Something most people don’t know about me is that I LOVE to dance. My father danced with my mother in the den at the spur of the moment and then with all of us, his children. He twirled us and then held us close, picked us up and spun us around. The memory of this pleasure was something I have carried throughout my life. When I dance, part of me is back in my father’s arms and part of me is in the moment with my arms held high and my hands reaching up to the Heavens.
Another place, another time. I am in Church and so full of emotion, the music and the words of the hymns move me to tears, I want to reach up to the Heavens and hold my hands toward God who I love and who loves me so much. I feel the emotions of a dance but instead I do not feel free to lift up my hands. I am confused. My Father in Heaven gives me more joy than any song that a recorded song or band can play, yet, I am quietly standing side to side with others still and reverent. Where is the spirited dancer? What makes this different?
Expectations. In my conservative church in small town Yazoo City, I am expected to act a certain way. Yes, I know there are churches within the community of believers who worship like I dance. I know that in the Southern Gospel Churches there is worship like I have never experienced before, except for on television. I long to be free that way. To let go of the expectations and, as the saying goes, “Let God” and dance in my heavenly father’s arms. I must, even at this older age, learn to be a child again, and in my praise, to hold my arms up to Him and surrender myself as he picks me up and we dance.
“Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with timbrel and harp.” Psalm 149:3