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

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

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