Jehovah gives us what we need when we need it. Courage doesn’t always look strong. Sometimes it just keeps going. It keeps turning to Jehovah again and again, because the prayer never really ends — 1 Thessalonians 5:17 Dave tone

The Boiling Bubble At the beginning, it’s just a pot. Water. Heat. Waiting. In an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, Data—an android who approaches life with precise logic—is standing with a kettle when someone asks what he’s doing. He answers calmly: “I have been testing the aphorism, ‘a watched pot never boils.’ I have boiled the same amount of water in this kettle sixty-two times. In some cases I have ignored the kettle; in others, I have watched it intently. In every instance, the water reaches its boiling point in precisely 51.7 seconds.” Riker looks at him and says, “Why don’t you turn off your chronometer and see what happens?” And Data replies, “Thank you, sir. I will try that.” It’s a light moment. Almost funny. But it clears away the superstition. Watching didn’t matter. Timing didn’t matter. The pot boiled because of what was happening inside the water. So what is happening? BoilingGOWSora.mp4 At first, the water looks calm. Still. But heat is being added—not as something you can see, but as motion. The water molecules begin to move faster. They bump into one another more often. They need more room than liquid water allows. Then bubbles appear. This is where most of us were taught wrong. The bubbles are not air. The bubbles are not oxygen escaping. The bubbles are the water. The bubbles are still H₂O. The bubbles are the water passing through water. Nothing foreign is being pushed out. Nothing extra is being removed. The substance hasn’t changed. Only the spacing. Only the restraint. We are boiling the water out of the water. And once part of the water becomes vapor and escapes, what remains is less than what it was before. It doesn’t quietly return on its own. It has to cool. It has to condense. It has to be built back up. That makes a common phrase sound different. When someone says they’re “blowing off steam,” it sounds harmless. Necessary, even. Like pressure relief. But boiling isn’t gentle. Boiling is crossing a line where part of the substance itself leaves. Words can leave like that. Self-control can leave like that. Peace can leave like that. So what happens when we feel the heat rising? Do we notice the small bubbles forming before something escapes? “Be wrathful, but do not sin; do not let the sun set while you are still angry.” —Ephesians 4:26. Water teaches this quietly. It warms first. It gives warnings—tiny movements, small bubbles that form and collapse before anything escapes. But once it boils, something is lost that doesn’t come back by accident. The watched pot was never the lesson. The clock was never the lesson. The bubbles were. But wait. What’s that sound . . . ?

From Whisper to Roar Part Two begins small. Not with thunder. With a brook. You can hear it before you see it. Stand near a shallow stream and listen. Water slips over stones, weaving around roots and gravel. The sound is gentle—soft pops, faint clicks, a quiet rush that comes and goes. If you look closely, you can see why. Tiny bubbles form where the water tumbles over rock. They rise, break, and disappear almost as soon as they’re born. It’s important to be clear about this: it is not the water itself that makes the sound. Smooth water moving smoothly is nearly silent. The noise of a babbling brook comes from bubbles—air that gets trapped in the water as it tumbles and drops. When those bubbles rise and pop, they push on the surrounding air. That push is what reaches our ears as sound. If there were no bubbles, there would be no babble. No whisper. No music in the stream at all. Each bubble makes a sound. But that sound isn’t just one thing. From the instant the surface snaps open to the moment the ripples fade, a single bubble pop is layered. Fast vibrations ride on slower ones. Sharp edges blend into softer tails. Our ears can detect roughly a couple dozen distinct sound frequencies during that brief moment. It only feels like one sound because it happens so quickly. And even then, we’re not hearing everything. A bubble pop creates far more sound frequencies than human hearing can detect. Some are too high. Some too low. A sensitive microphone could record them, but our ears never will. We hear only part of what actually happens—and yet, it’s enough. One pop. Then silence. Another pop. Then silence again. Nothing builds. Nothing lingers. The brook stays gentle because each sound has time to fade before the next one arrives. Now pause. If each bubble pop only gives us that same limited range of sound… If our hearing only picks up that small band of frequencies… The roar doesn’t come from new sounds appearing. It doesn’t even come from louder sounds. So how can the same sounds, at the same strength, fill the air with that kind of volume? Follow the stream downstream. The water speeds up. It drops harder. It collides. Bubbles form everywhere—along rock faces, in plunges, in white foam. They no longer wait their turn. One pop overlaps the next. And the next. And the next. The sound hasn’t changed what it is. It has changed how long it stays. Each bubble still produces the same kinds of sounds. The same frequencies. Nothing new is added. But the pops arrive so quickly that silence never returns. The same sounds are reinforced again and again, stacking pressure in the air until the space itself feels full. That’s when volume is born. Now stand before Victoria Falls. You don’t hear millions of separate pops. You hear one roar. Not because the water found new sounds to make—but because the same sounds never stop arriving. The air is constantly being pushed. Pressure waves overlap without rest. The same thing happens in an orchestra. When you attend a concert, the sound doesn’t grow because one violin plays louder than its strings can vibrate. It grows because there are many violins playing the same notes. The same is true of flutes, French horns, and cellos. Each instrument stays within its limits, but together they fill the hall. No new notes are added. No single instrument overpowers the others. The sound becomes larger because it is reinforced, not because it is forced. Here’s where the lesson widens. Jehovah did not design us to react to every single event as if it stood alone. Just as our ears don’t treat one bubble pop as a roar, our hearts are not meant to treat every moment as decisive. What matters is repeated reinforcement. Small things repeated gain weight. Quiet signals, when they don’t fade, demand attention. A babbling brook whispers because its sounds have time to disappear. A great waterfall commands attention because they do not. That’s why Jesus could say, “Let the one who has ears listen.” —Matthew 11:15. And He didn’t say it just once. Matthew records it. Mark records it. And years later, in Revelation, Jesus repeats the same call again and again to the congregations. He wasn’t repeating Himself. He was reinforcing. Jehovah teaches us to listen the same way—not for isolated moments, but for what keeps returning, what keeps building, what no longer gives silence a chance. Sometimes the sound that fills the space isn’t sudden at all. It’s just been there long enough to matter. Hearing the sound is one thing; knowing what it means is another.

Still Standing, Even When Unsteady “These are the days of our years—seventy years, or eighty if one is especially strong; but their pride is trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass by, and away we fly.” (Psalm 90:10) “But the one who has endured to the end will be saved.” (Matthew 24:13) “Therefore we do not give up. Even if our outer person is wasting away, surely our inner person is being renewed from day to day. For though the tribulation is momentary and light, it produces for us a glory that is of more and more surpassing weight and is everlasting. While we keep our eyes, not on the things seen, but on the things unseen. For the things seen are temporary, but the things unseen are everlasting.” (2 Corinthians 4:16–18) Time has a way of slipping past us without warning. One season turns into another, and before we know it, years are behind us. Psalm 90:10 has always felt honest to me. It does not exaggerate, and it does not soften things either. Life is brief, even when it is long. And much of it carries strain. Jehovah tells us that up front, not to discourage us, but to help us think clearly about what really matters. Jesus’ words narrow the focus even more. He does not talk about strength, talent, or ease. He talks about endurance. Staying faithful when life presses in. Remaining loyal when answers are not immediate and relief is not quick. Endurance is rarely impressive to look at. Most days it feels quiet, even unnoticed. But it matters deeply to Jehovah. That has become very real to me over the last few years. When vestibular neuritis entered my life, it changed how I move through the world. Balance became uncertain. Simple things—standing, walking, turning—began to require thought and caution. There was no dramatic moment where it left. It simply stayed. And with it came limits I did not choose. I had to slow down. I had to adjust expectations. I had to accept that I would still serve Jehovah, still attend as much as possible, still care about others—just not in the same way or at the same pace. Some days, endurance meant showing up while feeling unsteady. Other days, it meant accepting what I could not do and trusting that Jehovah understood. That is why Paul’s words at 2 Corinthians 4:16–18 carry so much weight for me. The outer person really can waste away. That is not weakness. It is reality. But at the same time—quietly, almost invisibly—the inner person can be renewed. Day by day. Not all at once. Not loudly. Just faithfully. What if endurance is simply refusing to let hardship define our devotion? What if Jehovah values steady loyalty more than visible strength? What if what feels like limitation is actually refining our trust in Him? The years do move quickly. Jehovah knows that better than anyone. And He sees every effort made under strain, every careful step taken while unsteady, every decision to remain faithful when life feels fragile. None of it is lost. None of it is forgotten.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” (Psalms 56:3) Fear shows up loud. It pounds on the door. David didn’t pretend it wasn’t there. He grabbed it . . . and handed it to Jehovah. Jehovah told Jeremiah the truth ahead of time. Not a soft truth. “They will certainly fight against you.” No sugar. But He didn’t stop there. “They will not prevail against you, for ‘I am with you,’ declares Jehovah, ‘to save you.’” (Jeremiah 1:19) The fight was coming. The outcome was already settled. What happens when fear controls us. Saul knew what Jehovah said. Clear instructions. No static. But pressure showed up. People watched. Saul blinked. He admitted it himself: he feared the people. Fear made delay feel practical. Adjustment felt harmless. Obedience got trimmed. The fight came—and Saul lost something far worse than a battle. He lost Jehovah’s approval. (1 Samuel 15:24–26) Then there were the ten spies. Same land. Same promise. Same Jehovah. But fear rewrote the report. Giants grew taller. Jehovah shrank smaller. Words spread. Panic spread faster. An entire nation stalled because fear spoke louder than trust. The battle never even started—and they still lost. (Numbers 13:31–33; 14:1–4) Fear always wants the microphone. Faith has to take it away. And here’s the kicker—Jehovah never lost control. Not once. Revelation pulls the curtain back: “God put it into their hearts to carry out his thought… until the words of God will have been accomplished.” (Revelation 17:17) Even forces that think they’re running things are just moving inside Jehovah’s purpose. So confidence isn’t bravado. Trust isn’t pretending. It’s knowing who runs the outcome when pressure is real. They will fight. They will not win.

“Rejoice, young man, while you are young, and let your heart be glad in the days of your youth. Follow the ways of your heart and go where your eyes lead you; but know that the true God will bring you into judgment for all these things.” (Ecclesiastes 11:9) That verse doesn’t split joy from responsibility. It allows movement while quietly installing control. The heart is permitted to feel. The eyes are allowed to look. But neither is allowed to run without restraint. The awareness that Jehovah will bring matters into judgment does not shut those faculties down—it governs them while life is unfolding. Think about stabilizers on large ships. They aren’t decorations and they aren’t emergency devices. They are systems—active, responsive, always working beneath the surface. Motors adjust. Sensors read conditions. The ship continues forward, but those systems decide how far it leans and how it responds. Without them, movement becomes drift. With them, movement stays purposeful. That is what the second half of Ecclesiastes 11:9 does. Judgment is not a threat waiting at the end of the voyage. It is a stabilizer operating during the voyage, shaping where the heart goes and what the eyes remain fixed on. Jesus then adds, “Continue being merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” (Luke 6:36) That tells us the nature of Jehovah’s judgment. He does not act harshly or impulsively. He sustains life even when He is ignored. Jesus explains that Jehovah “makes his sun rise on both the wicked and the good and makes it rain on both the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:45) Food still grows. Seasons still turn. Mercy keeps operating. Not because wrongdoing is acceptable, but because Jehovah allows space. That same balance appears in how Jehovah handled the situation involving Moses’ Cushite wife. The wrong speech came from Miriam and Aaron. Jehovah corrected Miriam. There were consequences. Yet He did not destroy her. The discipline was limited, and restoration followed (Numbers 12:1, 9–15). Judgment remained real, but mercy governed how far it went. Jehovah carried that mercy even further through the ransom. “For God loved the world so much that he gave his only-begotten Son, so that everyone exercising faith in him might not be destroyed but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16) No one is excluded by their past alone. Jehovah “does not desire anyone to be destroyed but desires all to attain to repentance.” (2 Peter 3:9) Accountability exists, but opportunity remains open. That is why the counsel, “Make sure of all things; hold fast to what is fine,” applies for an entire lifetime, not just youth (1 Thessalonians 5:21). We don’t rely solely on what we learned years ago. We keep consulting Jehovah. We pray. We read His Word. We research. We test again. The stabilizers stay engaged for the whole journey. If something cannot be confirmed as good, we discard it. We don’t need to experience everything to know it does not belong onboard. And when something proves fine, we do not treat it lightly—we hold fast to it. That becomes ballast. Put it all together and it isn’t tidy. Joy moves. Hearts feel. Eyes notice. Judgment stabilizes. Mercy governs. The ransom remains available. Discernment keeps adjusting. And none of this happens by accident. This is what Jehovah has actually been building in us—the ability to remain upright while imperfect, to keep moving forward without capsizing. Not perfection yet. But stability now.

The Lorax famously spoke for the trees, and I wanted to share some information from a fascinating book I’m reading entitled “Forest Bathing: The Japanese Art and Science of Shinrin-Yoku” by Dr. Qing Li. For centuries people have found restfulness and a sense of oneness with the universe from being in nature. Poems and songs have been written, and the entire foundation of some companies like REI is to encourage people to get outdoors and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. Dr. Qing Li has established scientific reasoning behind why we love being outdoors, particularly near trees and forests. The term ‘bathing” implies more than just a leisurely hike in the woods; it’s immersive and involves all our senses. It may involve stretching or yoga poses as well as contemplation or meditation. One of the greatest benefits from forest bathing is seen in our immune system. Stress inhibits immune function and, because of this, we tend to fall ill frequently if we cannot get away from our stressors (work, school, other people, etc.) One of the ways the health of the immune system is tested is by looking at the activity of natural killer (NK) cells. They are a type of white blood cell (WBC) that can attack and kill unwanted cells, which they do with the assistance of some proteins such as perforin, granulysin, and granzymes. People with higher NK activity show lower incidence rates of cancer and other diseases. Dr. Li discovered that after only three days and two nights in a forest, NK cell activity improved from 17.3% to 26.5%; NK cell numbers went up from 440 to 661 (a 50% increase!). Dr. Li also writes that “the results showed that natural killer activity and the number of natural killer cells were significantly increased after forest bathing and that this effect lasted not just for seven days but for as long as thirty days.” I’ve posted on this blog about hikes in and around Georgia, and I wanted to also share areas for forest bathing in and around the metro Atlanta area: Check out the trails off Clifton Road at Emory University and Lullwater Preserve when studying for finals or just needing some time away from the office. There’s also Hundred Acre Farm in Madison, GA as well as multiple state parks including those near lakes or waterfalls. Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest has miles of trails and wooded areas to explore and enjoy. Renewal by Nature can set up a private or group walk for you and your friends and family.

The Telling Story of Temperature — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ — Temperature is not the weather, and it is not the number on a thermometer. Temperature is quieter than that. It describes motion—what is happening inside matter, moment by moment. So let’s slow down for a moment and look at what temperature actually tells us. Everything around us is made of tiny particles—atoms and groups of atoms called molecules—that are always moving. They never stop. Temperature tells us how fast that motion is happening on average. When atoms and molecules move faster, temperature rises. When they slow down, temperature falls. An object may look exactly the same on the outside, but inside, motion can be changing all the time as energy moves in or out. Put an apple in a refrigerator. The apple does not become a different object. What changes is its internal motion. Energy flows out of the apple and into the colder environment around it. As that energy leaves, the atoms and molecules inside the apple move more slowly. The refrigerator does not add “cold.” It simply provides a place for energy to go. Temperature drops because motion decreases. Now consider a blanket placed in a warmer. At first, it may feel cool. But slowly, that changes. Energy flows from the warmer surroundings into the blanket. As energy enters, the atoms and molecules within the blanket begin to move faster. Nothing visible happens. The fibers do not shift or glow. Yet the blanket becomes warm because its internal motion has increased. Temperature rises because energy has been transferred in. Snow shows this from another angle. Loose snow is cold and powdery because particle motion is low and the ice crystals remain separate. But when snow is pressed together in your hands, energy is transferred into it. That energy comes from your muscles doing work. The pressure concentrates that energy at tiny contact points between ice crystals, causing a thin layer of ice to melt. Not because the snow warmed everywhere, but because energy was added locally. When the pressure is released, energy is no longer being supplied. The thin layer of water freezes again, binding the crystals together. A snowball forms through energy flowing in and then flowing back out. Wind reveals something similar on a larger scale. Wind does not lower temperature. It increases the rate at which energy is removed. Moving air strips away warmed air near skin or surfaces and replaces it with colder air. The faster the air moves, the faster energy is carried away. Wind itself is energy in motion—air particles already moving because of temperature and pressure differences elsewhere. What we feel as wind chill is energy interacting with energy, all following the same orderly rules. Fire shows yet another face of temperature. A piece of wood resting outdoors may feel cool, yet it holds a large amount of stored energy. That energy is not temperature. It is chemical energy locked into the structure of the wood. While the wood sits quietly, that energy remains hidden. When the wood burns, chemical bonds break and rearrange. Stored energy is released and converted into motion. Atoms and molecules race. Heat pours outward. Light flashes. Temperature rises sharply—not because the wood was hot before, but because hidden energy has become active. If we follow this trail far enough, temperature eventually leads our eyes upward. Deep within the sun, enormous amounts of energy are being produced. That energy does not rush straight to the surface. Inside the sun’s dense interior, it moves slowly, transferred step by step through matter under intense pressure and motion. It can take thousands of years for energy formed deep within the sun to reach its surface. Temperature there tells a story of sustained motion, held and guided with precision. But once that energy reaches the sun’s surface, everything changes. It is released as light and radiation and races through space. In just minutes, that same energy reaches Earth. It warms the planet, drives weather systems, powers plant life, and sustains the environment we live in. The energy that cools an apple, warms a blanket, binds a snowball, sharpens the bite of wind, and once slept inside a piece of wood traces back to that blazing source in the sky. Temperature is how we sense that journey. It allows us to feel energy that began far beyond our reach. And then Scripture lifts our eyes higher still: “Lift up your eyes to heaven and see. Who has created these things? It is the One who brings out their army by number; He calls them all by name. Due to His vast dynamic energy and awe-inspiring power, not one of them is missing.” — Isaiah 40:26, NWT Jehovah is not merely a user of energy. He is its source. He designed how energy is stored, how it moves, how it is transferred, and how it is released. Temperature faithfully reflects those designs every day, even when we are not thinking about them. We cannot see atoms moving. We cannot watch energy flow. But we live inside the results of Jehovah’s dynamic energy every moment. And when we pause to listen to the telling story of temperature, we glimpse—quietly and unmistakably—order, intention, and sustaining power at work all around us. © 2026 David Paull. Copyright is claimed in the original selection, arrangement, and expressive presentation of this blog and its images. Individual images retain their original ownership or licensing status.

When One Voice Speaks Many Languages — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ — Riddle Some call me a language. Yet my voice isn’t spoken, and my sentences never change no matter who writes them down. I travel across cultures wearing different scripts — marks, signs, symbols, syllables — but when someone reads me, I sound exactly the same. I move through the world with no need for translation. Change my alphabet, and my message stays whole. What am I? The Wonder Behind the Riddle Music occupies a rare place in creation. It crosses borders, bypasses languages, and survives a dozen written forms without losing its sound. And that points upward. If a melody stays itself no matter how it is written, what does that say about the One who shaped the human ear and placed the capacity for song in our spirit? Music isn’t an accident. It is a gift stitched into us by Jehovah. Spoken languages change their sound the moment you shift alphabets. Say a sentence in English, write it in Arabic, rewrite it in Mandarin — the voice changes every time. Music does not. You can write one melody in Western lines, Chinese numbers, Indian syllables, or tablature, and the sound remains identical. It is as if humanity shares a single spoken tongue with countless written versions. That is what sets music apart. Many scripts. One meaning. A tone written as C–D–E might appear as 1–2–3 or Sa–Re–Ga, yet the moment someone plays it, it becomes the same recognizable voice. No other human expression behaves this way. And that uniqueness opens the door to something sacred. Jehovah never handed us sheet music. He never dictated key, scale, or rhythm for praise. He simply asks for sincerity. Psalm 96:1 is not about notation. It is an invitation to bring him something true — shaped by our culture, our voice, our heart. When the melody is clean and the motive is loyal, it is pleasant to him in any musical “language.” And that is the wonder. Music can be written a thousand ways, but when it rises from devotion, Jehovah hears the same message every time — faith, gratitude, hope, loyalty. He listens past the script. He listens past the style. He listens to the heart. And when the heart is steady toward him, the song — whatever shape it takes on paper — becomes sacred. In the end, scripts fade. Cultures shift. But the devotion behind the melody stands before him unchanged. One voice. One offering. Written many ways, spoken once, heard forever. Tags: music, worship, creation, language, praise

The Penguins’ Open Path — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ — When the beaches fell silent, the penguins began to hurry. Along the southern coast of Africa, the usual tide of tourists and boats had vanished. The noise, the footprints, the engines — gone. In their place, a stretch of sand lay open, smooth as a page waiting to be written on. African penguins — the kind with a dark stripe across their chest like a buttoned vest — took the cue. With no people crowding the shores, they waddled straight across to the water, no hesitation, no weaving between feet and beach towels. Parents dove in and returned twice as often to feed their chicks. Scientists watching from a distance saw it clearly: more trips, more food, more full bellies. All because the path was clear. It’s a small picture, but it says something large. When interference eases — when obstacles fall — provision multiplies. The psalmist wrote, “You open your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing.” (Psalm 145:16, NWT) Jehovah’s generosity has never depended on human rhythm. It only takes a moment of stillness for us to notice how freely His care moves when nothing blocks the way. Tags: creation, ecology, penguins, provision, Psalm 145:16, generosity, stillness, COVID-19

What the Whales Remembered — a Glimpse of Wonder entry™ — There’s a sound most of us will never hear — a note so deep it hums through the bones of the sea. It’s the voice of the humpback whale, carrying across miles of open water. For generations, that language of moans and melodies has been muffled under the constant growl of ship engines. The ocean had become a crowded room where everyone was shouting. Then, the world stopped moving. Cargo ships waited at anchor. Ferries rested in their harbors. For the first time in living memory, the sea fell into something close to silence. And in that quiet, the whales began to sing again. Scientists who listened through underwater microphones noticed that the songs had changed. The notes slowed down. The melodies softened. It was as if the whales were remembering how the ocean once sounded — before the noise. Before we filled every space with our engines. I was struck by one account — a mother whale could now venture out to hunt, confident she’d still hear her calf’s voice across the quiet sea. It reminded me how peace makes relationship possible, whether under water or under our own roof. Maybe that’s exactly what happened. Maybe creation itself remembers. The apostle Paul wrote that “all creation keeps on groaning together.” (Romans 8:22, NWT) But even in its groaning, it sings. That year of hush gave both whales and humans a taste of restoration — a reminder that peace still exists beneath the clamor, waiting for us to notice. When the world grows quiet, we remember too — the gentler voices, the deeper connections, and the One who made them all. Tags: whales, ocean, stillness, creation, restoration, awe, worship

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

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

Ever try to pour a five-gallon bucket into a Dixie cup? That’s what it would’ve looked like if Jesus had unloaded everything he knew onto his disciples in one sitting. Their minds would’ve sloshed over like a cup left out in a rainstorm. So he didn’t. He told them plainly: “I still have many things to say to you, but you are not able to bear them now” (John 16:12, NWT). That doesn’t mean the truths weren’t vital. They were. But timing mattered. He wasn’t hiding treasure in some locked box—he was pacing it out so they could carry it without breaking down. Like a father teaching a child to ride a bike. First the training wheels, then the shaky glide down the driveway, and finally the day he lets go and hopes you don’t eat the mailbox. Step by step. Jehovah works the same way. He feeds us, not in dump-truck loads, but in spoonfuls we can swallow. He measures the portion by our stomach, not by his pantry. Jesus praised his Father for this: “I publicly praise you, Father…because you have hidden these things from the wise and intellectual ones and have revealed them to young children” (Matthew 11:25, NWT). The Father of the universe skips the lecture halls and hands treasures to children—the ones who still ask “why?” fifty times before breakfast. The ones who take your word before demanding a citation. Here’s the truth: Jehovah’s smile doesn’t hinge on letters after your name. What he wants is the wide-open heart of a child—ready to learn, quick to trust, humble enough to admit, “I don’t know, but I’ll listen.” This world bows to diplomas and titles. Men strut across stages in gowns and tassels, like peacocks with paperwork. But Jehovah leans past all that noise. He kneels down to the ones tugging at his robe—the ones who still believe, who still ask without shame. The ones the world calls “simple,” Jehovah calls “wise.” And Paul—he knew both sides. He had the pedigree, the training, the kind of credentials that could’ve silenced a crowd. He could’ve stood before the Corinthians like a polished statesman, dazzling them with rhetoric. But he didn’t. He dropped the performance. He wrote: “When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with extravagant speech or wisdom declaring the sacred secret of God to you” (1 Corinthians 2:1, NWT). Paul understood something vital: human education may sharpen logic, but it cannot crack open the sacred secret. Pride blinds; childlike humility sees. A brilliant lecture might stir applause, but it doesn’t move Jehovah’s heart. That’s why Paul set aside the polish and brought only what mattered—the raw truth of God’s Word, plain, sharp, alive. Line these three scriptures together and you see the pattern: Jehovah reveals truth when we’re ready, not before. He bypasses the proud and gives treasures to children at heart. And he blesses sincerity far more than polish. So what about us? Maybe we look around and feel behind—like everyone else is racing through the Bible on bicycles while we’re still wobbling with training wheels. Relax. Jehovah’s not timing us with a stopwatch. He’s teaching us at a pace we can bear. Or maybe we feel small because we can’t preach like some powerhouse speaker. Doesn’t matter. Paul already showed us Jehovah prefers truth plain and simple over flash and shine. So here’s the question: when Jehovah places a truth in front of me, do I grab it with both hands like a trusting child—or fold my arms like an expert who thinks he already knows better? If I want to keep growing, I’ll pray for the humility of a child. I’ll take each verse like a spoonful for today—small enough to handle, big enough to nourish. And if I do, Jehovah will keep pouring. My cup may be small, but it will never be empty.