Dancing

The past two weekends have been very special.  E had her first dance recital after a year of dedicated dancing.  On dress rehearsal day, she had no idea what to expect.  She only knew that she wanted to dance in a real tutu on a real stage.  She got her wish.  During the rehearsal she looked a little bewildered--all those bright lights and people in the audience and remembering her steps.  But on performance day, a star was born!  She stepped up her performance for the big day.  That purple tutu was its flounciest, and that little arm shot into the air for a perfect and very enthusiastic wave to the audience below, and her toes pointed just so.  She warmly took her pink roses from us after the performance, cheeks flushed with the excitement of it all.  Dad thought my extra stop in the second car to pick up flowers was superfluous, but then, he's never been to a recital.  Good thing Mom showed up with glitter-dusted pink roses for the little ballerina.  You could have opened a flower shop with all the bouquets that were there.

Then, this last weekend, our littlest one was baptized.  It was a wonderful weekend full of family and friends, laughter, and good food.  A small step in the life of our little guy but it seemed like such a victory.  "You have turned for me my mourning into dancing" (Psalm 30:11). This verse is boldly marked with yellow highlighter in my grandmother's Bible.  I found it one day after she passed away, as I paged through her Bible reading her notes in the margins.  Of course, I remember thinking. Of course she would have chosen this verse, because, oh, did she love to dance.  I think of the way, when her legs were no longer trustworthy, she would jitterbug from her chair. The way her feet tapped out the steps. The way her hands would circle in the air.  Watching her, I could imagine her on the dance floor, and surely she imagined herself there, eyes closed while she danced in her seat.  Victory in the face of adversity. Choosing life even when life dishes the unexpected, the hard thing, the thing you didn't think you could handle. That was Sunday for me.

And this is what I wanted somehow to say to all of you who were there (and to so many who weren't), but couldn't find the right place or time for it.

Written on Feb. 22, 2011:

If I could gather all my family and friends into one place at one time, this is what I would tell them:

So many of you have said things about God choosing us as K's parents.  Words like "entrust" and "special" and "strong" keep surfacing in notes and conversations.  My reactions to these words have been mixed.  Sometimes they are encouraging. Other times they are hollow.  They raise questions: Why would God dole out extra trials to those he most treasures or trusts?  The statements pose a theological conundrum the depths of which I choose not to scale.  Sometimes they make me angry, bitter. Why must God test (or prove) my strength at my son's expense? What kind of God do I serve?

My mother-in-law was talking with her retired pastor's wife--the couple has several children who have faced significant health or developmental challenges in their lives.  People used to tell her and her husband the same kind of things, to which she would reply, "God takes ordinary people/parents and gives them the strength each day to handle what they've been given.  He does not choose us because we are strong, but because he is." Yes, I say to that. And Amen.

But there's more. And of this I am sure.  God did not choose us as K's parents because of who we are; he chose us because of all of you.

You loved him before you even met him and all the more when his diagnosis came.  You loved us with your calls, visits, gifts, and words. I have watched you all closely, watched your reactions to my son: I have noticed your touch, your looks, your words, and even your silences.  And in watching you, in seeing your acceptance of K, in hearing your words of welcome for our sweet boy, I, too, have learned how to love. To love him not as I imagined he would be but as he is.

I thought perhaps I would receive your pity, but instead I find I have received your love.  My son has received your love.  And I am so humbled, so very grateful.  It is because of all of you that God has chosen us.

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.  O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.