He calls me from the other room, stuck at the top of the bunk bed again. "Dow, Mama. DOW." His voice is insistent, right from the get-go, as if he knows that I might well make him wait. Even after years, or maybe because it's been years, I just want to wash one more dish, chop one more veggie, mop one more corner, finish one more page before I put down what is me and respond to what is him.
But my God moves in response to me. What kind of God gives me, restores me, delivers me, revives me, delights in me, sets me on high? What kind of God accepts my meditation as sweetness, my prayers as incense? Thank you God that the moment I set my love upon You, dirty dishes clatter in divine sink and you run to me, soapy hands outstretched and dripping still.
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