Dancing with Jesus

As I was praying over my daughters’ dance with Jesus this past weekend, the Lord brought to mind a moment I hadn’t visited in years. Though writing can’t truly capture the awe-struck essence of the memory, I want to etch the scene in words as an offering to Him. . .

Five years ago I was invited to speak to a large women’s retreat. The topic was our “romance” with Christ, and my assigned theme was “An Invitation to Dance. ” With much prayer, I began to shape a talk around the concept of dancing with Jesus. I spent months asking the Lord to give me the words He wanted to speak to a room-full of His precious brides. In the end, He was faithful and I was humbled to be a part of Christ’s lavish pursuit of countless women’s hearts.

When my evening talk was finished, I felt simultaneously drained and dazzled. I skipped the late night activities and headed back to my hotel room in search of a refreshing night’s sleep. Though my head rested on the pillow, my mind refused to quiet. By 2 A.M. I was desperate to sleep, but had a nagging sensation that Jesus wanted to talk to me. I’d been praying for my children on and off since I’d slipped into bed, but suddenly I began to throw myself at the foot of the Throne and petition the Lover of my soul with this singular plea: “Please, Jesus, please, would you invite each of my children to dance? Woo their hearts to yours. Don’t let them miss this breathtaking adventure, Lord. I want them to scale the heights and follow wherever you lead. Oh, please, let them delight in your agape love all the days of their lives.”

The three children for whom I prayed were dramatically different from one another, each one uniquely gifted and shaped. My strong-willed first born was intense and serious, competitive and loyal, while his sister close behind was flighty and funny, artistic and fun.  My baby at the time was a cherub-faced toddler who lived each moment like a Disney musical, she as the princess and the world as a song. I had seen enough in my eight short years as their mother to know that each of my offspring would pursue Jesus in different ways. More than anything, I just wanted them to pursue Him. Maybe more than that, I wanted my children to delight in being pursued by pure Love Himself.

I lost all track of time and place as I passionately poured out my heart for the three children tucked cozily into bed miles from my dark hotel room. At some point in my prayer vigil, I dosed off and the Lord spoke to me through the gracious gift of a poignant dream.
I watched as an outsider as the details of my night vision unfolded. Before me was an immense wooden dance floor, gleaming golden and sienna beneath the muted haze of a bejeweled chandelier. At first, the room appeared to be empty, but as my vision panned left, I saw a figure walking expectantly to the center of the scene. My heart leaped with joy as His visage became clear. It was my Savior, tall, dark, and handsome beyond belief. He was dressed in a flawless tuxedo, His smile lighting the room with indescribable glory. I wanted to run into His arms but my feet wouldn’t move. I was the spectator, not the participant in this strange but intoxicating dream. 

I watched as His eyes landed on a figure in the shadows. Instantly, His rose-red lips curled into a playful grin and His large tan hand beckoned the person to come. Playful music filled the room as the four-foot figure approached the Savior. My mouth dropped in awe as I watched with wistfulness. The one who shared the dance floor with Jesus was my firstborn. His white-blond head of hair bobbed to the contagious beat and soon Luke was grooving with the One who had shaped him in my womb. The dance was a delightful mixture of masculine and mayhem; smooth slides and the ridiculous “wiggle-your-booty” moves that my firstborn was famous for in fits of kitchen-dancing silliness. Jesus threw His head back and laughed as they jammed together with joy, and my serious-by-nature firstborn echoed the melodic  refrain.

Suddenly, the music changed and my dancing first-grader was replaced by his preschool sister. Her natural curls flying wild and fancy free, she skipped onto the dance floor with blue eyes ablaze. When she spotted Jesus, she clapped her hands together in pleasure and hop-scotched to his side. Christ grabbed my daughter’s hand and kissed the top of her tender head. As He held her close, He whispered something into Lizzy’s ear that made her guffaw with laughter, and then the jam began. Holy. Happy. Heavenly.

I knew who the final guest on the dance floor would be before she appeared. Her feather-light tutu was a soft pink whisper and her leotard a sequined wonder. When Jesus gallantly offered my toddler His large tanned hand, she grabbed it immediately and began to twirl like a seasoned ballerina.  The music was soft and smooth, a lullaby of love. The dance was one of grace and beauty.

Finally the music faded and the scene disappeared. I woke in my hotel room disoriented and dazed. Slowly, not unlike the world wakes from its winter slumber, I remembered my passionateprayer. I replayed the vivid dream over and over in my mind and received the assurance that it carried:  “I will dance with your children. Just watch and see.” Overwhelmed by the images lingering still in my mind’s eye, I cried with gratitude and awe. 

That unexpected night has long since faded into the past. Two more dancers have been added to my nest, and yet my plea remains the same. “Dance with them, dear Jesus. Dance.” I have no idea where each waltz will lead, but I am certain of this: there is safer place for my children to be than in the arms of their dancing Savior.

The Overflow:  “Arise my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.” -Song of Songs 2:10