Leaderboard

Sequel to “Nothing Is Stupid” We spend most of our lives noticing, things. Things we can see. Things we can hold. Things we can measure, weigh, polish, stack, or admire. A mountain ridge at sunrise. The smooth curve of a shell. The warmth of a cup in our hands. Even the smallest grain of sand feels like something solid and definite. Our attention is naturally drawn to what is there. But every so often, a quiet realization appears that turns the thought upside down. Much of what surrounds us—and even much of what seems most solid—is built with what we casually call nothing. Not nothing in the sense of nonexistence. Not an absence of creation. But the astonishing “no-thingness” woven throughout the physical world itself. The space between things. A stone feels dense in the hand. Steel feels firm. Oak feels strong. Our own bodies feel solid enough to bruise, tire, and grow old. Yet beneath what our senses confidently report, the physical world is not packed into a solid block of uninterrupted substance. There is structure. There is order. There is design. But there is also room. Openings between particles. Intervals between structures. Space woven through matter like breath through music. What appears solid to us is, at deeper scales, beautifully arranged rather than tightly packed. Creation is not a crowded heap of substance pressed together. It is a carefully ordered framework with room built into it. That is part of what makes “nothing” so wonderful. We admire the stars and forget the darkness that surrounds them. We marvel at matter and overlook the quiet intervals that allow matter to exist in relation to other matter. We notice the notes and rarely the silence between them. Yet without that silence, music collapses into noise. Without spacing, writing becomes a blur. Without intervals, motion itself becomes impossible. Jehovah did not design a universe squeezed into a suffocating mass. He made one with breadth, distance, proportion, and balance. One where light travels, where structure forms, where systems interact in remarkable harmony. The object is wonderful. But the room given to the object is wonderful too. Even the Scriptures quietly acknowledge this surprising feature of creation. “He stretches out the northern sky over empty space, suspending the earth upon nothing.” — Job 26:7 That simple statement carries an astonishing thought. The earth itself exists in an expanse that appears empty. No pillars. No visible supports. Just the vast framework Jehovah created, where worlds can exist and move in perfect order. We tend to admire the furniture in a house while forgetting the rooms that make the house livable. Yet the room matters. The openness matters. The proportions matter. Creation is similar. It is not merely a collection of remarkable objects. It is the placement of those objects within a carefully ordered framework that allows them to exist, move, interact, and endure. Nothing, then, is not trivial. Nothing is wonderful. Wonderful because it reveals that Jehovah’s wisdom is not only seen in the things He created, but in the spaces He arranged between them. He does not merely fill the universe—He composes it. The more closely we look, the less empty “nothing” seems. It begins to feel deliberate. It begins to feel wise. It begins to feel like yet another quiet place where Jehovah’s mind has left its signature. © 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.

Acts 20:35 carries a quiet but immovable weight. In the middle of Paul’s farewell to the Ephesian elders, there is a word that refuses to remain theoretical. It is the word must. “I have shown you in all things that by working hard in this way, you must assist those who are weak…” Notice what that word does. It removes the comfortable distance between belief and obligation. Paul does not frame generosity as an admirable trait or a spiritual aspiration. He frames it as a necessity. A follower of Christ is not merely encouraged to help the weak; he must. Without that word, helping others could remain a matter of mood, timing, or convenience. A person could wait until circumstances feel favorable or until resources feel abundant. But must closes the door on hesitation. It insists that compassion is not something we schedule; it is something that governs us. Opportunities to do good are not meant to be postponed when they appear before us — Ga. 6:9, 10. And Paul ties that obligation directly to effort. “By working hard in this way…” The assistance he describes does not come from leftovers. It grows out of labor. It requires energy, attention, and sometimes sacrifice. Strength is not given merely for preservation; it is given so that it can support weakness — Ro. 15:1. But Paul does not stop with the command to act. There is another must in the sentence. “…and you must keep in mind the words of the Lord Jesus…” The disciple is not only commanded to help. He is commanded to remember. The teaching of Jesus must remain present in the mind, active in the conscience, shaping the instinct of the heart. Forgetting would weaken the command. Memory strengthens it. What are we required to keep in mind? “There is more happiness in giving than there is in receiving.” That statement is not merely encouragement; it is orientation. It corrects the natural pull of the human heart toward accumulation and replaces it with a different compass. A person who forgets those words slowly drifts back toward self-protection. A person who keeps them before his mind is constantly drawn outward — Pr. 11:25. In that sense, the second must guards the first. If the words of Jesus remain alive in the mind, helping the weak will not feel like a reluctant duty. It will begin to feel natural. The heart will expect joy on the other side of generosity. This is the pattern Christ Himself lived. His ministry consistently moved toward the burdened, the overlooked, and the weary — Mt. 9:36; Lu. 14:13, 14. That same word now stands before every disciple. Must. We must help. And we must remember. Because forgetting the words of Christ weakens the impulse to act, while remembering them strengthens the resolve of the heart. When weakness appears—material, emotional, or spiritual—the disciple does not first measure convenience. The presence of need becomes the summons — 1 Th. 5:14. In that sense, the word must is not a burden. It is a compass. It keeps the heart from drifting into the quiet selfishness that can disguise itself as prudence. True devotion reveals itself not in restrained concern but in deliberate generosity — Jas. 2:15, 16. And when both commands are obeyed—when the disciple both remembers and acts—the promise of Jesus proves true. The giver discovers a happiness that cannot be manufactured by acquisition. Because the deepest joy is not found in what we keep. It is found in what love compels us to give.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved the ocean. It has more moods than most humans and although it is eons old, it can drown you with vigor. This is why I spent my recent birthday at the Georgia Aquarium. Admission is free on your birthday, and while I didn’t attend any shows, I did see several denizens of the deep, including the Aquarium’s most famous resident, a whale shark that has resided in Atlanta for 18 years. (Shark swimming, photo by me) (seals) Whale sharks are the largest extant fish species and, fittingly, the Georgia Aquarium is the largest of its kind in the Western Hemisphere with over 11 million gallons of fresh and salt water tanks and over 500 species of fish and aquatic mammals, including hammerhead sharks, beluga whales, and manta rays. (Japanese sea nettle) The Aquarium is located near Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta, near the World of Coca-Cola. Its main purpose is to encourage marine literacy (if that’s a thing) and conservation efforts. It’s also open 365 days a year. (reef fishes near a fake shipwreck) (Whale shark in the background) The views here remind me of Captain Nemo’s words in the 1954 Disney film 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea: “See how peaceful it is here.” (Leopard shark) There are presentations involving sea lions (see picture above) and bottlenose dolphins in addition to a touch tank with quiet, gliding stingrays that feel like velvet when you pet them. (bottlenose dolphin) (beluga whale watching) Admission is normally $59 and parking nearby is around $20, but spending the afternoon in the company of such beautiful creatures is priceless.

A Glimpses of Wonder Entry My grandkids were over today, filling the house with laughter, crumbs, and about six different conversations at once. Somewhere between snack time and a very serious debate about which dinosaur is the coolest, I said, almost without thinking, “Well… nothing is stupid.” You’d have thought I’d said a bad word. Wait—I did, apparently. Big eyes. Shocked faces. “PAPA! You said stupid!” I tried to explain. “No, no, no—I didn’t call you stupid. I said ‘nothing’ is stupid.” More gasps. “Still said it.” Fair enough. We teach them not to call people stupid, and I agree with that. Words matter. But that little moment stuck with me, because… I kinda stand by what I said. “Nothing” is a terrible answer. Ask someone what they’re doing? “Nothing.” Thinking about? “Nothing.” It’s like admitting your brain went on vacation without telling you. But here’s the twist—Jehovah created nothing. He stretched out space where light could travel. He designed silence that gives music its rhythm. He placed gaps between atoms, cells, even thoughts. And every one of those gaps? They serve a purpose. Isaiah 44:24 says, “I am Jehovah, the Maker of all things, who stretches out the heavens by myself, and who spreads out the earth. Who was with me?” He made it all—including the parts we can’t fill in or explain. And get this: “nothing” is literally the area that light travels in. So next time someone says they’re doing “nothing,” maybe they’re just making room for something to shine. Just… maybe don’t tell your grandkids that. I’m still under investigation. Now if I can just catch nothing on camera, so I have an image for this blog. Not sure if I want it while it is being used or not. Please advise . . .

Proverbs 22:3 says: “The shrewd one sees the danger and conceals himself, but the inexperienced keep right on going and suffer the consequences.” Notice what the verse does not commend. It does not praise fear. It commends foresight. The shrewd person does not wait for disaster to arrive before acting. He anticipates reality and positions himself wisely. Spiritual maturity includes preparation. Most people prepare for predictable events—career, retirement, weather. Scripture asks a more searching question: What are we doing about the only certainty every human faces? My brother was born with serious heart defects. From infancy, hospitals were not theoretical places; they were part of his landscape. Uncertainty was not abstract. It was woven into his life. Yet he was not defined by vulnerability. At fourteen years old, he chose to dedicate himself to Jehovah in baptism. That decision was not a reaction to crisis. It was the visible marker of something already formed within him. Conviction had settled early. That was his contingency plan. Ecclesiastes 11:2 states: “Invest in seven ventures, yes, in eight, for you do not know what disaster may occur on the earth.” Solomon highlights uncertainty, not anxiety. You cannot eliminate every risk. You cannot predict every outcome. But you can position yourself spiritually before events unfold. My brother did not wait for circumstances to stabilize before investing spiritually. He made that investment while health uncertainty remained a reality. Years later, he worked for more than a decade assisting in the design of operating rooms—some in the very hospitals that had treated him. He enjoyed sports. He valued deep conversation. Friends describe him as steady and warm. He lived fully, not cautiously. The early investment bore fruit over time. And then there are Jesus’ words at John 11:25: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who exercises faith in me, even though he dies, will come to life.” Notice how Jesus speaks. He does not deny death. He accounts for it. Faith is not built on avoiding mortality. It is built on confidence in what follows. A contingency plan anticipates what may occur and prepares for it. When serious health challenges returned later in life, there was no scrambling for spiritual footing. No last-minute negotiation. The foundation had been laid decades earlier. He had already accounted for the possibility.

We wipe dust away without thinking. It settles on shelves. It drifts through beams of light. It gathers in corners. We call it nuisance. Leftover. Refuse. But dust becomes part of one of the most precise light displays on earth. To understand why, we need to picture something simple: the atmosphere is not thicker at sunset — the sunlight simply travels through more of it. Imagine standing in an open field at noon. The sun is high overhead. Its rays come almost straight down. The light passes through a relatively short column of air before reaching your eyes. Now imagine late evening. The sun is near the horizon. Its rays are no longer coming straight down. They enter the atmosphere at a shallow angle. Instead of dropping vertically through a thin column of air, the light slices sideways through the atmosphere, traveling across it. It is the same atmosphere. The same thickness. But the path is dramatically longer. A simple comparison helps. Think of shining a flashlight straight down through a shallow tank of water. The beam passes through quickly. Now tilt the flashlight so the beam travels diagonally across the tank from one side to the other. The water is not deeper — the path through it is longer. That . . . is what . . . happens at sunset. When the sun is overhead, sunlight may pass through roughly one atmosphere’s worth of air. When it sits near the horizon, that path can increase dozens of times. The light must move through more gas molecules, more water vapor, more suspended dust, more aerosols. And every encounter matters. As sunlight enters the atmosphere, shorter wavelengths — blue and violet — are scattered strongly by the tiny nitrogen and oxygen molecules. This is Rayleigh scattering. During midday, this scattering sends blue light in every direction, painting the sky above us. But when the sun lowers and its light must travel that extended path, the blue wavelengths are scattered out of the direct beam long before it reaches us. With each additional mile of air, more blue is redirected away. What survives that journey are the longer wavelengths — red, orange, deep amber. Now dust becomes more influential. When light encounters particles closer in size to its wavelength — soil fragments, sea salt, smoke, pollen — Mie scattering occurs. This type of scattering is less selective and tends to push light forward, spreading the remaining reds and oranges across the horizon. The extended path length increases the number of these interactions. More collisions. More filtering. More diffusion. The sky is not changing color because the sun changes. It changes because of distance. Because of angle. Because of how far light must travel through the medium Jehovah designed. There is also subtle curvature at play. The earth is round. When the sun is near the horizon, its rays skim along the curved surface of the planet, grazing through the densest layers of air before emerging toward us. The lower atmosphere holds most of the dust and moisture. So when the light enters at that shallow angle, it passes through the richest concentration of scattering material. That is why the horizon glows. Not because the air is thicker there — but because the light has taken the long road. And the long road transforms it. Psalm 104:24 says: “How many your works are, O Jehovah! You have made all of them in wisdom. The earth is full of your productions.” Even geometry participates in that wisdom. Angle. Distance. Density. Wavelength. Each factor interlocks with the others. If the atmosphere were much thinner, scattering would be weak and the sky would appear dark. If much thicker, sunlight would struggle to reach the surface clearly. If particulate levels were wildly unstable, sunsets would lack consistency. Instead, there is law-governed balance. The same dust we sweep aside becomes the filter that softens daylight into gold. The same molecules that scatter blue into the noon sky later remove it from the evening beam. The longer path does not create color; it reveals what remains after selective scattering has done its quiet work. Jehovah makes the most beautiful things out of dust. Man and woman, formed from it. Sunrises and sunsets, intensified through it. What seems small participates in a system of angles and laws so precise that the sky ignites on schedule every evening somewhere on earth. Light takes the long road — and because it does, we are given crimson. The earth is full of His productions. Full of dust. Full of geometry. Full of light traveling farther than we realize. Did you feel, as your read this, your words speed up. The comprehension was often simple and sublime. Your reading may have felt like you need to pause. To put it all together. To catch your breath. Because when you see the real thing . . . the sunrise or sunset, It just takes your breath away!

We’ve heard the brook. We’ve heard the roar. Now comes the harder part. What does it mean? Sound is one thing. Understanding is another. Our ears can detect only a narrow range of frequencies. That’s a fact. There is always more happening than we perceive. A microphone can pick up vibrations we will never hear. But Jehovah did not design us to hear everything. He designed us to hear what we need. The same is true spiritually. You can hear something repeated. You can notice that it keeps coming back. You can feel that it’s building. But that still doesn’t tell you what to do. That’s where wisdom comes in. “The fear of Jehovah is the beginning of wisdom.” —Proverbs 9:10. Wisdom is not just information. It is not just awareness. It is not just noticing patterns. Wisdom is knowing what is stable and true and real—and choosing to live in harmony with it. Then there is discernment. “But solid food belongs to mature people, to those who through use have their powers of discernment trained to distinguish both right and wrong.” —Hebrews 5:14. Discernment is trained. It grows through use. It separates one thing from another. You can stand on a train track and feel the vibration. You can hear the whistle. You can see the light in the distance. Wisdom knows you and a train cannot occupy the same space. Discernment tells you it’s time to move Hearing is not enough. Knowing facts is not enough. Something has to happen next. Sound fills space. But not every sound deserves your response. “And this is what I continue praying, that your love may abound still more and more with accurate knowledge and full discernment; that you may make sure of the more important things.” —Philippians 1:9-10. That’s the lesson. Life is full of noise. Some of it whispers. Some of it roars. Some of it repeats until it feels urgent. But repetition is not the same as importance. A waterfall is loud because the same sound never stops arriving. Pressure is not proof. Jehovah does not want us reacting to every vibration. He wants us trained. Thoughtful. Steady. You will hear many things in life. Opinions repeated. Warnings repeated. Complaints repeated. Some will whisper. Some will roar. Wisdom asks: Is this one of the more important things? Discernment answers by acting. A brook makes sound. A waterfall makes sound. But neither one decides your steps. That belongs to you.

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.