I scoop the ripe colors, a fourth a teaspoon at a time. Bead so bright they seem cancerous in their saturation, but small, small as strawberry seeds. Little pinpricks of surprise.
I am learning to be patient in this way, one tiny bead at a time. I am counting the grains of sand on the seashore, the points of light in the night sky. I am one, Father, one of the many that you promised Abraham the night after the Sacrifice. I am part of the family not through his blood, but through Yours, and through your patience.
Teach me what it means to count each bead I string, the way you counted me amidst your Love. Let us sow the fruit together and wait in stillness for the harvest.