They did not need to.

Jehovah had not forgotten them.

Jesus had not been absent.

The armies of heaven were not late.

And all the choices made along the way—the quiet preparation on a Sunday morning, the refusal to speculate, the balanced counsel, the courage at school, the proper place given to work, the calm under pressure, the prayers in danger, the loyalty under separation—had not been small things.

They had been part of a pattern.

A life built before the storm.

A faith that held inside it.

Above the city, the heavens moved with terrible beauty.

And below, in homes, in streets, in cells, in hidden rooms, Jehovah’s people lifted their hearts.

The night was not ending in defeat.

It was ending in truth.