Ants

As I was flying, I looked out the window a lot. (The people sitting by me on both flights were not very talkative, though one did snore extraordinarily loud--the kind that even wakes the person doing the snoring up.)
Even though I've seen it every time I fly, I was so amazed at how toy-like everything looked. You mean our yards are that square? And we drive that well spaced-out? And our roads are that even? You're telling me I can't reach out and pick that car up with my fingers? It seemed unreal.

I tried really hard to remember that each little moving dot contained a person with a name and a history and a favorite color and a food they hate to eat. Each one. There were as many little moving dots as there are ants when I'm sitting outside.
But those are just ants. They're minuscule. Worthless. Uninteresting. Can't even begin to imagine who I am. Would be scared to death if they could comprehend me--but they can't. Cause they're just ants.

Why does God care so much for us? We're just ants.