My downcast eyes recently discovered an abandoned apple covered with ants. It was a fascinating lesson in nature—how a slew of insects can act like a well-trained army to wrangle some sustenance for the civilians back home.

It occurred to me, from my vantage point up high, that our little blue planet could resemble this apple—four and a half billion of us skittering around the surface, working for our daily bread. I wonder if we appear as disciplined and diligent, or if it looks as chaotic as it sometimes feels.

I also wondered if there were ants down there looking up at me— wondering, perhaps, what kind of being now controlled their fate. I could casually kick the apple into the street, assuring a quick end to their labors, or I could leave the apple where it was, allowing its temporary inhabitants to continue their important work.

I left the apple. In my heart, I’m praying that the One Who holds our little blue apple is more merciful than just. We have a bad history of, for instance, eating the wrong apple, yet we have been forgiven—again and again and again.

Lord, have mercy now and forever.