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In the dry grasslands of Africa, a small black beetle rolls a perfect sphere many times its own size.

It is dung.

Fresh, steaming, foul to every other creature.

But to the dung beetle, it is treasure.

The beetle finds a pile left by an elephant or antelope, selects the richest portion, shapes it into a ball with precise, tireless movements, then rolls it backward— using its hind legs, head down, eyes fixed on the sky— sometimes traveling over a hundred meters to a safe spot.

There it buries the ball deep underground, lays a single egg inside, and leaves.

When the larva hatches, it feeds on the dung— what was waste becomes nourishment, what was refuse becomes life.

The beetle does not complain about the material. It does not wish for something cleaner or more pleasant. It simply takes what others discard and turns it into the very substance that sustains the next generation.

This is not coincidence. It is design.

God has woven into creation a living parable of redemption: what looks worthless, what smells foul, what everyone else leaves behind—

He uses to bring forth life.