Adactylidium

Science does not contradict God. Rather, it explains the ways that God has created the universe. I often find that the more I learn about science—the ways that two molecules collide to form a new one, or the way acceleration due to gravity remains at 9.8m/s² on Earth—the more revealing it is of just how much greater God is compared to our human existence. The intricate structures that keep the very fabric of our reality bound together become increasingly apparent as I acquire more knowledge about our universe. It is incomprehensible and could only have been breathed into existence by our all-powerful God.

One of the most obvious—and perhaps cliché—examples of God’s power is the “miracle of life.”

Adactylidium is a genus of mites in the kingdom Animalia and family Acarophenacidae. These mites are typical residents of the Middle East and feast on the eggs of an insect called a thrip. Yet what sets these tiny creatures of the Earth apart from other insects is their unique—and quite honestly disturbing—life cycle where these mites take the meaning of “the miracle of life” to a whole new level.

From birth, the female Adactylidium begins to find a new thrip egg to feed on as it prepares itself to become a mother. Yet the male mite barely sees the light of day and dies shortly after birth. It does not mate, it does not feed; it simply waits for its imminent death. For years, scientists couldn’t figure out why these male mites exhibited such a strange life cycle. After all, a creature born with its only purpose being death seemed like a rather depressing and futile existence.

Eventually, the truth behind this uncommon reproductive strategy was revealed. A female Adactylidium mite is born with fertilized eggs already inside of her. She carries what will become several female mites and one single male mite. In a few days, these eggs will hatch inside of her, giving rise to the next generation of crawling mites ready to repeat the process again. The male then mates with every single one of his sisters in a twisted method of fetal incest before they collectively decide to eat their way out of the mother’s womb¹². I guess in that sense, Adactylidium mothers win the parental sacrifice award.

While the process itself is no doubt mindboggling (because what part of fetal incest isn’t), I found myself strangely sympathetic to the seemingly devastating life of a male Adactylidium mite: one where you are doomed to die with your end written before you are even born. It struck a chord in me that I didn’t expect to feel from a creature I would have only deemed disgusting. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss in my soul.

Like millions of students around the world, I began my first semester of college in August of 2023. Certain that I would face trials but unsure of what those trials would actually be, I was thrust into the world of independence with nothing but encouragement and cliches from upperclassmen to guide me through a forest of unknowns.

I came into the Fall semester with friendships that I thought were not bound by time or distance. The 775 miles between us were no matter with the blessings of FaceTime and blind optimism. Summer of 2023 gave me the chance to see brothers and sisters in Christ who exemplified the love He calls us to demonstrate in ways I had only ever heard in the sermons. For the first time in my life, I felt like God had blessed me with what my heart longed for the most: intimacy, genuine connection, and the love of those who would walk with me, hand in hand, down the narrow road.

But time proved to be a test that we would not pass. As August turned into September and Fall turned into Winter, the grasp with which I held onto these relationships began to slip through my fingertips. I felt the distance between us grow more and more with each call, each conversation. Desperate for the feeling of comfort I had just months prior, I did everything I could in an attempt to fix what was so clearly falling apart right before me. I was swimming against a current too strong to overcome. Slowly, then all at once, I felt a loss like I had never felt before as I watched those I loved drift further and further away. It felt deep, gut-wrenching. But most of all, it felt wasteful.

For countless months, I asked God why He took away something that I thought was so right. Why did You take away something that glorifies You? Is that not what You want? He had finally given me the relationships that He spoke of in His word. The kind that is edifying, uplifting, spiritually nourishing. He had given me a taste of what could be but then so cruelly stripped me of it. Why should He take that away, abandon me with nothing but what I had before and a new ache in my soul that longed to be filled once again?

And He spoke to me clearly: Through this, you can see me.

As I sit at my desk writing this piece, I can feel the strings that once connected me to my high school friends, my teammates, my chosen family, slowly wither away. I used to think that “chosen family” included the people that I chose to be in my life, that late-night ramen and trauma bonding over the hellish depths of AP French was enough to make a friendship last forever. Now I’m not so sure.

What I once thought was an unbreakable rope has now revealed itself to be nothing more than a thread. Destined to snap at some point where we will then finally drift apart, the thread will be lost in the wind while I am left with only the memories we once had the honor of sharing. And even those too will one day fade away as I return to the soil that gave me and the Adactylidium mites the life we lived.

When I look in my hands and see the fragments of these relationships I desperately still cling to, I realize just how little I am able to grasp and incomparably, how much God is able to create with just His breath. My line of vision is only limited to the sum of all my gains and losses of my past, but He sees more. And in that knowledge, I rest assured of His goodness, His righteousness, and His peace as I hand Him these broken strings and my brokenness to create something far greater than I could ever have imagined. Because in this very moment where I am existing, I have yet to lose all the people I will in this lifetime. But I have also yet to meet all the people who will not leave: the ones who will eventually stay by my side in the race toward eternal life with our Father in Heaven.

So maybe chosen family refers to the family that God has chosen for us. I see that God places certain people in my life at a moment in time with a specific purpose: a purpose that will one day be fulfilled, its end written before I even know it has begun. Once complete, they are no longer meant to be in this chapter of your journey, nor you in theirs.

Perhaps losing is gaining in the eyes of God, a vision of the things we cannot see and quite frankly, do not need to. After all, Jesus Himself lived to die for our sake so that we may reunite with Him in heaven one day, and even his closest disciples could not fathom the sacrifice He was destined to make. In Matthew 16:21-23, Peter confronts Jesus after Jesus foretells His coming death to His disciples and claims that He must suffer for the sake of man and die on the cross. But Jesus rebukes Peter, reminding him of his place and his inability to set his eyes on the things of God and not of this world.

I’ve seen the ways that His path for me far outcompetes any semblance of a plan or desire that I could ever conceivably have or create. Since He holds the pen that writes my story, I, the character, can find freedom in surrender. My story may be filled with hills and valleys and inconsistent terrain but my inconsistency reminds me that He is my sole source of constancy in a life ever shifting. The rock on which I stand, the Father I run to with open arms each time I lose a friend. My unknown is not His unknown: it is His work.

So, is it possible that these incestuous creatures hold more meaning than we would ever think to give them credit for? Can it be that the life of the Adactylidium reminds us of a purpose through the pain? I believe so. If God has truly created and articulated everything down to the way these mites continue to crawl the earth, how secure I can be knowing that the story He has planned for me and the stories He will write for those that coincide with mine is beautifully and wonderfully made. Perhaps this is where I can find peace, knowing that the beauty of our paths crossing is just that: crossing and then continuing on without each other just as we existed before. Left with only the whispers and footprints that they have left behind, we carry on with God to guide us ahead.

And that is enough.