My six-year-old daughter is a sensualist, which is my explanation for why she´s always covered in a layer of whatever it is she´s experiencing, whether it´s dirt or dinner. Her obsession with insects continues, and right now her focus is bees. I grow a bee-friendly garden so she´s got a lot to work with. She wants to hold them. Bees are furry and delicate and delightful; she can see that with her own eyes. I´ve been trying to discourage her because they sting, and I think some (most?) bees die if they sting, although maybe that´s a myth. But she doesn´t care. She keeps on trying, even though she sometimes gets stung. She´s learned now to be patient. She´s the bee whisperer. She holds her grubby little paw out, under the edge of the petals, and sometimes a bee wanders right off that flower and onto her palm so she can look at it up close. So she can feel it, buzzing and whirring and walking. Maybe she gets stung, but she´s willing to take the risk. She´s decided it´s worth it. I watch her and I think about faith, and grace, and prayer, and how fragile the things are that we touch, that we cradle in our two hands.
image: bees in my garden