A Dance
Last summer Elizabeth expressed a desire to start dance class. We found a little dance studio near our house, and every Saturday morning I get her dressed in tights, leotard, a tutu, and the cutest gold slippers my mom sent for her birthday. I pull her hair back into a bun and drop her off for her ballet and tap class. And she loves it. I don’t get to stay and watch (cause COVID), but when I peak in the door before pick up she is like a butterfly, floating here and there. She runs out into my arms at the end of class absolutely beaming with delight.
This surprised me, because, well, I am not a dancer. Despite a LOVE of music and getting the feeling when the music hits just right, I am not a dancer. At most, a sway-er, maybe a bouncer if I have a child in my arms. I never went to the high school dances, nor the clubs, and our first dance at our wedding was an awkward slow dance to Louis Armstrong. I did love the drama group I was in as a teen at our church. But that was miming to songs with a message. That I fully loved. But free form dancing? I felt, and still feel uncoordinated and like everyone in the world is looking and laughing.
The only time I remember enjoying dancing was at my Opa and Oma’s 50th wedding celebration where I shared a few waltzes with my dad. He was a good dancer, and knew how to lead well. I could put my feet on his and feel like I was flying around the room. I experienced that once more when my brother and sister-in-law took me to their swing dance group and my brother, also a strong leader, basically twirled me around the room with little coordination needed on my end. All I needed to do was trust.
So it caught me off guard, as I was reading through some old journals of mine, to find a poem I wrote. I remember writing it. It was 2009. I had been at my sister’s apartment on the UBC Campus and was walking back to the bus to head home. It was dark, late evening, and I felt like I was floating. I had just had a much needed heart to heart with my sister, the type of conversation that fills your soul. I don’t think I was listening to music because, well, walking in the dark with headphones in as a single lady on a university campus just isn’t wise. But as I walked and thought and prayed, these words came to me.
A dance of joy. A dance of hope. A dance of peace. A dance of love.
I wanted to dance but didn’t know how. A deeply meaningful metaphor. I wanted to live my life for Jesus, I just wasn’t sure what that looked like. Practically. Like, what moves do I make? What is the rhythm? What if I get it wrong when everyone is looking?
The minute I got home I took out a pen and paper and wrote the following:
The music fills my head, it fills my heart
Your praise is ringing, my feet are moving
How can I lift up this praise to you?
Let me dance a dance of joy
For you, my Lord
In your holy presence, watch me dance
Let all those around me see this dance
And come to know the one who brings hope of life
And if I may fall, lift me to my feet
Let me dance a dance of hope
For you, my Saviour
To bring hope to the nations; use this dance
When the world rushes by, help me to rest
Knowing the peace that comes from you
Renew this dancer, and in the quiet...
Let me dance a dance of peace
For you, my provider
And as all else fades, protect this dance
As I dance for you, let love overflow
For it is all because Your unfailing love
Overwhelms my soul that I want to dance.
Let me dance a dance of love
For you, my Father
And as your daughter, delight in my dance
Teach me to dance
Show me the steps
And may my life
be a beatuiful dance
for you.
Now, as I read, the bruises and injuries of life have seasoned the naivety and idyllic dreams of that 20 year old; and I’ve learned just how hard this “dance” of life truly is. It takes practice and making mistakes and a tenacity to not give up. There are still days that I ask myself what the moves are and how I can live for Jesus as a stay at home mom in the suburbs. I still struggle with the fear that others are watching and will judge and reject me when they see my dance.
But the heart of this poem is as true today as it was 12 years ago. I want my life to be marked with joy, with hope, with peace, and with love. I want my life to be so surrendered to the Holy Spirit that the by-products reflect God and not me. Which brings me back to when I danced with my father and with my brother. I felt free and confident because I was surrendered to their leading. And I trusted that they would not drop me. The more I read my Bible and see the character of God on display, the more I trust that he will not drop me, and the more I am surrendering to His leading this dance that is my life. And He is beginning to take away the fear of failing. Because I am finally learning that the dance is for Him and no one else.
As I read it now it becomes a prayer, for myself, and also for the little dancers I am raising.
Ellie, complete with chocolate from breakfast, before her very first dance class.