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Most parrots learn a polite “hello” and spend the rest of their lives screaming it at the mailman. But not Puck. Puck was the heavyweight champion of bird banter, the undisputed parrot prodigy, the feathered freak of the dictionary world. By the end of his life, this pint-sized chatterbox had racked up 1,528 words — more than most toddlers, and let’s be honest, more than a few adults whose vocabulary has been whittled down to “dude,” “literally,” and “no worries.” If you tried to teach Puck a word a day, you’d still be at it four years later — meanwhile forgetting your own passwords and the name of your neighbor. Puck could’ve filed a tax return, ordered a pizza, and called to complain when it showed up cold — all while the rest of us were still searching for our car keys. And here’s the part that makes your stomach drop: parrots don’t just stockpile words. They stockpile time. Lots of it. African greys, macaws, cockatoos — these birds are basically winged Methuselahs. Eighty years? Standard issue. Ninety? Tuesday. A hundred? Sure, why not. Which means your parrot isn’t just laughing with you today — it’ll be laughing at you fifty years from now, when you’re long gone and it’s still heckling the dog. There’s something deeply unfair about that. We pace ourselves, eat right, try to sleep more — only to get outlived by a creature who snacks on sunflower seeds and chews drywall for fun. Imagine your entire legacy distilled down to a parrot sitting on a stranger’s perch, belting out your signature line: “Did you unplug the iron?” That’s immortality, parrot-style. And just when you think it can’t get stranger, it does. Because some parrots don’t just outtalk you. They don’t just outlive you. They inherit you. Real money. Mansions. Trust funds. One African grey named Kalu was written into a will and wound up the proud owner of a South African estate. There are cockatoos perched on estates and bank accounts fat enough to make human heirs grind their teeth. Picture a courtroom showdown where the richest heir in the room interrupts the proceedings with a crisp, “Objection!” …followed by a wolf whistle. Owning a parrot isn’t like buying a pet. It’s like entering a long-term contract with a loud, feathered roommate who will not only bury you in mocking imitations but might also bury you in the fine print of your own estate. You think you’re the master, the caretaker, the provider — but give it eighty years and the bird’s still around, living on your dime, still asking “Who’s a pretty boy?” while you’ve been compost for decades. So here’s the truth: bringing home a parrot is less like adopting a pet and more like onboarding a tiny, winged business partner who’s in it for the long haul. Puck proved they can outtalk you. Thousands of long-lived greys and cockatoos prove they can outlast you. And Kalu? Kalu proved they can outspend you. You think you’re buying a parrot. What you’re really buying is your replacement. Puck’s record vocabulary, the century-long lifespan of macaws, even the bizarre tales of “wealthy parrots” inheriting mansions — all of it is remarkable. Yet when you step back, you see something deeper. Parrots can mimic words, but only humans can pour out prayers to their Maker. Jehovah gave us the gift of true language so that “the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart will be acceptable” to him (Psalm 19:14, NWT). Parrots may outlast an owner for a few decades, but Jehovah’s purpose was for humans to live forever (Ecclesiastes 3:11, NWT). And while a bird might perch on an earthly fortune, Jesus reminded us: “Stop storing up for yourselves treasures on the earth… Rather, store up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matthew 6:19-20, NWT). So the wonder isn’t just in what parrots can do — it’s in what Jehovah has given us: the voice to praise him, the life to last forever, and the riches that no feathered heir could ever inherit.

Some people puff themselves up so tall you can’t get near them. Ever try talking to someone who’s all ego? You feel small. You hesitate. You walk away. But what if the Almighty were like that? What if the Creator held you at arm’s length? He doesn’t. He leans down. He says: “Pour out your hearts before him. God is a refuge for us” (Psalm 62:8, NWT). So why do we still sometimes freeze up, feeling too unworthy to speak? Picture this: a little girl comes flying around the corner on her bike. Gravel skids, spokes twist, her knees are raw with scrapes. She limps home expecting anger, maybe even shame. Instead, her father drops to his knees in the driveway, brushes away the dirt, and says gently, “I’m just glad you’re safe.” Doesn’t that tell the story? Jehovah meets us the same way. He doesn’t pounce on failure. He sees the wounds first. He listens. He cares. The Bible holds echoes of that tenderness. Hannah’s brokenhearted prayer. Joshua’s bold cry for the sun to halt in the sky (1 Samuel 1:10-18; Joshua 10:12-14). Jehovah preserved those moments so we’d know: I want your voice too. But what about the times guilt presses down, making us whisper, I don’t deserve his ear? Jesus answered with a story. A son trudged home in shame. But before he reached the door, his father ran — not strolled, not delayed — ran. He hugged him tight, kissed him, welcomed him home (Luke 15:20, NWT). Isn’t that Jehovah? Doesn’t he sprint toward you the moment you turn your face toward him (Lamentations 3:19-20; Isaiah 57:15)? And today — how does he run? Through an elder’s visit when the house feels empty. Through a believing spouse who whispers prayer into the night. Through a brother or sister whose text lands at the exact moment you felt forgotten (James 5:14-15). Coincidence? Or is that Jehovah’s mercy arriving on time? So ask yourself: what if you spoke right now, halting words, tear-choked voice? Would he pull back? Or would he bend down, listen close, and run to hold you? He would run. He is running.

Why is it comforting to remember that Jehovah notices even the smallest good? Because as his servants, we are often painfully aware of our flaws. We see the mistakes. We feel the failures. Some days, the weight of what we are not doing presses heavier than what we are. In those moments, how kind to recall that Jehovah is not only watching for faults. He is watching for the good — to correct, to help, and to bless. Think of Baruch. He was a decent man, loyal to Jeremiah, faithfully writing out Jehovah’s messages of judgment to a nation that would not listen. But under the strain, his heart drifted. He started reaching for “great things” at a time when Jehovah was warning of collapse. How gentle, then, that Jehovah stepped in — not with thunder, but with fatherly concern: “Do not keep on seeking great things for yourself” (Jeremiah 45:5). That correction saved him. What if Jehovah had looked away? What if He had let Baruch’s ambition swell unseen? Would we even remember his name? Or think of Cornelius. A soldier. A Gentile. A man who might have wondered if Israel’s God would ever listen to him. And yet his prayers rose. His gifts to the poor were remembered. An angel told him: “Your prayers and gifts of mercy have ascended as a remembrance before God” (Acts 10:4). Cornelius did not know he was about to open the door for all nations, becoming the first uncircumcised Gentile to be spirit-begotten. He was simply doing good as he knew how — and Jehovah noticed. Then there was a widow. Poor. Overlooked. Her hand may have trembled as she dropped in two small coins. To her, it was everything. To others, it was nothing. But Jesus said she had given more than all the rest, because she gave her whole life in that moment (Luke 21:1-4). The crowd missed it. Jehovah did not. And what about a house drenched in rebellion? Jeroboam’s dynasty was stained with idolatry and apostasy. His young son Abijah grew sick, and Jehovah’s judgment against that house was certain. Yet Jehovah said of this boy: “Something good toward Jehovah the God of Israel has been found in him” (1 Kings 14:13). He was the only descendant of Jeroboam to receive an honorable burial. We aren’t told what Jehovah saw. Perhaps a private act of courage. Perhaps a quiet faith in a home that had none. Whatever it was, Jehovah saw it. He marked it. He remembered it. What about us? What if Jehovah is watching for the small spark — not just the blazing fire? What if He counts every whispered prayer, every weary act of kindness, every quiet sacrifice, already on record before Him? The good is not swallowed by the noise. It is seen. It is remembered. It is safe with Him. Tags: Baruch, Cornelius, widow’s mite, Jeroboam, divine notice, encouragement

If your fingertip were the size of Earth, you could run it over a city and know whether you’d just brushed past a house or a car. That’s how sensitive Jehovah made your sense of touch. In 2013, researchers at KTH Royal Institute of Technology in Sweden discovered that the human fingertip can detect surface differences as small as 13 nanometers—about the size of a large molecule. Imagine that: something invisible to the naked eye, smaller than a single wavelength of light, yet your body registers it. No engineer has ever built a sensor that rivals this combination of speed, precision, and gentleness. Why give humans such sensitivity? Our fingertips are not just tools to manipulate objects—they are extensions of our connection to life, to each other, and to Him. A parent brushing a child’s cheek, a surgeon’s careful incision, a craftsman’s steady hand—all of these are made possible because Jehovah wired us with miraculous detail. And fingerprints? They’re not only patterns for identification. The ridges amplify vibrations so that our touch receptors can “hear” textures more clearly, much like a violin string resonates with sound. Jehovah designed us to experience the world in detail so fine, even the unseen becomes tangible. The psalmist exclaimed: “I praise you because in an awe-inspiring way I am wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful; I know this very well” (Psalm 139:14, NWT). Those words come alive when we realize that every ridge on our fingertip testifies to his craftsmanship. But the wonder of touch goes beyond physical sensation. Jehovah uses his Word to reach our hearts with the same delicacy. The prophet Isaiah wrote: “Jehovah will comfort you as a mother comforts her son” (Isaiah 66:13, NWT). Just as a tender hand soothes through contact, his inspired words press gently but firmly into our spirit, reminding us of his nearness. So the next time you run your fingers across fabric, feel the smoothness of a polished stone, or trace the bark of a tree, pause. Beneath that simple action is a divine gift—Jehovah’s fingerprint on your very being.

As the Supreme Lawgiver, Jehovah has consistently conveyed clear laws to his people (Isaiah 33:22). One of the clearest is his demand for exclusive devotion. “You must never have any other gods besides me” (Deuteronomy 5:7, NWT). That command protects us, guarding our hearts from the slow drift of misplaced loyalty. For many today, the test does not come with statues or shrines. It comes in subtler, quieter ways. Consider the pull of the workplace. An employer’s approval can feel like oxygen, his displeasure like suffocation. A promotion, a raise, even job security — all of it can tempt us to place human favor above divine devotion. The chest tightens. The thought creeps in: If I just bend this once, I’ll be safe. But in that moment, whom are we really serving? The Devil tried to plant that very thought in Jesus’ mind, offering him dazzling kingdoms in exchange for a bow. Jesus’ reply was steady: “It is Jehovah your God you must worship, and it is to him alone you must render sacred service” (Matthew 4:10, NWT). Those words steady us, too, when we are pressed to value an employer, a leader, or any human figure as if they held the keys to our survival. Governments promise solutions, even an end to war. Employers promise stability. Celebrities promise belonging. But none can keep those promises. Only Jehovah, “the one who created all things” (Revelation 4:11, NWT), deserves such trust. So we ask: when my decisions are weighed, whose smile am I seeking most — my boss’s or Jehovah’s? Whose approval loosens the knot in my chest? When those questions are answered honestly, our course becomes clear. Jehovah does not want fragments of us. He asks for undivided hearts. And when we give Him ours, we find peace no employer can grant, security no ruler can enforce, and love no idol can ever return. Undivided hearts belong to Jehovah. And in His hands, they are safe forever. ⸻ Reference: w23.07 14 ¶3-4

Picture the open ocean. The sun ripples on the surface, light bends into deep blue, and far below, a silver torpedo is on the move. That torpedo is alive — a tuna — and it has a secret: it can never stop. For most fish, resting is simple. They pull water over their gills by expanding and closing their mouths, a process called buccal pumping. That steady motion keeps oxygen flowing whether they’re darting through a reef or lying still under a rock ledge. But tuna are different. Their gills are built for speed, not idleness. They rely entirely on a system called obligate ram ventilation. To breathe, they must push forward, water streaming over their gills with every stroke. If they stop moving, the water stops too, and oxygen runs out. Stillness would be suffocation. They’re not alone in this ceaseless race. Many sharks are designed the same way. Great whites, makos, hammerheads, and even the filter-feeding whale shark all depend on constant swimming to keep oxygen flowing. Bonito, swordfish, and other billfish fall into the same group. The faster the lifestyle, the stricter the rule: motion equals life. That means for a tuna, the entire ocean is a treadmill. Their survival depends not on resting places but on continuous movement. Day or night, awake or weary, they are always propelling themselves forward through salt and current. Compare that to marine mammals — dolphins and whales. They too face a challenge: needing oxygen from the air while living in water. But Jehovah equipped them with a different solution. They practice something called unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. Half of their brain rests while the other half stays alert, awake enough to guide them to the surface to breathe. They can nap and swim at once, alternating sides of the brain like a night watchman passing the torch. That gift means they don’t drown in their sleep. But tuna have no such system. No half-sleep, no safe pause. Just endless forward motion. And yet — that is their wonder. Instead of tiring them out, this design gives them the stamina to cross entire oceans. Southern bluefin tuna have been tracked swimming thousands of miles, slicing through cold and warm currents alike. Their bodies, built like streamlined arrows, turn what sounds like a burden into unmatched endurance. What does this reveal? That Jehovah designs with wisdom, even when the blueprint looks harsh to us. He tailored tuna and sharks to thrive in the “always moving” lane, just as He tailored whales to breathe air with brains that alternate rest. Different creatures, different solutions, one Creator’s brilliance. And for us? Isn’t there a lesson in this ceaseless motion? Spiritually, life cannot be sustained by stillness. Jehovah’s chariot is always on the move (Ezekiel 1:19–21). His purpose, His Kingdom, His direction for His people — never stagnant, always advancing. So how could His servants afford to stay still? If we coast, if we stop drawing from Jehovah, our oxygen runs out. Isaiah captures it beautifully: “He gives power to the tired one and full might to those lacking strength. Those hoping in Jehovah will regain power. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not tire out” (Isaiah 40:29, 31, NWT). The tuna’s endless swim is not frantic survival — it is strength in motion. Likewise, when we keep moving in faith, it is not frantic effort but steady endurance. We move forward with prayer, with trust, with daily strokes through the currents of life, and Jehovah makes sure the oxygen of His spirit flows through us. So next time you see a picture of a tuna or a shark, remember: some of Jehovah’s creatures must never stop moving. And remember the lesson — neither must we.

As the Supreme Lawgiver, Jehovah has consistently conveyed clear laws to his people (Isaiah 33:22). One of the most tender and solemn is his command about blood. Why? Because Jehovah himself says that blood represents life — a gift so sacred it cannot be replaced. “The life of every sort of flesh is its blood” (Leviticus 17:14, NWT). That truth is not abstract. It touches us in the most vulnerable of places. A waiting room. A hospital bed. The rustle of papers as a doctor explains a procedure. The steady beeping of monitors reminding us how fragile a heartbeat really is. In moments like these, the world may press us — sign here, agree to this, take what is offered. Yet the decision is not small. To Jehovah, it is sacred. For long ago he told Noah: “You must not eat the flesh with its life — that is, its blood” (Genesis 9:4, NWT). He repeated the command under the Law given to Israel. And he carried it forward when the first-century governing body decreed that all Christians must “keep abstaining… from blood” (Acts 15:28, 29, NWT). What if, in that pressured moment, we pictured Jehovah leaning near, saying, “Your life is precious to me. Do not surrender what is holy”? What if we imagined his hands steadying ours as we hold firm against the signatures and the sighs of those who do not understand? Then our chest loosens. Our heart steadies. We remember: we are not alone. The world says blood is a fluid, a substance to be used, a solution to a crisis. But Jehovah says blood is life. His view is higher, deeper, truer. And when we choose His way, we are saying more than “no” to a transfusion. We are saying “yes” to Him — yes to the Giver of life, yes to the hope that extends beyond this fragile moment, yes to the God who will one day remove sickness altogether. Is it easy? No. Sometimes the pressure feels unbearable, the fear of losing life pressing on our chest like a weight. But then we remember who holds our breath, our pulse, our tomorrows. “Jehovah is the One teaching you to benefit yourself, the One guiding you in the way you should walk” (Isaiah 48:17, NWT). That guidance is never meant to harm us. It is always for our peace. So we hold firm. We uphold Jehovah’s law regarding blood, not stubbornly, but faithfully. We remind ourselves that the very beat in our chest comes from Him — and that our life rests safely in His hands. Life in the blood belongs to Jehovah. And when we honor that truth, our own life, fragile though it feels, becomes part of something eternal. ⸻ Reference: w23.07 14 ¶5

“No resident will say: ‘I am sick.’” — Isa. 33:24. Picture the moment: Armageddon ends, silence like the pause after thunder, and then the world exhales. Someone blinks twice, takes off their glasses, realizes they can see every pine needle on a distant hill. Another tosses crutches into the air — they clatter like cymbals on pavement — while wheelchairs roll away, riderless, like shopping carts nobody needs anymore. Hearing aids buzz once, then are flicked into drawers that will never open again. The whole planet becomes a giant lost-and-found of discarded sickness. (Isa. 35:5, 6; Rev. 21:4) And survivors? They won’t tiptoe cautiously into the future. No, they’ll surge forward with the energy of kids set loose in a brand-new playground the size of the earth. Soil will be turned over with joy, trees planted like fireworks in slow motion, and houses built with laughter leaking out the windows before the roof is even finished. (Ps. 115:16) We know it isn’t fantasy because Jesus already staged the trailer. His healings were sneak previews: blind men gasping at sunsets they couldn’t name yet, lepers staring at skin so new it looked borrowed, paralyzed men dancing like their legs had been waiting years to jump. Each cure was stamped with his signature — compassion in thick ink, love in bold letters. (Rev. 7:9; John 10:11; 15:12, 13) That compassion wasn’t a side project. It was Jehovah’s heartbeat, made visible in human hands. Jesus said it himself — every miracle, every tear wiped away, was his Father’s brushstroke painting a world where sickness would vanish into history’s attic. (John 5:19)

As the Supreme Lawgiver, Jehovah has consistently conveyed clear laws to his people (Isaiah 33:22). Among them are his high moral standards, designed not to restrict us but to preserve our dignity, our joy, and our friendship with Him. “Let marriage be honorable among all, and let the marriage bed be without defilement” (Hebrews 13:4, NWT). Yet the struggle is real. Desire often comes quietly, uninvited, slipping in through a glance, a memory, or a screen. The apostle Paul used strong words: “Deaden, therefore, your body members that are on the earth as respects sexual immorality, uncleanness, uncontrolled sexual passion” (Colossians 3:5, NWT). That sounds harsh at first — deaden, put to death. But Paul understood that if we don’t take decisive action, desires can grow like weeds in the soil of the heart, choking out faith, love, and peace. Picture it this way: a house with open doors and no locks, where anything passing by can wander in. That is a life unguarded. But Jehovah asks us to secure the doors, to guard the windows, to take even the smallest thought captive before it grows into something destructive. Job once said: “I have made a covenant with my eyes. So how could I show improper attention to a virgin?” (Job 31:1, NWT). He locked the door at the level of the eyes — before temptation could even enter. What if we imagined temptation as a flood rushing toward the front steps of our home? We would not casually watch it rise, hoping it doesn’t come in. We would stack barriers, seal the doors, protect those inside. So too, when we face immoral suggestions in music, movies, conversations, or digital feeds, we act swiftly. We don’t toy with danger. We reject it immediately, not because we are strong, but because we belong to Jehovah. Satan works to weaken our resolve. He whispers that standards are outdated, that no harm is done in secret, that compromise is natural. But Jehovah expects something different: that we be “obedient from the heart” (Romans 6:17, NWT). His guidance is always for our good. “If only you would pay attention to my commandments! Then your peace would become just like a river” (Isaiah 48:18, NWT). That river of peace is deeper and steadier than any fleeting pleasure Satan offers. So we resolve, like the psalmist, “I have resolved to obey your regulations at all times, down to the last” (Psalm 119:112, NWT). We guard our hearts, not grudgingly, but joyfully — because we know what is at stake. Our loyalty. Our intimacy with Jehovah. Our future in a world where purity will no longer be threatened. Guarded hearts belong to Jehovah. And in that devotion, we find not loss, but freedom. Not restriction, but safety. Not emptiness, but the fullness of His love. ⸻ Reference: w23.07 14 ¶6-7

We think of blood as red. Red with hemoglobin, red with the iron-rich buses that load oxygen in the gills and carry it faithfully to every waiting cell. That color, that transport, is so much a part of our picture of life that it seems unimaginable without it. But in the frozen seas around Antarctica swims a creature whose blood doesn’t just run cold — it runs clear. The icefish has no hemoglobin, so no buses to transport the oxygen. Instead, oxygen drifts into the plasma, a molecule here, a molecule there, flowing in the traffic itself. Fragile? It looks that way. But Jehovah designed the icefish with many wonders suited for its frozen world. One of those wonders is its clear blood. Cold water cradles more oxygen than warm, and the fish is tuned to that gift. Its heart is large, its vessels wide, its blood volume fourfold what other fish can manage. Its bones are lighter, its muscles dense with mitochondria, each one wringing power out of every molecule. And all of it flows on, clear and thin — a living system where red is unnecessary. Icefish grow long — two, sometimes nearly three feet. They wait on the seafloor, feeding on krill and smaller fish, sudden in their strike, patient in their hunger. Entire valleys of the ocean are filled with their nests, millions upon millions, testimony that Jehovah’s design does not fail. And what of us? Sometimes we wonder about the cold ahead. What if I am cut off from meetings? From publications? From the faithful voice that now guides me? What if persecution strips away what I think I need? The thought can chill us — make us feel incomplete — like a body without its red blood, like passengers left with no buses. Yet Jehovah’s answer is steady. To Paul, weighed down by a thorn in the flesh, He said: “My power is being made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NWT). It was not the removal of weakness, but the filling of the gap that kept Paul going. So too with us. Jehovah does not leave His people gasping. When the hour comes, He supplies what is needed. The icefish, coursing with clear blood through silent waters, is proof in flesh of that principle: life does not depend on what we think is essential, but on the provision Jehovah gives at just the right time. Even when the buses vanish, the passengers still move forward — carried not by their own strength, but by the God who never abandons them.

Picture a spider no bigger than a freckle, climbing to the tip of a blade of grass. It pauses, raises its front legs, and releases a thread of silk. The strand doesn’t just float on the breeze. It shivers, stretches, and suddenly carries the spider into the air. The tiny passenger is gone — not just drifting on wind, but sailing on something deeper. Many who ride the air this way are spiderlings — baby spiders that hatch from a silken egg sac already looking like miniature adults. Dozens, sometimes hundreds, spill out at once. If they all stayed together, they would quickly starve or crowd each other out. So they climb upward, release silk, and let the sky carry them away. It’s not a seasonal migration like birds, but a one-way dispersal — a way to scatter, survive, and settle new ground. For years, people thought this “ballooning” was only about catching a gust. But researchers at the University of Bristol discovered it’s more than that. The earth’s electric field — that ever-present charge between sky and soil — tugs at the silk. The threads respond like invisible sails, drawing the spider upward on currents we can’t see. In this way, creatures without wings can cross rivers, mountains, and even oceans. Isn’t it striking? A spider designed without wings, yet never grounded. Given a way to spread across continents, not in spite of its design, but because of it. And if Jehovah gave even the smallest of his creatures such an ingenious way to travel, what about us? Isaiah 40:10 (NWT) declares: “Look! The Sovereign Lord Jehovah will come with power, and his arm will rule for him.” If the unseen pull of electricity can lift a spiderling skyward, how much more can Jehovah’s mighty arm carry us, steady us, and bring us exactly where we need to be? References: Morley, E.L. & Robert, D. (2018). Electric Fields Elicit Ballooning in Spiders. Current Biology. University of Bristol. Missouri Department of Conservation. Ballooning Spiders. The Guardian. (June 15, 2021). They look like waves: massive spider webs blanket Gippsland after Victorian floods. Encyclopedia of Life. Entry on Erigone atra. Encyclopedia of Life. Entry on Stegodyphus. Wikipedia. Linyphiidae.

The popular idea is: “You’ll learn when you make enough mistakes.” But scripture paints a different picture. Jehovah does not want us bruised and broken before we gain wisdom. He urges us to listen, to be taught, to avoid needless pain. “By means of your orders I behave with understanding. That is why I hate every false path” (Psalm 119:104, NWT). Here the psalmist didn’t say, I learned by crashing into sin again and again. He said, I learned because I listened to Jehovah’s orders. Proverbs echoes the same: “The shrewd one sees the danger and conceals himself, but the inexperienced keep right on going and suffer the consequences” (Proverbs 22:3, NWT). Shrewdness — listening ahead of time — spares us from scars. So while mistakes can teach, Jehovah gives something gentler: instruction before the fall. Parents warn children not to touch a hot stove, not because they want them to learn by burning their hand, but because they love them enough to spare them that pain. Jehovah is the perfect Father. Think of school pressure. A teen may feel the urge to cheat on an exam, telling himself, If I get caught, I’ll learn my lesson. But Jehovah has already whispered through His Word: “Maintain your integrity.” The teen doesn’t need to destroy his record to learn honesty — he can listen first, and avoid the regret. Think of marriage. A spouse might say something harsh in anger, later sighing, At least I learned not to do it again. But Jehovah had already taught: “Love is patient and kind” (1 Corinthians 13:4, NWT). His guidance can save us from the ache in our chest after words we cannot take back. So yes, mistakes can shape us. But Jehovah prefers to shield us. What if — instead of stumbling first — we leaned more quickly into His voice? What if our hearts became so tender that a quiet word in scripture corrected us, long before an open wound had to? He does not delight in scars. He delights in guarding us. “The shrewd one sees the danger and conceals himself” (Proverbs 22:3, NWT). Jehovah longs for that to be you.

Scrambling for my phone in the dark to check the latest news or post has unfortunately become a habit in the early hours of my mornings. This morning squinting, without my glasses I try to make out the notification. Melissa* called about 10:00 pm, no voicemail. Melissa is, I'm gonna say a young sister, though she's just younger than me. She was the cute lil flower girl in my wedding. My pretend daughter that would sit on my lap during the meetings. Now, she's in her 40's, baptized and out of 5 children, the only one serving Jehovah. She calls me often, but mostly in the mornings to say "have a good day" or to talk, when she is dealing with a trial. She never calls late. I see a text notification from someone else... "Hey sis, just letting you know that Diane* died". Diane, Melissa's mom. That's why the call. I take a breath. We knew this was coming. Melissa told me that Diane had decide to stop dialysis. Melissa didn't like her mom's decision but it was not hers to make. Melissa was a very good daughter to Diane. The lived together, served Jehovah together. But Melissa was also the care taker in the relationship. It's funny how that happens in some cases. The daughter takes on the mother role. But, if Diane slacked in her meeting attendance, Melissa was her reminder. Melissa helped Diane financially and when Diane got sick Melissa was her support and transport back and forth to dialysis. Now, the weight of it all, the stress of it all, is gone. What do we call it? Freedom? That sounds so calloused. Though she has been freed from the constant occupation of caring and worrying. Freed from the time spent serving and cleaning morning and night. I think of my mom who cares for my dad after his stroke. I think of another friend who cares for her mom and another family member. Rest? Yes, they may sleep. But the mind still worries. They are up in the night checking in on their loved ones. They love them. It's not a burden. My mom promised my dad that she would always take care of him as long as she could. That is what she wanted to do. At 83 she's still doing it. Her strength, like us all, comes from the God of all comfort. Melissa's calling.... it's 5 am. In tears she tells me about the day before. The brothers and sisters that came to visit Diane and how Diane went to take a nap after everyone left. How Diane who was snoring loudly suddenly went quiet. And how Melissa goes in to check and sees in her mom's face the look that tells her that her Diane has died. I feel tears fall on my cheeks. Melissa then relates how her siblings like vultures come and take and leave and now, how she has to make funeral arrangements. But, I know the congregation will step in and help her. I will step in. She needs to grieve to receive comfort. That's our job. The things we all endure in this system. The events we call normal, but yet is so unnatural. I told Melissa it was a blessing that Diane went so quickly. But blessing doesn't feel like the right word. It's like up is down and down is up. Was that the right thing to say? Because it didn't sound right. I know we are all feeling the heaviness of this system. But I also know our father Jehovah is faithful and loyal. And one day soon we will have different words to express. When we will be able to see our friends and family again. Where there will be no more caretakers of the sick and feeble. No worries or tears of sorrow. We will then live the real life and experience True Freedom. *names have been changed.

The Atlantic heaves, rolling out big green walls of water, and riding one of them is a hippo—yes, a hippo—perched as if on a surfboard too small for its bulk. Ears flick like rudders, nostrils flare, and for one glorious instant this half-ton river horse leans forward just right, catching the curl like a pro from a Saturday morning cartoon. Spray arcs around it like confetti, and the sight is so absurd you almost expect it to throw a shaka sign with one stubby leg. By the time your grin settles, the frame sharpens. This isn’t an animator’s doodle—it’s Loango National Park in Gabon, one of the few places where hippos actually wander into the Atlantic surf. By day they’re usually sunk in rivers and ponds, their backs slick with mud and their eyes just above the waterline, dozing through the worst of the heat. When evening comes, they haul out, great shadows grazing across the savanna under starlight. But here, uniquely, some take a detour: they leave the lagoons, step onto the beach, and lumber straight into the ocean, as if the day’s commute includes a stop at the shoreline. In the saltwater, everything shifts. The ocean is denser than freshwater, lifting them higher, making them bob like corks instead of plowing like barges. For a few minutes, these unlikely surfers roll with the swells, rocking and tilting in a dance no zoologist ever thought to choreograph. Why do they do it? Researchers who study Loango’s biodiversity suggest it might be relief from biting flies, or the geography of rivers that spill directly onto the beach, blurring the line between pond and surf. Maybe it’s simply comfort—another way to cool skin that dries too fast under Africa’s punishing sun. But whatever the reason, the ocean is only a cameo. Hippos can’t stay there. Their skin needs shade and humidity, their stomachs crave grass, not kelp. So by nightfall, they turn back inland. Mouths sweep fields, heavy bellies sway in the dark, and the ocean’s froth fades behind them like a half-remembered dream. The surf may be a thrill, but the rivers and plains are home. Doesn’t that echo something about us? We can flirt with places not truly meant for us. We can dip into waters that feel thrilling, even liberating, but in the end our strength and nourishment come from where we belong. Just as Jehovah fixed boundaries for hippos—freshwater creatures with rare saltwater detours—he’s set boundaries for us, too. And when we respect those, we thrive. Job 26:14 (NWT) reminds us: “Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a whisper has been heard of him!” Hippos riding the Atlantic surf remind us that every new discovery in creation is only the edge of Jehovah’s wisdom. What we’ve seen so far—no matter how wondrous—is just a whisper. There is always more to learn, more to marvel at, more to stir us to awe.

When you picture an armadillo, what comes to mind? Maybe a quiet, armored ball scurrying off the roadside at night. Now imagine picking one up and being met, not with silence, but with a piercing scream loud enough to rattle your bones. That is exactly what happens with the screaming hairy armadillo (Chaetophractus vellerosus). True to its name, this little creature shouts its protest with a squeal so shrill that predators—and humans—are often left stunned. Found in the dry grasslands and deserts of Argentina, Bolivia, and Paraguay, the screaming hairy armadillo is small—only about a foot and a half long—but full of surprises. Its body is armored like its relatives, but the bands of bony plates are laced with fur, especially on the underside, giving it a shaggy appearance. Soft and hard woven together in one design—Jehovah blending sensitivity with protection. Like many desert creatures, its schedule is tuned to survival. In summer it is nocturnal, foraging under the cover of darkness when the heat is unbearable. In winter, though, it flips its habits and becomes diurnal, active in the daylight when warmth is needed. Few animals show such seasonal rhythm, a reminder that adaptability is stitched right into creation. Its digging style is almost comical. Of course it has sturdy feet and claws, but at times it will thrust its nose into the dirt and spin itself in circles, carving cone-shaped holes in the ground. What looks awkward is actually effective. In those burrows it hides from predators and shields itself from extremes of temperature. And when it runs—don’t be fooled by the armor—it can sprint fast enough to vanish into its tunnel before a predator knows what happened. Its diet is equally resourceful. Insects, frogs, lizards, even rodents—if it moves, it might be food. Plants too, especially the honey-pods of the Prosopis tree. Sometimes, up to half of what it swallows is actually sand, sifted along with the meal. Add to that its specialized kidneys, capable of conserving water by producing highly concentrated urine, and you have an animal built to endure scarcity. In some regions, it can survive long stretches without a sip of water at all. What can a screaming, hairy, half-armored creature teach us? More than you might think. Just as this armadillo blends soft fur with hard armor, we too must balance tenderness with resilience. We are not called to be brittle, nor to be all softness without defense. Jehovah designed us to show compassion while also holding firm in faith. When the seasons of life shift, we can learn from its adaptability—active in the night during scorching times, yet ready to walk in the light when cold winds blow. Trials often demand flexibility, and Jehovah helps us adjust. Like the armadillo’s burrow, unseen but secure, our refuge in Him may not always be visible to others, but it shields us all the same. And what of that scream? It may sound odd, even a little unsettling, but it works. Sometimes survival comes through unexpected means. In our case, courage may be found in prayer, in speaking up for truth, in leaning on Jehovah’s spirit when fear closes in. Isaiah 41:10 (NWT) reminds us: “Do not be afraid, for I am with you. Do not be anxious, for I am your God. I will fortify you, yes, I will help you.” The armadillo screams; we call on Jehovah. Both find deliverance, but ours leads not only to survival, but to everlasting life. So next time you think of armadillos, remember the little one that shouts. Jehovah made even the smallest creature a lesson in balance, resourcefulness, and courage. And if He clothed a desert digger with hair and armor, how much more care has He shown in shaping you?

Natural rubber doesn’t begin life as a tough, black tire. It starts much softer—tapped from the slender bark of the Pará rubber tree (Hevea brasiliensis) as a milky latex. In its raw form, it appears pale—white or creamy—with subtle shades of yellow or brown depending on natural compounds like proteins or resins present in the latex (Rubber Board India). Look even deeper, and you discover an astonishing truth: the very trees that provide this latex are themselves built from carbon. When wood dries, its dry mass is nearly half carbon by weight. Studies show wood is roughly 50 percent carbon by dry mass—sometimes as much as 47–48 percent—along with oxygen, hydrogen, and small amounts of other elements (U.S. Forest Service, Forest Carbon FAQs). That means both the source tree and the rubber latex are, in essence, carbon-rich. Yet, untouched rubber is fragile. It’s prone to cracking under blazing sun, to breaking down in ozone-laden air, to wearing down under friction, and overheating under stress. It begs for reinforcement. That reinforcement comes in the form of carbon black. Produced under carefully controlled conditions through the partial combustion of hydrocarbons, this fine carbon powder is engineered to have extremely small particles with a vast surface area. When these carbon particles are blended into the latex, a powerful transformation occurs—not just in appearance, but in substance. The beauty lies in the compatibility—after all, the rubber and carbon black are both forms of carbon. The particles don’t dissolve into the polymer chains, but they embed themselves, gripping and anchoring them. Carbon is reinforcing carbon. It’s as if each carbon black particle extends the tree’s own molecular framework into the rubber, creating a bond that is nearly perfect on a chemical and structural level. This carbon-to-carbon marriage gives the tire the strength to stretch without tearing and to resist the constant wear of the road (Vernay – Carbon Black Reinforcement). Following this integration, as the rubber cures, the carbon black also begins protecting the tire from heat damage—helping it shed thermal energy efficiently and endure high temperatures without degrading (CFI Carbon Products). It guards against ultraviolet light and ozone that would otherwise crack and age the rubber over time (Rubber & Seal). Some grades even provide electrical conductivity, allowing static charges to dissipate safely rather than accumulating (ASTM D257 Test Methods). All of these fortifying effects happen invisibly—but the tire’s black color tells the story. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s proof of invisible strength, delivered in plain sight. When Science Mirrors Spirit Our spiritual lives start much like that pale rubber—vulnerable and in need of reinforcement. Yet the bond that makes us strong isn’t something foreign or forced. Just as carbon black blends seamlessly with the carbon-rich rubber, Jehovah’s spirit is a perfect match for who we are at our core. It doesn’t fight against our nature—it fulfills it. His spirit locks in where we are weakest, grips us where we would otherwise slip, and turns our fragility into endurance. The reality is, when we are spiritual people, it is as if we are in step with Jehovah’s spirit. The strength that flows from that union isn’t loud or flashy, any more than a tire flaunts its blackness—it is quiet, hidden, but undeniable. It is resilience that endures pressure, heat, and wear, not because of what we are on the surface, but because of what He has worked deep within. Isaiah 40:29 (NWT) puts it simply: “He gives power to the tired one and full might to those lacking strength.” That power doesn’t rest on us like an outer coat—it moves with us, as though it was always meant to be there.

Not every chicken is built the same. Some are made for laying — dependable, almost mechanical in their rhythm. A Rhode Island Red or a White Leghorn can fill a carton with eggs faster than you can make an omelet. But ask them to brood? To sit faithfully and bring those eggs to life? Forget it. They’ll wander off the nest, distracted, bored, moving on before the work is done. Then there’s the bantam hen. She doesn’t lay many eggs, and what she does lay are smaller. But give her a clutch and she’ll sit on them like the world depends on it. Day after day, she keeps them warm, turning them gently, guarding them with a fierceness far bigger than her size. Ask any farmer — bantams are some of the best brooders you can find. It makes you think: what kind of “chicken” are we? Some of us may have gifts that look impressive — large, abundant, quick to show results. Others may feel their contribution is smaller, less noticeable, not as dazzling. But gifts without faithfulness can be fragile. And faithfulness, even in small things, can bring life. Didn’t Jesus praise the widow who gave two small coins — not for the size of her gift, but for the heart behind it? (Luke 21:1-4, NWT). Jehovah doesn’t ask us all to be the same. He values variety. Paul once compared the congregation to a body — not every part is an eye, or a hand, or a foot, but each has its place, and each matters (1 Corinthians 12:14-20). Maybe you’re not the Rhode Island Red of the group, churning out baskets of visible results. Maybe you’re the bantam, steady and devoted in your corner. But what you do matters. Your gift — your presence, your loyalty, your quiet acts of care — may be what keeps others warm enough to grow. So, what kind of chicken are you? The one admired for its output but quick to wander off? Or the one who, though small, stays faithful on the nest until the work is finished? Jehovah isn’t looking at the size of your egg. He’s looking at the faithfulness of your brooding. References Ekarius, C. 2007. Storey’s Illustrated Guide to Poultry Breeds Hutt, F.B. 1949. *Genetics of the Fowl

* I will also be posting these stories under the creative writing section as well (I have spent the last four or five months working on a deeply personal research topic. Now, somehow, it has metamorphized several times...until finally it has turned into a short story about a real biblical account. Even after I wrote it, I wasn't satisfied with it. I broke it down, started over...and did more research...more digging. Finally I reassembled it only to then break it into five separate sections...each one building upon the previous...each one propelling the reader forward. I am finally ready to share it with everyone here...but I will do so section by section. Thank you in advance for reading it, and I pray that you draw as much encouragement from reading...as I have from preparing it.) One Heart A Journey Beyond Borders to Worship Jehovah Part One--The Invitation Nobody Expected Research Note: This account is drawn from 2 Chronicles 30:1 27, when King Hezekiah invited all Judah...and even the surviving tribes of the northern kingdom...to come to Jerusalem for the Passover. For deeper background, see the NWT Study Bible notes on 2 Chronicles 30 and Insight on the Scriptures under “Hezekiah” and “Passover.” The Bible Encyclopedia entry for “Chronicles, Books of” also gives historical context for Hezekiah’s reign and the political tensions of the time. These resources help us picture the courage it took to cross political borders and the unity Jehovah blessed with “one heart” (lev echad). “Sometimes the most dangerous road you can take is the one that leads you back to Jehovah.” The spring air in Manasseh carried the scent of barley and the faint tang of sheep pens. Eliab knelt in the courtyard, mending a cracked water jar, when the sound of hoofbeats broke the afternoon stillness. Two men rode into the village, their tunics dusty, scrolls tucked under their arms. They dismounted and began reading aloud in the marketplace: “Return to Jehovah… come to His sanctuary in Jerusalem… He will not turn His face away if you return to Him.” The words hung in the air for a heartbeat...then the crowd erupted. “Jerusalem?” a man barked. “That’s their city, not ours!” “They think we’ll bow to their king?” another scoffed. A woman muttered, “We have our own altars. We don’t need theirs.” Eliab’s neighbor, Hador, spat on the ground. “You’d have to be a fool to go. You’ll be branded a traitor before you reach the border.” But Eliab’s mind drifted to his grandfather’s voice, telling of Solomon’s temple...the gold, the singing, the smoke rising like a pillar to heaven. He remembered the way his grandfather’s eyes would shine when he spoke of the festivals, of the unity of all Israel before the split. That night, Eliab sat by the fire with his wife Tirzah. Their children, Asa and little Noa, slept nearby. “They’ve invited us to Jerusalem,” he said quietly. Tirzah looked up sharply. “You’re not thinking...” “I am.” Her brow furrowed. “Eliab, you know what they’ll say. You know what they’ll do. And what if the Assyrians see us crossing south? They’ll think we’re plotting with Judah.” He stared into the flames. “Maybe they will. But this isn’t about Judah. It’s about Jehovah.” The next morning, as they packed bread, figs, and water skins, Hador appeared at the gate. “You’re really going?” he asked, incredulous. Eliab tightened the strap on his pack. “Yes.” Hador shook his head. “Then may your God protect you...because your neighbors won’t.” As they stepped onto the road south, Eliab didn’t know that the first challenge to their unity wouldn’t come from Judah...it would come from someone walking beside them.

High on the rugged slopes of the Himalayas and Hindu Kush, there lives a goat with a crown unlike any other. The markhor doesn’t wear jewels or gold, yet on its head twist horns so elaborate they look as if they were carved by an artisan’s hand. Each spiral rises skyward, winding like a corkscrew. Some of these horns stretch more than five feet long — taller than many people! No two sets are exactly alike. One male’s horns may form a wide, open spiral while another’s are tighter, almost like braided rope. But all share that signature twist, giving the markhor its name, which means “snake eater” in Persian — a reference to how the horns resemble two serpents locked in a coil. The horns serve more than beauty. During the rutting season, males clash in slow-motion duels, pressing horn against horn. Instead of striking violently like rams, they lean into each other and twist, the spirals locking as if designed for such contests. The winner earns the right to pass on his strength to the next generation. Even in this, Jehovah’s creation shows restraint and design — horns strong enough for battle, yet shaped in a way that allows strength to be tested without constant fatal injury. The markhor itself is a master of balance. It navigates cliffs and rocky slopes where a misstep could be fatal. To see one stand tall with its spiraling horns catching the mountain sunlight is to glimpse majesty at rest. But why such a design? Why horns that spiral, and not just straight or curved like those of other goats? Scientists still puzzle over the precise reason, though they know the shape helps reduce the risk of snapping during clashes. Whatever the mechanics, the effect is stunning — a living sculpture climbing mountainsides. Doesn’t this remind us of the words of Psalm 104:24 (NWT): “How many your works are, O Jehovah! You have made all of them in wisdom.” When we see animals like the markhor, with their extraordinary crowns of bone, we realize creation is not merely functional — it is also filled with wonder, variety, and beauty. And there’s another lesson. The markhor’s horns take years to grow to their full glory. Patience is written into their design. Each spiral marks not a moment, but a passage of time. What if we saw our own spiritual growth that way? Not as something instant, but as something spiraling steadily upward, year after year, until it becomes a testimony of endurance and faith. Isaiah 40:31 (NWT) reminds us: “Those hoping in Jehovah will regain power. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not tire out.” Like the markhor, we may climb steep paths. But if we keep spiraling upward, patiently and steadily, Jehovah will see the beauty of our endurance — a crown more valuable than horns of any length.

If you’ve never raised chickens, the word brooding might sound gloomy, like a stormy mood. But in the barnyard, brooding means something tender and remarkable. It’s when a hen, after laying her clutch of eggs, settles herself over them, wings spread, body heat steady, eyes watchful. She gives herself to the task of bringing life forward. Here’s the part I didn’t know until I first researched it: a hen lays about one egg per day, and she won’t begin brooding until her nest is nearly complete. If she plans to hatch ten chicks, that takes ten days of laying. But the first egg doesn’t begin to grow the moment it’s laid. It waits. Inside that shell, life is on pause until the warmth of the hen’s body surrounds it. Only then does development begin — so that when hatch day finally comes, the chicks break free within hours of each other. That pause is astonishing. The fertilized egg doesn’t spoil during those days in the nest. Scientists say the mother’s body prepares it with protective proteins and balances, allowing it to stay viable for about a week, sometimes a little more. Then, when her body heat wraps around the eggs, the signal is clear: now is the time. All together, they begin. All together, they end. What about us? Am I busy producing output, achievements, things that look good from the outside, but unwilling to sit still and nurture what really matters? Or am I willing to brood — to pause, to protect, to stay steady even when nothing seems to be happening? Jehovah values the faithful brooder. He calls us to perseverance, not just production. Paul reminded the congregation: “Let us not give up in doing what is fine, for in due time we will reap if we do not tire out.” — Galatians 6:9 (NWT) Life in His service often feels like waiting on eggs that don’t seem to change. But then His warmth touches them — and suddenly growth that was invisible bursts into life. References National Chicken Council. 2020. Standard Laying Patterns and Clutch Size in Domestic Hens. Poultry Science Journal. Love, J., et al. 2018. “Egg Viability and Embryonic Pause During the Preincubation Period.” Poultry Science Reports 47(3): 205–212. Romanoff, A. L., and A. J. Romanoff. 1949. The Avian Embryo: Structural and Functional Development. Macmillan. North, M. O., and D. D. Bell. 1990. Commercial Chicken Production Manual. AVI Publishing. Jones, D. R. 2004. “Synchrony of Hatching: A Reproductive Strategy in Birds.” Journal of Avian Biology 35(5): 501–508.

Part Two – Crossing the Divide Research Note: Still in 2 Chronicles 30, verses 10 11 highlight that many mocked the invitation, but “some from Asher, Manasseh, and Zebulun humbled themselves and came.” The Hebrew for “humbled themselves” (yekhniʿu) implies bending the will...a deliberate act of submission to Jehovah. For more, see the Insight entry on “Humility” and the NWT Study Bible note on verse 11. These help us appreciate the personal cost of leaving political loyalties behind. “Unity doesn’t wait for the politics to settle...it walks anyway.” The road wound through hills dotted with olive trees. They weren’t alone. A fisherman from Asher trudged ahead, nets slung over his back. A widow from Zebulun led a donkey piled high with flatbread wrapped in linen. At first, conversation was cautious. Some still muttered about politics. “I don’t trust Hezekiah,” one man said. “Kings always have an angle.” A Levite traveling with them replied, “Maybe. But this isn’t about Hezekiah. It’s about Jehovah’s Passover.” The words hung in the air like a challenge. That night, they camped under the stars, sharing dried dates and roasted chickpeas. Children from different tribes played together, their laughter echoing in the dark. But the next day, tension flared. A young man from Manasseh accused the fisherman of being “too friendly” with Judahites they’d met on the road. Voices rose. Eliab stepped between them. “We left our homes for the same reason,” he said. “If we can’t walk together now, how will we stand together in Jerusalem?” The group fell silent. The Levite nodded slowly. “The road is our first test.” The next morning, as the sun lit the horizon, the walls of Jerusalem came into view...and with them, a choice that would silence every political argument they’d ever had.

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.

While albinism is widely recognized in animals, its occurrence in plants provides a fascinating glimpse into the challenges of life without pigmentation. Albino plants lack chlorophyll, the green pigment crucial for photosynthesis—a process that enables plants to convert sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into glucose, their primary source of energy. Without chlorophyll, albino plants are unable to photosynthesize and must rely on stored nutrients from their seeds. Once these reserves are depleted, most albino plants perish, often within weeks of germination. Survival in the wild without assistance is extremely rare. However, some species present unique exceptions. For example, albino redwoods in California’s forests survive by parasitically drawing nutrients from neighboring trees, often their green parent. These connections allow albino redwoods to persist despite their inability to photosynthesize, though they remain fragile and dependent on their host. In laboratory settings, scientists have extended the survival of albino plants by providing external nutrients. This research highlights the critical role of chlorophyll in plant growth and offers insights into plant biology and potential agricultural applications. The rarity and fragility of albino plants underscore the intricate balance within ecosystems and the importance of each component in sustaining life. Sources: Earth.com, SFGate, Shuncy.com.

In a fascinating story of agricultural ingenuity, some of the world’s most beloved vegetables—kale, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts—all share a surprising origin: the wild mustard plant, Brassica oleracea. Through centuries of selective breeding, ancient farmers transformed this single species into a family of diverse and nutritious crops. The Science of Selective Breeding Selective breeding, the process of choosing and propagating plants with desirable traits, allowed early farmers to emphasize specific features of wild mustard. The wild mustard plant, native to coastal regions of southern and western Europe, exhibits remarkable phenotypic plasticity—the ability of a single species to develop significant physical differences based on selective pressures or environmental conditions. This plasticity enabled the creation of vegetables with unique forms and uses. Here’s how selective breeding shaped each vegetable: • Kale: Bred for its large, hearty leaves, ideal for salads and cooking. • Cabbage: Developed from plants with tightly packed, overlapping leaves, creating dense, compact heads. • Brussels Sprouts: Evolved by selecting plants with miniature buds growing along the stem. • Broccoli: Resulted from emphasizing larger, clustered flower buds. • Cauliflower: Created by focusing on undeveloped flower heads that form tight, white curds. The Impact of Human Ingenuity “This is a textbook example of how selective breeding can create an extraordinary variety of crops from a single plant species,” explains Dr. Kenneth M. Olsen. “By focusing on specific traits, farmers transformed a single species into vegetables that fulfill very different purposes in our diets.” These specialized crops meet diverse dietary and cultural needs. Kale is celebrated as a nutrient-dense superfood, cabbage stores well for long periods, and broccoli and cauliflower are packed with antioxidants and vitamins. Meanwhile, Brussels sprouts have become a staple side dish for millions worldwide. A Call for Biodiversity This history underscores the importance of preserving the wild relatives of cultivated crops. While human intervention has enhanced Brassica oleracea, its wild ancestor still holds genetic traits that may be critical for future agricultural challenges, such as adapting to pests, diseases, or climate change. “Crop wild relatives are an essential resource for improving resilience in modern agriculture,” Dr. Olsen emphasizes. “They contain genetic diversity that we may need to combat emerging challenges in food production.” A Legacy of Innovation Today, kale, broccoli, and their cousins are celebrated as superfoods, renowned for their health benefits and versatility. Yet, their journey from a scraggly wild plant to essential components of modern diets highlights humanity’s profound ability to shape and refine nature.

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.

A dozen eggs. The carton is full now. If you’ve followed along, you’ve seen it quietly change — one egg, then two, then three — until today, twelve. Maybe you noticed the count, maybe you didn’t. But here it is, complete. And isn’t that how Jehovah works? What He builds isn’t always loud or obvious — but it is steady, it is sure, and in time, it is whole. Look closer at the eggs themselves. They appear fragile, as if a careless touch could ruin them. And yet the shell, with its gentle curve, is astonishingly strong. Distribute the weight evenly, and an egg can support books, even bricks. Its strength lies not in hardness but in design — each curve channeling pressure away, each line protecting life within. Jehovah gives us that same kind of strength. We are not made of steel, unyielding and cold. We are made human, tender, capable of breaking — and yet able to endure when His Spirit flows through us. Paul wrote: “We are pressed in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not downhearted” (2 Corinthians 4:8, NWT). The pressure doesn’t vanish. But the design holds. Do you see it now? What looked small, ordinary, even forgettable has been extraordinary all along. From the first egg to the twelfth, from the open carton to the closed — the lesson has been the same. Jehovah designs. Jehovah plans. Jehovah strengthens. A closed carton. A closed case. And in it, a reminder: the strength within us is never our own. It comes from the One who shaped the curve, filled the carton, and will never let it fall. — Psalm 55:22 (NWT) References Severa, L., Buchar, J., & Votava, J. 2010. New approach of eggshell mechanical properties determination Rodriguez-Navarro, A., Kalin, O., & Nys, Y. et al. 2002. Influence of the microstructure on the shell strength of eggs laid by hens of different ages Lin, J., Puri, V.M., & Anantheswaran, R.C. 1995. Measurement of Eggshell Thermal-mechanical Properties Hahn, E.N. 2017. Nature’s Technical Ceramic: The Avian Eggshell Liu, F., Jiang, X., & Wang, L. 2022. Mechanical Design Principles of Avian Eggshells for Survivability