I saw the bug on the peach.
It looks rotten, I thought.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
“Oh Lord—they’re all rotten.”
“I’m feasting,” the bug said. “I’ve been hungry for a while. It’s my turn to eat.”
I froze.
I must be going crazy, I thought. The bug speaks.
I laughed under my breath, uneasy.
I raised my hand to get the fruit shop attendant’s attention. He looked straight at me—and kept moving. I raised my hand again, sharper this time.
Is he looking past me?
Maybe he doesn’t work here—but he’s wearing the uniform. Utela Fruit Shop.
He stopped to help an elderly woman standing nearby.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Where can I find the tuna?”
“Ma’am,” he replied gently, “we’re a fruit shop. The next store over carries tuna.”
He turned and started toward me.
“Why are you just standing there?” the bug said. “Pick the one you want.”
“It’s all rotten,” I whispered.
“We’ve always been here,” the bug replied. “We are part of the fruit.”
The attendant was getting closer.
“The microns of life itself are wired with decay,” the bug continued. “Every living thing will surely die. Death, decay, rottenness—they’re part of life. We’ve always been part of this fruit. At the right time and temperature, we emerge.”
I shook my head. “I get that if you eat rotten fruit you’ll get sick. But if you wash it right—”
“That’s not true,” I cut in. “A rotten fruit is a rotten fruit. There’s no reversing it. It’s already on its way out.”
Why am I listening to a bug?
Am I going crazy?
“How can I help you, ma’am?”
I looked up at his shirt.
Ancel.
“Ancel,” I said too quickly. “Can I please get fresh fruit? These ones are rotten and that bug is speak—”
I stopped myself.
Not today, she thought. I’m not being labeled crazy today.
Ancel smiled calmly. “That’s Ruby,” he said. “She talks to anyone inclined to listen. Seems you are today.”
He paused. “No worries, Myra. I’ll get you fresh ones.”
He knows my name? she thought.
He motioned toward the back of the store. I looked—no one was there. When I turned back, he already had fresh fruit in his hands.
“Here,” he said. “These will refresh you.”
Then, quietly: “You’ve been asking the same question for over seventeen years now.”
Myra stopped him mid-sentence.
“And what question might that be,” she asked, “Ancel—the Utela worker? Since you seem so puffed up and mighty.”
Ancel smiled.
“Myra Jenkins.”
Her breath caught. Her eyebrow lifted in shock.
“Purpose,” he said, “is found when the lamp we carry is full of oil—lighting the dark path laid down by the fall of man. That light guides us through a world filled with darkness.”
She stared at him. “What lamp? I don’t understand.”
“You’re asking the right questions, Myra.”
I must be losing my mind.
“You’re not,” Ancel said.
She laughed out loud. “Now you read thoughts too? Truly—I must be mad.”
“You’re not,” he repeated. “You are the lamp. But you’re empty. And what has filled you is strange fire—leading you down the wrong path.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Fill yourself with the right substance,” he said, “and direction will follow.”
This is strange, she thought. Oil?
“So what’s in my lamp right now?”
“That’s the right question,” Ancel replied.
“You’ve filled it with what you consume—movies, shows, music. They’ve robbed you of peace. You rise high for a moment, then sink into despair. They drain your time, your energy, your peace.”
“If you’re watchful of what you consume, peace returns. Rotten fruit does the same—it robs you when you eat it. I’ve warned you many times. Because you are what you eat.”
Myra stood still.
She knew he was right.
And his voice—it felt familiar.
“That’s because I am,” Ancel continued. “Your righteous conscience. The voice that leads you right. I am righteousness, peace, and light. The bright morning star. Water, blood, and spirit. The Father, the Word, and the Spirit. The wind that blows where man cannot see. Depth of the earth. Height of the sky. Joy that brings gladness. Fire. Light. Glory.”
He did not rush.
“I kill and I make alive. Peace in time of need. A sword in judgment. Blueprint. Reality. Consciousness—mind, body, and soul.”
Myra’s heart pounded.
Are you Jesus?
Ancel smiled gently. “Let’s get you checked out.”
As they walked, she thought, That was a lot—but I got an answer.
At the counter he placed the fruit in her hands.
“Mango. Peach. Grapes. Oranges. Pineapple. Bananas.”
Then softly: “Before you knew Me, I formed you. I know your comings and your goings.”
He scanned the items, applied a full discount, and rounded the total to zero.
“Paid in full,” he said, smiling.
He handed her the bag. “Try an orange-pineapple smoothie. You’ll love it.”
Ancel waved.
She turned back one last time, staring at Ancel.
“Yes—He spoke to her heart.
I am the Christ.
She smiled.
