Stacey Pardoe

I’m not thinking about how to encounter God as I wash the crusty marinara sauce from a plate that sat too long.  Sweet Bekah comes to me in my silent revelry and wraps her little arm around my thigh. “Come with me, Mommy,” she beckons. “Just as soon as I finish these dishes,” I tell her. “No, Mom—now. You have to come now,” she begs. She’s been playing on the deck, and I’m sure there’s a caterpillar making an escape or a tower built from rocks on a patio chair. I really just want to clean the kitchen. Nonetheless, when I look into those sparkling blue eyes, I surrender my…