Learning to Dance

What if all my work-- the movement of my hands across the dishes, the steps from room to room, the bending of my knees to meet the gaze of a wondering child-- was all a dance? Maybe housewifery shouldn't feel like a forced rhythm of economy or a plodding-through to meet expectations. Maybe it should feel like a slow waltz with my Father.

I'm no ballerina and these movements are awkward and halting. I drag selfishness and pride and insecurity around like wrecking balls behind me. My time and effort are often given in sacrafice to the idols of Approval or Control and sometimes God's song over me is difficult to hear above the sound of the world.

If only my old eyes did not see work, and toil, and labor everywhere. I would like to look at a list of school lessons and see the Potter's hands forming the clay. A pile of laundry could lead me to the Servant of all who knows my name. In the dishes and pots and pans I could find a chance to take off the old self and clothe myself in humility and love.

In the best moments, when I pull my eyes off my own feet and follow God's lead, there is grace in my dancing. There's no fancy costumes, no disco ball, and no audience. It's just the jealous love of my God surrounding me, refining me, and pulling me closer.

“O Israel, stay away from idols! I am the one who answers your prayers and cares for you. I am like a tree that is always green; all your fruit comes from me.” (Hosea 14:8)