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Nth Pwr Wellness, Marikina City (2026)

30/01/2026

Jesus loved the crowds, but He trusted the few.
Many heard His stories, only some saw Him bleed in Gethsemane.

He healed thousands, but walked closely with twelve. And even among the twelve, He leaned into three.

Not because love is limited, but because intimacy is sacred.

Everyone can watch your miracles, not everyone should carry your burdens.

Everyone can hear your laughter, not everyone should hold your tears.

Jesus was selective with His inner circle—not out of pride, but out of purpose.

So be kind to many, but close with few.
Guard your heart, like Christ guarded His moments.

Not everyone deserves front-row access to what God is doing in you.

—Ruth.

27/01/2026

🥰🥰🥰🥰

27/01/2026

A must share!

🚨 THE BIBLE’S MOST HEARTBREAKING MOTHER:—AND MOST CHRISTIANS DON’T EVEN KNOW HER NAME

Rizpah’s story is one of the most emotionally violent scenes in the entire Old Testament—and it’s almost never preached.

She wasn’t a prophet. She wasn’t a queen. She wasn’t “platformed.” She was a mother. And she watched the bodies of her sons hang on wooden beams—publicly displayed—while scavenger birds and wild animals circled like they owned the place.

This wasn’t a quiet funeral. This wasn’t a dignified burial. This was humiliation. It was political messaging. It was “Let this be a warning.” And Rizpah refused to let the last word be shame.
Scripture says she spread sackcloth on a rock and stayed there “from the beginning of harvest until rain fell from the heavens.” Daytime meant birds of prey. Night meant beasts. And she kept watch anyway. She didn’t have an army. She didn’t have power. She had grief—and a holy kind of stubbornness that would not move.

Rizpah “took sackcloth and spread it for herself on the rock from the beginning of harvest until rain fell on them from heaven.” (2 Samuel 21:10)

People love to talk about “strong women in the Bible” when it’s safe. When it’s inspirational. When it can fit on a mug. But Rizpah’s strength is not cute. It’s raw. It’s ugly. It’s the kind of courage that only shows up when God doesn’t rescue you fast, and you’re left holding the weight of a world that feels unjust.

And here’s what should convict modern Christians: Rizpah didn’t preach a sermon. She didn’t write a song. She simply stayed. She refused to let death be treated like a punchline.
Her grief became a protest.
And it worked.

The Bible says King David heard what she did. Not what she said—what she did. Her endurance exposed the wrongness of the situation so loudly that a king had to respond. David gathered the bones, gave honor in burial, and the text says God’s favor returned to the land.

Read that again. A mother’s refusal to abandon her dead reshaped the actions of a king.
If you want to understand the gospel without skipping the horror, look at Rizpah. Because love doesn’t always look like a miracle. Sometimes it looks like a woman in the dirt, screaming at birds, refusing to surrender what she cannot fix.

And if you’ve ever thought, “I don’t have a ministry,” or “I don’t know my calling,” Rizpah answers you with a terrifying reminder: your obedience may not be public success. It may be private endurance. It may be staying at the rock longer than anyone thinks is reasonable.
In a world that forgets people the moment they stop being useful, Rizpah stands as a witness: God sees the ones who keep watch when nobody’s applauding. And He is not unmoved by the kind of love that stays.