As I wrote Tsippy’s Story and watched it inch its way toward publication, I found myself forced to include a fact that could not be dodged or softened. The story demanded a Creator God. Not a vague force. Not a poetic metaphor. A Creator. One who actually made things. Galaxies. Time. Matter. Life.

All this without disrupting scientific explanations for the same.

And once I allowed that truth into the book, it followed me out of the manuscript and into my thinking, where it has been making itself rather comfortable ever since.

We are told, quite casually, that our galaxy contains hundreds of billions of stars. Then we are informed, again with remarkable calm, that there are billions of such galaxies. Each one spinning, flaming, exploding, birthing stars, swallowing them, obeying laws no politician has yet managed to repeal. Creation, it turns out, is not a modest affair. It is excessive. Lavish. Ridiculous in scale.

And over all this sits God. In majesty. In control.

Now place beside that picture another one.

Much smaller. “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.” Matthew 10:29.

A sparrow. Not an eagle. Not a lion. A sparrow. The kind of bird we shoo away from balconies and forget five seconds later.

And yet the same God who holds galaxies like pocket change notices when that sparrow hits the dust.

Put those two images together: On one hand, unimaginable power. On the other, unimaginable attention. A Creator vast enough to sculpt the universe and tender enough to stoop over a trembling feather.

Then pan the camera to the present moment.

Cities, after municipal elections, shouting with glee. Nations puffing out chests. Leaders thumping tables. News anchors widening eyes. Social media warriors firing opinions like confetti. Little men jumping around, shouting, shrieking, hugging. Convinced that history itself is holding its breath waiting for their next sentence.

Oh what fools they are, because above them, the stars continue. Calm. Ordered. Unimpressed.

This is where your perspective should become a spiritual discipline.

When the world feels like a badly managed circus and fear starts selling tickets, the invitation is simple. Look up. Literally if possible. The night sky is God’s way of clearing His throat.

Those stars have watched empires rise and fall. They have seen tyrants strut and vanish. They have outlived every crisis currently trending. And they remain exactly where God told them to be.

The same God. Still in charge.

So today, when headlines try to terrify you and noise pretends to be authority, step outside if you can. Or at least lift your eyes beyond the screen. Remember the sparrow. Remember the galaxies. Hold them together in your mind.

Then smile. Laugh. Guffaw with joy if necessary.

Because once you see who is really in charge, fear looks rather silly.

How great is our God…!

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