The first time I heard the name Jehovah, it didn’t come first from a loud preacher’s voice nor from the lips of a classmate reciting religious facts—it came in a whisper. Not the whisper of wind, not even of man, but something quieter, more persistent, and eventually, unignorable.

It came during one of those afternoons when my world was no louder than the buzz of cicadas and the occasional rooster announcing its indignation. I was just a boy—eleven years old, lanky, with scabbed knees and eyes that saw stars in science books and miracles in mathematics. I was the kind of boy who answered too fast in class, raised his hand too high, and stayed behind to erase the blackboard just to see what the teacher would write next. But I was also the boy who didn’t know yet that life was about to stretch before him two diverging roads: one smooth and paved with medals and accolades, and another, rugged, dusty, and pointed heavenward.

Jehovah entered my story like an unexpected friend, one you didn’t realize you needed until your heart made room.

The Seed Sprouts

At first, my knowledge of Jehovah was like a mustard seed—tiny, buried, and largely overlooked amidst the clamor and clutter of an otherwise ordinary life. The kind of life filled with school bells, unwashed dishes, endless errands, and a tendency to procrastinate that I liked to pretend was “creative scheduling.” I had, of course, heard of God. Who hasn’t? But God was not just a celestial figure tucked into clouds or paraded across stained-glass windows. He had a name. A purpose. And, astonishingly, a plan for me—yes, for me, the same kid who routinely ducked out of household chores by perfecting the art of invisibility and had a procrastination habit so advanced it could be listed as a second language.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt that changed me. No burning bushes like what Moses had experienced. No choir of angels bursting through the ceiling. No, it started far more quietly—like most real things do. It started with a man named Isidro Lebantino, Jr (“kuya Jhun”).

Now, if you’re imagining a towering figure with a deep voice, dressed in flowing robes, commanding crowds with thunderous sermons—erase that. Kuya Jhun wasn’t the kind of man to dazzle you with oratory fireworks. In fact, he often spoke in such a low tone that the occasional rooster in the background could drown him out. But when he spoke, it felt like truth arrived barefoot and dusty, walking beside you on a rural path rather than being shouted from a mountaintop. He spoke like someone who didn’t just know Jehovah—he had walked with Him. And, as I would come to learn, he actually had.

Every week, I made my own pilgrimage—not through ancient deserts or temple courtyards, but along a 45-minute dusty path from our humble barangay of Villaflores to the next, Ungab. The trail wasn’t paved. It wasn’t even a polished road, really. Just a rocky path that turned into a dust cloud during dry days and a slip-and-slide arena during the rainy season. One minute you were walking. The next, you were skating involuntarily in your tsinelas or shoes, silently praying you wouldn’t fall into a puddle that looked deceptively shallow but could swallow a toddler whole.

I sometimes joked to myself that the path was Jehovah’s way of testing my faith—one puddle at a time.

Despite the mess and mud, those walks became sacred to me. There was something about them. Alone with my thoughts, under the sweltering heat or with raindrops tattooing the banana leaves, I would rehearse scriptures in my mind or sing a Kingdom song. I didn’t fully understand them then. I couldn’t connect all the theological dots. But I knew it felt right. That much I was sure of.

Somewhere between Psalm 23 and slipping on a mossy rock, I’d imagine Jehovah watching me—not with the stern gaze of an angry deity, but with the affectionate amusement of a father watching his child learn to ride a bike and fall for the sixth time.

By the time I reached the Kingdom Hall in Ungab, I looked more like someone who had narrowly escaped a wildlife documentary than a well-groomed worshipper. My shirt would be soaked in sweat. My pants would have a unique pattern of splattered mud that could be mistaken for abstract art. And my hair—well, let’s just say even the wind had given up trying to style it.

But I never once complained. Not really. Why? Because I knew what came afterward. It wasn’t just the spiritual nourishment from the meeting itself—though that was always uplifting. No, I had something else to look forward to: lunch at brother Isidro’s house.

Let me be clear—this wasn’t just any lunch. This was a feast dressed in simplicity. There were no expensive dishes, no elaborate presentations. But everything—everything—tasted better in that house. Rice, fried fish, some vegetables fresh from the backyard, maybe a small tin of sardines if times were lean. But the ingredients were seasoned with laughter, genuine love, and the kind of warmth that couldn’t be bottled or bought.

His home, modest as it was, felt like an oasis. But it was there I felt something richer than comfort—it was belonging.

And every Sunday, like clockwork, at exactly 3:00 p.m., after we had finished eating and washed our hands, we would open our Bibles. It was during those quiet study sessions that my mind and heart truly opened. Kuya Jhun never treated our time together as a chore or mere routine. He treated it like a treasure hunt, with every verse a clue, every chapter a doorway.

He’d guide me through scriptures as if we were travelers stepping through a sacred landscape. When he talked about resurrection, it didn’t sound like a fairy tale—like something written for people thousands of years ago in dusty robes and sandals. No, it felt close. Personal. A real, living hope. He spoke about everlasting life not as a lofty reward for the perfect, but as a promise from Jehovah to anyone willing to walk the path—mud, slip-ups, and all.

I remember one particular afternoon. We were deep in conversation about Jesus’ miracles, and I asked him—half-serious, half-skeptical—“Do you think if Jesus were here today, He’d still walk everywhere? Even on these muddy roads?”

Kuya Jhun chuckled, wiped his glasses, and said, “If He was visiting you, He’d bring boots.”

That was my kuya. Humor folded into wisdom. Always gentle. Always patient. He never mocked my questions, no matter how naïve they were. Instead, he welcomed them, knowing that questions are often the first signs of a heart trying to bloom.

Week after week, season after season, that mustard seed inside me—once buried in the soil of a distracted life—began to grow. Not quickly. Not without struggle. There were days I still procrastinated. Days I skipped reading. Days I felt too tired or too preoccupied. But each time I returned to the path, each time I sat across from kuya with a plate of cornick and an open Bible, I was cultivating something real.

Eventually, I began to notice changes in myself. I started helping more around the house—not because I had suddenly become virtuous, but because something in me wanted to mirror the generosity I had seen in kuya Jhun. I began waking up earlier on Sundays. I memorized verses, not just to recite them, but because they gave me strength on hard days. I even started bringing others along that dusty path with me—particularly my younger sister, Angelica.

The journey wasn’t linear. My faith didn’t shoot up like a bamboo stalk. It grew like the guava tree behind our house in Loob—awkward, sometimes leaning, but always reaching for light.

My knowledge of Jehovah, which once was the size of a mustard seed, has taken root in a life that—while still full of imperfections—now finds direction, purpose, and peace in serving Him.

And still, sometimes, when the rains come and the streets flood, I find myself smiling. I remember those early treks, soaked to the bone, and I imagine Jehovah smiling too. Not because I’ve arrived, not because I’m flawless, but because I’m still walking. One muddy step at a time.

About that seed? I didn’t know that in such tiny seed of faith sown in my heart would bring a big impact in my choices as I am now facing diverging path, a fork in the road.

The Dance I Never Danced

My first real crossroad in life didn’t come wrapped in grandeur or set against the backdrop of some dramatic, life-altering event. No, it came in the form of something far more innocent, deceptively simple—and to a fifteen-year-old—utterly terrifying: dancing.

It was the Christmas party, that time of year when schools turn into mini theaters, hallways are dressed with cut-out snowflakes (even though it’s 40 degrees outside), and classrooms smell faintly of glue, glitter, and stress. Our MAPEH coordinator had announced early on that part of our final grade would be based on our performance in a calisthenics dance to be held during the school’s Christmas party. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

This wasn’t just any school performance. It was the event of the year. Parents were involved as costumes were purchased, and rehearsals became more intense than most military drills. The entire thing was taken with a level of seriousness usually reserved for national events. And our adviser—let’s call her Ma’am Serut—ran her class with all the warmth and flexibility of a concrete pillar. She made it clear from the beginning: “Anyone who skips the dance will not be accepted in my class.” And I, by that time, is the top of the class.

Now, when you’re fifteen, that’s not just a statement. That’s a threat with multiple levels of existential consequences. All I could hear was: You will fail. You will be embarrassed. You will have to repeat the class and be forever known as the top one who repeats class.

At first, I tried to ignore the conflict building inside me. I pretended it would resolve itself somehow. Maybe the event would be postponed? Maybe I could just blend into the background and pretend to participate without really doing it? But deep down, I knew there was a decision to be made.

You see, by that point, I had already been attending Bible studies. I was beginning to understand Jehovah’s standards—how He wants us to stay away from practices rooted in false worship, including certain celebrations like Christmas. I had learned that many of these traditions, though popular and widely accepted, had origins that did not honor Jehovah.

And so, there it was: my crossroads. I could either participate and go along with the crowd, or I could stand firm—quietly, respectfully—and risk the wrath of Ma’am Serut.

I prayed. Hard. The kind of prayers that only a nervous, sweating fifteen-year-old can pray. “Jehovah, please help me. I want to do what’s right, but I don’t want to be expelled. Or fail. Or get yelled at. Or cry in front of everyone. Please.”

The days leading up to the event were excruciating. Every corner of the school echoed with the upbeat pop song chosen for the performance. My classmates were perfecting their synchronized moves, some of them so excited they’d voluntarily stay after school just to rehearse. Meanwhile, I stood quietly on the sidelines, doing my own kind of preparing—the kind that involved conviction, not choreography.

Then, as if Jehovah leaned over the clouds and whispered, “I’ve got this,” something extraordinary happened: a typhoon hit.

Yes, on Christmas party itself.

Strong winds, pounding rain, and canceled everything. The stage, the lights, the music—it was all called off. The whole program was scrapped faster than you could say “calisthenics.”

Suddenly, there were no performances. No costumes. No awkward, overly choreographed dances in front of everyone. Just a quiet day spent indoors with family, sipping hot coffee and dodging flying tree branches. And for the exchange gifts? They have had to do this tradition door by door.

I didn’t dance. Not one step. And I didn’t get expelled. No angry teacher, no punishment. Just peace. A peace that came from knowing that I had chosen loyalty over fear, Jehovah over pressure.

I remember sitting near the window that afternoon, watching the rain trace paths down the banana leaves, and smiling. Not because I had avoided embarrassment—though that was a bonus—but because I had passed a test, the kind of test you don’t get a certificate for but that matters deeply to the One who sees all.

That day, I learned something far more lasting than any P.E. grade could offer: that Jehovah notices when you choose Him. Even when it’s just about a school dance. Even when you’re fifteen. Even when your knees are shaking. And sometimes—just sometimes—He answers with a typhoon.

Logging Out for Good

There was a time in my life when I was deeply—deeply—into Clash of Clans. And I’m not talking casual, once-a-day-check-in kind of interest. No, I mean alarm-set-at-3:00-a.m.-just-to-upgrade-my-town-hall level of commitment. My village was thriving, my defenses were maxed out, and my barbarian king? Let’s just say he was the envy of lesser clans.

It wasn’t just a game—it was a lifestyle. My clan mates and I had our own group chat, our own inside jokes, and a fierce determination to climb the ranks of clan wars. We coordinated attacks like military generals and took great pride in crushing the enemy (politely, of course). It was fun. It was strategic. It was wildly addictive.

But somewhere between raiding goblin villages and debating whether to upgrade my Archer Queen or my walls, I started to feel… uneasy.

You see, at the same time, I was progressing in my Bible studies. I was beginning to understand Jehovah’s standards more deeply—not just in big things, but in everything, even in the things I entertained myself with. And that’s when I began to notice something that had somehow slipped past me in the flurry of elixir and trophies: Clash of Clans wasn’t exactly spiritually neutral.

The game was full of elements tied to spiritism—potions, wizards, spell factories, skeletons conjured from thin air. I realized I was building and celebrating a fantasy world that, in many ways, glorified things Jehovah has made clear He detests. That realization hit harder than a level-5 lightning spell.

At first, I tried to rationalize it. “It’s just a game,” I told myself. “It’s not like I actually believe in magic or worship skeleton armies.” I even went through a phase of selective gameplay—skipping the “creepier” features and pretending the rest was fine. But the discomfort lingered like an uncollected builder reward. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

There was a battle going on—but this one wasn’t in the game. It was in me. Was I compromising my integrity for pixels on a screen? Was I choosing entertainment over obedience? Was I trying to serve two masters—Jehovah and Supercell?

Eventually, I knew what I had to do. The decision didn’t come with fanfare or a lightning bolt of inspiration. It came quietly, late one night, when I stared at my phone and realized I was about to make a choice that would speak louder than any clan war victory ever could.

I pressed the app icon.

My finger hovered over “Uninstall.”

My heart hesitated. This was my village! My troops! My legacy!

But then, I pressed it. The screen faded. Just like that, it was gone.

And do you know what happened next?

Nothing… and everything.

I didn’t hear heavenly trumpets. My phone didn’t burst into flames. But that night, for the first time in a while, I felt a deep, quiet peace. The kind of peace that only comes when you know—really know—that Jehovah is proud of you.

Deleting a game might not sound like a big deal to some people. But for me, it was a sacrifice. A personal one. And sometimes, those are the hardest to make—when no one else sees the battle, but Jehovah does.

Now, whenever I see Clash of Clans ads pop up and similar games like Mobile Legends, I smile—not with regret, but with gratitude. Because while I gave up a game, I gained something better: the assurance that I had chosen Jehovah over digital glory.

And honestly, that’s a victory no clan can ever top.

The Monday Morning Stand

Monday mornings were another battlefield—the weekly flag ceremony. While most of my classmates were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes or trying to remember if they’d done their homework, I was bracing myself for a different kind of struggle—a quiet one, but a battle all the same.

In our school, the weekly flag ceremony wasn’t just a formality. It was sacred. Students lined up by sections like little soldiers, our uniforms ironed (or at least slightly less wrinkled), our shoes glistening with last-minute polishing, and our mouths rehearsing the national anthem as though our grades depended on it—which, in some twisted way, they kind of did.

To most, it was just another box to tick before diving into Math problems and English grammar drills. But to me and the other Jehovah’s Witness youths, the flag ceremony was something we approached with quiet conviction. We didn’t join in the singing, we didn’t recite the pledge, and most noticeably, we didn’t place our hands over our hearts. Not out of rebellion. Not out of disrespect. But out of loyalty—to Jehovah, whose sovereignty we honored above all nations.

Unfortunately, our principal did not see it that way.

He ran the school like a boot camp. If he could’ve replaced the school bell with a bugle and issued dog tags, I’m pretty sure he would have. He stood on the platform during the ceremony with the precision of a military general, eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of “disorder.” And believe me, in his eyes, our respectful silence during the flag ceremony might as well have been a full-blown mutiny.

“Why are those students not singing?” he asked one morning, loud enough for the microphone to pick up and echo across the courtyard like a divine judgment. We stood there, unmoving, eyes ahead, hearts racing.

That’s when the subtle pressure turned to something more concrete. The principal even summoned some and, with the gentle diplomacy of a sledgehammer, made his stance very clear: “You’re in the Philippines. You respect the flag, or you leave.”

They tried to explain. Politely. Calmly. Highlighting that this is by faith, even. We emphasized our respect for authority, our love for our country, and our desire to obey God above all. But reason doesn’t always win when prejudice walks in wearing a whistle and a necktie.

The consequence came swiftly. There was an in-campus press conference happening that week—my favorite event of the year. I was part of the journalism team, and not just any team member—I was an achiever. I lived for bylines and editorial boards. I even became once an Editor-in-Chief, the first and the last of the Calangkuasan Herald. But instead of a knowledgeable and fruitful conference, we are humiliated. Even termed unsightly.

No misconduct. No rule broken. Just quiet faith.

It stung. It felt unjust. Like being not welcomed from a race because you tied your shoes differently. And the humiliation? Real. We are shunned.

But in that moment of dismissal in the ceremony, something surprising happened. I didn’t feel small. I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt... grounded. As though Jehovah Himself had placed a hand on my shoulder, reminding me that while this world may reward conformity, He values integrity. And I hadn’t lost my voice—I’d just used it in a different way. Not through an article, but through a stand.

Yes, it was difficult. Yes, it felt embarrassing. But deep down, I knew I’d chosen well. Applause fades. Trophies gather dust. But loyalty to Jehovah? That leaves an eternal imprint.

And maybe, just maybe, someday when someone asks, “What’s the biggest story you ever wrote?” I’ll smile and say, “The one I didn’t write—but lived instead.”

The Festival Dance Refusal

At our school, one thing was certain: showcase of talents was sacred. Every week, a section performs. And in each year, no matter how uncoordinated or introverted you were, you were going to be put on a stage under fluorescent lights in front of students, teachers, and non-teaching staffs with suspiciously professional-looking cameras. It was tradition. A celebration of culture, creativity, and, for most students, chaos.

That particular year, our year-level was assigned to perform a festival dance. Not just any dance—but a full-blown cultural showcase, complete with feathered headdresses, tribal paint, and drums loud enough to shake the principal’s inverted pyramid body.

At first, it sounded innocent enough. A dance. A performance. Maybe even a free period or two to rehearse instead of studying General Mathematics—an idea that definitely had its appeal. But as the planning unfolded, the details started to emerge. The dance wasn’t just about rhythm and costumes. It was ritualistic. The choreography included reenactments of ancestral worship, invoking spirits through symbolic gestures and chants “for good harvest and protection”, and even using the image of Santo Niño in the execution of steps. Some of the moves were lifted straight from indigenous ceremonies tied to pre-colonial spiritism.

Now, I’ve always respected culture. I really have. But there’s a difference between appreciating a heritage and participating in practices that conflict with your beliefs. And for Jehovah’s Witnesses, anything that involves spiritism or ancestral veneration is a spiritual no-go. The Bible is clear on Jehovah’s view of such practices—they’re not just cultural; they’re offensive to Him.

So, together with my two fellow Witness classmates, we respectfully approached our teachers and explained why we couldn’t participate. We weren’t protesting. We weren’t trying to cause drama. We weren’t even asking to be exempt entirely—just reassigned to something that wouldn’t put our conscience in conflict with our faith.

The teachers weren’t angry, but let’s just say they weren’t jumping for joy either.

“Alright,” one of them said, arms crossed, “If you’re not going to dance, you’ll help with the dance.”

And just like that, we were promoted—or rather, demoted—to the elite backstage cleaning crew. Our new roles included sweeping up confetti, carrying props twice our size, and arranging 50 folding chairs exactly 3 inches apart because “it looks neater that way.”

It was harder work than any dance rehearsal. While our classmates practiced choreography, we scrubbed mud off the stage. While they tested the rhythm of drums, we tested the weight of oversized papier-mâché shields that mysteriously gained five pounds each rehearsal. And let me tell you, glitter may sparkle, but it never vacuums completely.

But we accepted it—quietly, without complaint. Because at the end of the day, no costume, applause, or standing ovation was worth compromising our integrity before Jehovah. We weren’t bitter. Okay, maybe a little sore. But not bitter.

There was something strangely rewarding about the sweat. About knowing you were taking a harder path, not out of stubbornness, but out of faith. Every aching muscle reminded me that real loyalty sometimes costs you comfort. But that cost? Entirely worth it.

Besides, when performance day came, we had the best seats in the house—right behind the curtain, watching it all unfold, at peace with our decision, and very glad we weren’t the ones wearing coconut shells on our heads.

The Medal and the Missed Moment

Life doesn’t always present its hardest choices in dramatic, cinematic scenes. Sometimes, they come quietly—tucked into calendars and well-intentioned invitations, disguised as perfectly reasonable decisions. One such pivotal moment in my life came wrapped in two neatly scheduled events. Unfortunately, they happened to fall on the same day.

It started with an unofficial announcement at our Kingdom Hall after the meeting: Ungab Congregation was organizing a tour to Bethel. The word alone—Bethel—sent a ripple of excitement through me. For Jehovah’s Witnesses, Bethel isn’t just a place; it’s a spiritual landmark. It’s where Bibles are printed, publications are produced, and many of Jehovah’s faithful servants live and work. It’s a physical representation of spiritual dedication, a place where decisions affecting millions are prayerfully made. It is the house of my God, Jehovah.

I had never been there before. I imagined walking through the halls where decades of faithful service echoed. I pictured myself standing before Sophia and Caleb, marveling at how many Bible-based materials were being prepared, not for profit, but for truth. In my mind, it wasn’t just a tour. It was a rare and precious opportunity to deepen my faith.

But the recognition day in our school would be held on the same date.

Now, for many students, recognition day is a mildly important ceremony involving uncomfortable shoes, questionable stage decorations, and waiting under the sun while someone with a microphone mispronounces your name. But for me, this one was different. I had worked hard—really hard. Hours of study, skipped lunch breaks, sleepless nights all came down to that moment. I was going to receive an award for academic excellence. And top of that, I am the first in my class, really.

And my family? They were ecstatic. My parents, who were not really interested in spiritual matters and occasionally rolled their eyes whenever I mentioned Bible, lit up when they heard the news. “Finally,” they said, “something you can be proud of.” They saw Bethel as a distraction, an unnecessary detour from what they believed truly mattered: worldly achievement.

So there I stood, not at a fork in the road, but at a head-on collision between faith and expectation.

I wish I could say I immediately knew what to do. That I stood up boldly, declared my allegiance to Jehovah, and marched off to Bethel with righteous confidence. But that’s not what happened. What followed was a week-long emotional seesaw. Days filled with deep prayer, sleepless nights, and a tug-of-war in my heart.

One moment, I imagined myself in Bethel, feeling spiritually uplifted, closer to Jehovah than ever. The next, I pictured my parents’ proud faces, my classmates cheering, cameras flashing as I stood onstage in my pressed uniform with a medal around my neck. The applause, the smiles, the validation. It all pulled at me.

In truth, I was afraid. Afraid of letting my family down. Afraid of seeming ungrateful. Afraid of the uncomfortable conversations that would come if I skipped the ceremony. So, with a heavy heart and a fake sense of peace, I chose school.

Recognition day arrived.

I wore my best uniform, combed my hair with almost religious dedication (ironic, I know), and stepped into that auditorium trying to convince myself I’d made the responsible choice.

When they called my name, I walked up the stage, my smile practiced but hollow. The medal was placed around my neck. Cameras clicked. My parents clapped proudly from their seats, beaming. People congratulated me, teachers nodded approvingly. From the outside, it looked like a moment of triumph.

But on the inside, I felt like a balloon that had deflated mid-flight.

As the ceremony wrapped up and people chatted and took photos, my mind drifted—not to the next academic goal, but to Bethel. I imagined my congregation walking the peaceful halls, listening to stories of faithful service, feeling the spiritual energy of that place. And me? I was standing under a tarp, holding a certificate and a plastic-wrapped medal, wondering why I felt like something was missing.

That day taught me something I didn’t expect to learn at the top of my class.

It taught me that academic success—even when earned with genuine effort—means nothing compared to what I could experience in Jehovah’s providence. The applause fades. The certificates yellow. The medals get lost in drawers or hung up as polite reminders of a moment long gone. But the spiritual opportunities we pass up? Those moments stick.

And I felt it.

There was a quiet ache, a dull realization that I had missed something truly meaningful for something fleeting.

And years later, looking back, I remember that day not with pride, but with clarity. It became a turning point. The moment I stopped letting other people define what mattered. The moment I stopped measuring achievement by medals and started measuring it by faithfulness. That because of these, I have to wait for more years, though there’s no single sign of next time.

I’d already learned: medals shine for a moment, but the memory and the spiritual-uplifting stories shines forever.

My Most Decisive Crossroad

Some decisions in life come wrapped in glitter and loud applause—graduations, school awards. They come with certificates, hashtags, and maybe a cupcake or two. But other decisions are quiet. Profound. They don’t require a spotlight because their significance doesn’t rely on public celebration.

For me, the most decisive crossroad I’ve ever faced came not in a grand hall or during some dramatic, slow-motion event. A commitment. A decision that, once qualified, would change how I viewed myself, my goals, and the world around me.

Becoming an unbaptized publisher.

Now, to some, that may sound like a small step. “What’s the big deal? You’re just joining in the ministry, right?” But to me, it was everything. It wasn’t just about knocking on doors or handing out tracts or magazines. It was my way of telling Jehovah, “I’m ready. I want to be used.”

It meant I wasn’t just attending meetings anymore or studying quietly on the sidelines. It was also a public declaration of my willingness—not just of faith, but of action. It meant I wanted to be part of something bigger than myself. Something eternal.

And yes, I knew what I am doing. I knew it would mean waking up early on weekends, learning how to speak with strangers, and likely facing a few raised eyebrows from classmates and family alike. But I also knew one thing clearly: I wanted to belong—not to this world, but to Jehovah.

Once I express my will to become an unbaptized publisher, something shifted.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable. People noticed. My peers noticed. Teachers noticed. Relatives definitely noticed.

It didn’t take long before the whispers began. You’d think I’d joined a secret society or moved to Mars.

“You joined for what?”

“You’re too young for that.”

“Is this like... temporary? You’ll come back to normal later, right?”

I knew that while they saw my decision as strange or premature, it felt like the most grown-up thing I had ever done.

Still, it wasn’t easy. There’s something about taking a stand that makes you feel simultaneously ten feet tall and two inches high. One minute you’re brimming with courage; the next, you’re wondering if you’re in over your head.

But amid the noise of doubts and questions, I heard something else.

Jehovah’s whisper.

Not a thunderous voice. Not guilt or fear. But strength. A quiet reassurance that said, “I see you. Keep going.” And He made it audible through my partners in ministry.

And so, I did. I keep on going.

My first day in field service was equal parts excitement and mild panic. I held onto my magazines like they were golden scrolls. My palms were sweaty. I rehearsed my lines silently as we walked from house to house.

“Good morning. We’re visiting our neighbors to share a positive thought from the Bible—”

Oops, I forgot the scripture!

Why is this door so big?

Should I smile more? Is this too much smiling?

Despite my nerves, something incredible happened. An old woman had me start to speak. She didn’t yell. She didn’t argue. She listened. She nodded. And just like that, I had my first real conversation about Jehovah.

I walked away beaming. Not because I felt accomplished, but because for the first time, I realized I wasn’t just a student, a relative, a kid with homework—I was a minister. I had been used by Jehovah, even in my awkwardness.

With every return visit, every conversation, every smile exchanged with strangers, I felt more connected—not just to the congregation, but to my purpose.

There were challenges, of course. Plenty.

There were Saturdays when the bed felt too cozy and the sun too hot. There were mornings when I questioned, “Do I really need to wear shoes that formal for preaching? Is there no such thing as ministry slippers?” There were doors that were slammed, words that stung, and moments when I felt invisible.

And yes, there were moments I stumbled.

Moments when I doubted if I was strong enough for this. Moments when I wanted to blend in at school rather than stand out. Moments when I felt torn between what I knew was right and what was easy.

But every single time, without fail, Jehovah helped me up.

He didn’t just send thunderbolts of motivation or booming pep talks from heaven. No. Sometimes, He sent a kind brother who gave me encouragement after a rough morning. Sometimes, it was a householder who accepted a tract. Sometimes, it was just the memory of a scripture I’d read the night before that whispered, “Be courageous and strong.”

The more I engaged in the ministry, the more I realized how little this world truly had to offer. Achievements were temporary. Praise was fleeting. But the joy of knowing I was on Jehovah’s side—that was solid. Unshakeable.

And something else changed too—me.

My confidence didn’t come from being perfect. It came from showing up. From trying. From stumbling forward and knowing Jehovah was always a step ahead, ready to steady me.

Becoming an unbaptized publisher didn’t make me instantly wise or sin-proof. But it marked the beginning of a deeper, more serious commitment. It made me more intentional. It made my faith public—and in doing so, it made it real.

So yes, it was just an act. Just a simple showcase of my will. But it was the most important move I’ve ever made—because it meant I was ready to give Jehovah not just my weekends, but my life.

And today, I still carry that decision with me—not in a lanyard or ID card, but in the quiet, steady assurance that Jehovah saw a young person willing to serve—and said, “I can use that.”

The Road Continues

Looking back, I see now that each crossroad I faced wasn’t a dead end or a trap—it was a training in seemed-to-be test. Not the kind with multiple-choice answers or time limits, but the kind that reveals who you really are when no one’s looking. They were moments designed not to confuse me, but to shape me. To teach me where to place my loyalty. To remind me that faith isn’t just what you believe—it’s what you do when belief is challenged.

At the time, some of those choices felt impossibly hard. Saying no to school performances, enduring teasing, deleting a game I actually enjoyed, choosing faith over recognition—all those moments left their own little scars. Some were emotional. Others, quite literally, involved scraped knees from trekking to the Kingdom Hall after a good rain.

But through it all, Jehovah never left me. Not once. He walked beside me—through muddy paths, sweaty afternoons, awkward school moments, and quiet internal battles. And while I’m still very much that boy with scabbed knees and curious eyes, something’s changed.

My steps are steadier now. My choices more deliberate. My joy more rooted.

Because I don’t walk alone anymore.

I walk with Jehovah. And that makes all the difference.