The fingers of the evergreen tree reach out towards me with a startling directness. The tips of their needles are accentuated from the night’s frost. I marvel at their particularity. Each needle contributes to the finger of a branch, a cluster to an arm, an arm to a tree. This symphony of singular collectivity highlighted by frost’s first fingertips. Even more so am I, singular to the body of the church. Singularly chosen, collectively called.