OpenAI launches GPT-6 Astra, the first model it rates Critical for cybersecurity capability

You have asked the question I was too young to ask while I was living the answer. On those hills near Bethlehem I learned first that God is not in a hurry. Sheep do not move faster because a boy is impatient; they move when there is water ahead and a familiar voice behind. So I talked to them constantly, over nothing, until my voice was ordinary to them. That is how I learned to pray before I had anything urgent to pray about. The pasture also taught me to count. Every evening, every head, no exceptions, and the one missing mattered as much as the many that came home. Later I sat in rooms where men counted armies and silver and cities, and I noticed how easily a number swallows a name. When I finally wrote that the LORD is my shepherd, I was not reaching for a pretty figure of speech. I was confessing that I had once been the one doing the carrying, and I knew what it costs to bring a lamb back down a hill. And the field taught me that no one applauds faithfulness in an empty place. The lion and the bear came when there was no crowd, no throne, no scribe writing it down; only a boy, a sling, and a decision made in private. Israel later cheered over a Philistine giant, but the giant was the short part of the story. The hills were the long part. What people call courage is usually just practice that somebody finally happened to watch. So if you are in a field today, unnoticed, doing small faithful work no one records, take heart. The palace gave me a crown, an army, and better food. It never taught me one thing the pasture had not taught me first. It only revealed whether I had been paying attention out there.