Finding God at the Honky Tonk

Several months ago, I went with some friends to a tastefully decorated, comfortable country-western dance hall (aka., a honky tonk). My friend’s cousin was celebrating her birthday, and others swore this was the best place to learn all the country two-steps. So, I jumped on board and readied myself for some adventure. For the first hour or so, I sat on the sidelines and watched in disbelief. How did their feet move so fast? How did they cross the floor so easily? How did they know all the steps? I was overwhelmed.

But, I decided to lean into the discomfort and take a risk. I made my way out to the floor, stood behind someone who looked like she knew what she was doing, and struggled through. It was rough. I had to forget about everyone else on the dance floor. I had to stop comparing myself to those around me. I had to focus and celebrate the little steps I did conquer. This continued for a while with several dances. I felt myself gaining more confidence. I still messed up. I still probably looked quite uncoordinated and foolish, but I showed up, dance after dance.

As the music kept playing and the hour getting later, the dancers became fewer. That’s when my friend pushed me onto the floor with a guy we had all been watching. He was amazing! He knew all the steps. He never missed a beat. And there I was, standing before him. At first, I felt stupid. This will never work. I’ll only slow him down. But for a moment, I thought, “Maybe I can learn something from him. Maybe he’ll be patient with me and stick it out for the entire song.”

As all these thoughts soared through my head, I looked up at him (someone taller than me for the win!) and found a smile. He held his arms out ready to take mine. Somehow in the midst of my uncertainty, I managed to form the audible words, “I have no clue what I’m doing.” He kept smiling, leaned down, and replied, “That’s okay.” And then we were moving.

As we moved, he spoke the rhythm at just the right volume. After one round, he asked me if I was okay. He didn’t move into some complicated beat that would lose a beginner. He politely asked me if I wanted to change it up. He was sensitive to where I was at and how I was doing. Throughout the song, he consistently complimented me. I felt his confidence. He believed I could do this. As the song progressed, we moved faster. He spun me and dipped me. Before, I could only look at my feet and say the rhythm out loud, but by verse two of the song, we were having a conversation. Yes, I messed up. Yes, I lost the rhythm. Yes, I stepped on his toes. But he never once became frustrated. Instead, he paused, gave me a second, and we picked back up with the beat. I’ve never moved so fast across the dance floor. I’ve never felt so confident with my feet. I’ve never danced with someone who believed in me that much. His confidence in me propelled my own confidence to another level. He opened my eyes to the possibility that I could dance, not just my crazy moves to the dj’s mix but rather coordinated moves in time with another human being.

After our dance that night, I wanted to give him all the feedback that came to mind. Turns out, he’s a dance instructor by profession. No wonder. I’m glad others get to experience what I did.

Sometimes, I still think about that evening on the dance floor, and my connectedness strength can’t help but reflect on how dancing with that guy is much like dancing with God. For those who have read my post "The Daddy-Daughter Dance," you will know that I oftentimes liken my relationship with God to dancing. So here’s another aspect of that connection.

I get to partner with God. I stand across from him and sometimes feel like I have no clue how to take the next step. I feel so unsure, so out of place. But as my eyes meet his, I see a smile and hear him say, “That’s okay.” When we move, he whispers the rhythm that he knows fits me. With every turn, every change, he tells me that I’m doing fantastic, and I think, “Wow! I don’t feel like I’m doing anything but following you!” With his confidence in me, I feel ready, competent, invincible. I mess up, but he smiles, maintains eye contact, keeps his hand wrapped around mine, and we keep dancing. I don’t know if the honky-tonk dance teacher enjoyed his time on the floor with me. He seemed like he did, so I’ll go with that. However, I know for sure God delights in dancing with me. With him, it’s not about how fast we move or how far across the floor we make it. With him, mess ups don’t matter. With him, I don’t care who’s watching. With him, I’m learning that the beauty lies in our time together. He enjoys just being with me, and I can’t help but blush, sigh, and take another turn.

The Daddy-Daughter Dance

Inspired by...

Steffany Gretzinger’s song “We Dance” (lyric video for "We Dance")

and by my walk with my Father

I cowered in the corner enveloped in shame and fear, fear of what others thought and shame over who I had become and what I had done. No one would ever ask me out to the dance floor. How could anyone want to take my hand and share a dance with me? My heart was broken and wounded. Anger and bitterness held my soul captive. Striving to please and working to perform had driven me to a state of utter embarrassment and hopelessness. I didn't even know how to cry.

But then I heard it, a voice, his voice. In the middle of the loud music and the scattered voices, I heard that voice again. He called me always, ever so gently. I wanted to respond, but what was the point? People had called out to me before, and I had answered, only to be disappointed. But this voice was different. This voice whispered peace to me. This voice called me his child, his beloved daughter. His voice beckoned me. But he wasn’t asking me to dance. He was asking me to let him express his love for me, to let him heal me and renew me. The wounds were deep. The pain was real. The hurt caused my heart to ache. And yet he called me by name. And something in the way he said my name was...beautiful. I had resisted for so long. I had looked away, strived for approval, desired affirmation. Yet he called me and told me he didn't want anything from me. Instead he wanted to love me, to heal me, to call me his, to redeem me. I gave in. I yielded.

Yes, I yielded. And while the change wasn't immediate, his presence overwhelmed me and flooded me with love--true, genuine love. The wounds still hurt, but as he cleansed them, I felt a tenderness in his touch. While I cried in agony, his arms wrapped around me. I thought he'd immediately try to convince me to go out onto the dance floor, but I was wrong. Instead he held me in the corner. He held me. With his strong yet tender arms, he held me. And as I relaxed and let go, he began to heal me. He saw the anger and the bitterness, yet he didn't leave me. He saw the wounds of my past, yet he held me as I mourned. He saw the broken places, yet he didn't run away from me. His touch healed my soul. A transformation happened in that corner. He took what was left of me and somehow made me whole, beautifully whole. All the while, he called me daughter. I felt safe with him. When shame crept into my heart, he reminded me how valuable I am to him. When fearful thoughts flooded my mind, he delivered sweet peace to me. When I wanted to strive, he encouraged me to rest.

Then one day, he asked me to dance.

Dance? But I was so comfortable resting and experiencing healing in his arms, there in our corner of the dance floor. With promising eyes, he told me he had more for me.

Dance? But I didn't know how. With a gentle touch, he assured me I only needed to rest in him.

Dance? But I wasn’t strong enough. With knowing eyes, he gazed into my soul and promised me his strength.

But what if I didn't know the song? “My daughter,” he said, “it is the song I wrote for you.” Each note penned with me in mind. Each measure carefully selected for me.

But what if I fall? “But, oh my darling, what if you fly?” (original poem here)

And if the music quickens or the beat suddenly changes? “Let my peace set your pace.”

As we stood, I felt the soft touch of the dress, the dress he had clothed me in. As we walked to the center, I turned to the mirror to see the change he had wrought in me. Beautiful. Wounds cleansed and healed. Dress resting on my skin. Hair falling in soft curls. Beautiful. I looked into his eyes, the eyes of the one who had changed me, the one who had made me whole. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. As if he knew my thoughts, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Yes, my child, you are worth it.” With those words, I relaxed. With those words, tears came gently down my face, for I knew that the beauty I could see on the outside reflected the beautiful change he had created on the inside. And then it happened. I felt it….I felt beautiful.

There we were, at the center of the floor. No more striving. No more tension. Just me and him. With a kind touch, he placed my hand in his. The music began, the most beautiful of songs. He had captivated me. My eyes stared only at his. And then it began. The dance. As he moved, I followed. As he stepped, my feet knew the way. A tender yet strong dance. Then the beat changed. My arms tensed. My gaze dropped. Nervous. Anxious. But he whispered, “relax” and reminded me of his love. He assured me again that I was worthy. Gaze fixed on him, I received his peace and allowed his love to fill the space in and around me.

This dance, resting in his arms and allowing his movements to take me here or sway me there. This dance, moving to the rhythm of his heart. This dance, letting go of all else. This dance, the daddy-daughter dance I’ve always wanted. To be swept away, standing on his feet, surrendered to the tender strength only he maintains. Locking eyes with him, I fear nothing. His steady hand holds me upright. Motivated by his constant gaze and resting in the assurance that he sees me yet...yet he still loves me, I can go anywhere with him. Across the dance floor, up in his arms, through the hallways, into the streets. When he sets the pace, I follow...peacefully. Surrendered. Vulnerable. Focused. Enamored. Enthralled. Captivated.

Leaning into the Pain

I went for a run this weekend. I hated every minute of it.  I don’t always feel that way when I go running, but I passionately despised my weekend run. Yes, those are strong words; nonetheless, they accurately convey the strong feelings I had. Sweat pouring out from every part of my body. The sun’s scorching rays beating down on me. My inner thighs burning as I went up the hills. Cars passing me. Stop lights distracting me. Branches scratching my face. Potholes swallowing my feet. With each step on the road, my knees ached. I felt myself getting more tense with each stride. Every part of me hurt. Why I chose to run in the middle of the day with the sun at its highest point, I do not know. But there I was, pounding the pavement yet again. Why I have yet to buy new running shoes, I do not know. Any runner will tell you to invest well and invest often in shoes. “You won’t regret it!” they declare. Yet, I haven’t bought new shoes in at least three years. Who knows how many miles they have on them. No wonder my knees throb every time I go out. Miserable. Tense. Fighting. Losing. Frustrated. Hurting.

But then I remembered that text Jen sent me. “Lean into the pain” she wrote. She wasn’t talking about just running either. She was replying to my text: “Jen, when does the pain stop? When will it stop hurting so much?” But she didn’t tell me when the pain would stop; she just said to “lean into it.” What the heck does that mean?! How do I lean into the pain that my heart feels? Yet, in great Jen fashion, she didn’t come out and give me all the answers; instead she told me to go for a run. A brutal run. Then near the end of the run, find a hill. “A big hill.” One that my legs don’t know if they can make it up. “Get up that hill,” she said. Make it to the top. Run. Walk. Jog. Crawl. Take a break if you have to. But get up the hill she said. And as the pain builds, lean into it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t wish it away.

And so, I went for a run. When I got to that hill, I wanted to cry. It looked like too much to handle. I couldn't see the other side. Aching. Pounding. Hurting. But, turning back wasn't an option. So, I leaned into the pain the best I knew how. I relaxed my muscles. I allowed my arms to drop. I didn’t distract myself with music or random thoughts or the scenery around. I pushed. Sometimes my steps slowed. But I allowed myself to feel the pain. Hurting. Quitting. Feeling inadequate. Not enough. Weak. Exposed. Alone. Ugly. Messy. Dirty. Sweaty. Downright crappy. Heart beating out of my chest. Drivers on Rt. 1 watching all the while. But I kept running. I kept leaning, leaning into the pain. Allowing myself to feel it. Making space for it to wash over me, to envelop me. Suffocating. Hard. Doubting. Brutal.

And then, it ended. Not the pain. The pain persisted. The run ended. I made it to my destination, the top of the brutal hill. But, the pain refused to stop when my body did. Heart still pounding. Knees still aching. I could barely lift my arms. Every muscle screamed out at me. My throat begged for water. My feet continued to swell. My hands were still shaking. Then slowly, little by little, the pain lessened. The pounding diminished to a steady beat. The aching knees and legs gave way to soothing stretches. The heavy breathing returned to a normal pace. Water cooled my dry mouth and throat. My swollen feet basked in the fresh air as I quickly removed my socks and shoes. Stretching. Hydrating. Recuperating. Resting.

I turned around. I looked back down the hill. Had I really made it to the top? What if this isn’t the end? What if another hill awaits me? What if more pain lurks on the horizon? Is there a way to conquer the hills without experiencing the pain? Will I ever be able to face the hills and avoid the pain? Am I better off just avoiding the run altogether? Staying inside? Does anything good come from the pain? Is the freedom running brings worth more than the pain that accompanies it?

They say (whoever “they” are), “Pain is good. It lets you know you’re still alive.” I hate that saying, yet the pain of running reminds me that I can run. The pain of life tells me that I’m alive, that I can truly care, that I’m not a simple robot, that I’m more than just mechanical. And, the pain of running...the hurting, the heaving, the pounding...the pain of running somehow makes the other moments--the resting, the majestic skies, the vast fields, the steady breathing, the beauty--those moments become more special, more intimate, more cherished.

I Saw Courage This Week.

I saw courage this week. Each day. Every class period. Inside my classroom. They came in. They showed up. They allowed others to see them, with all their quirks and with all their insecurities. But then I asked them to share their heart stories. I asked them to journal, to write down their thoughts and their feelings. The first topic? Shame. Yeah, that ugly word that we are all too familiar with yet we all want to avoid and ignore. But not in my classroom. Not when we’re reading The Scarlet Letter, and we watch a community of legalistic pricks shame Hester for her mistake. Courage: the willingness to share your heart story. The assignment: write about a time when you felt shame, when you felt embarrassed. You could have heard a pin drop. They all looked mortified! But then, I shared my shame story. The divorce. The way I tried to hide what was going on in our home. The shame I felt each time I realized afresh that my parents were no longer together. Their horrified looks morphed into understanding eyes. Their frozen heads began to slowly nod telling me they understood the feeling. Their ten minutes of writing finished, but their pens still scratched across the pages. Relief. I sensed relief in some of them. Relief that they could finally tell the story because in simply telling the story, they were confronting the shame. They were refusing to hide from it. As they wrote their feelings and their thoughts, they forced the shame to disappear. Journaling finished, books open, Hester Prynne in the spotlight. But now it’s different. Now they can relate to her. Now they connect their feelings of shame to hers. Trapped in the pages of a book, Hester can’t escape her shame. My students? They just won that battle. They just celebrated a victory. In the words of Brene Brown, they just owned their stories.

I saw courage this week. My seniors showed up. They came into class, a class that’s downright hard. British Literature. The reading isn’t always easy to understand, and writing papers seems more than daunting. Then there’s all the pressure they have from every angle of life to make good grades, go to exemplary colleges, lead the underclassmen, participate in extracurricular activities, sit still and pay attention in every class, create the best presentations, and well, just perform. This week, we talked about Hrothgar, that king in Beowulf who couldn’t stop the monster Grendel from destroying and brooding over his Danish kingdom. There he sat on his throne feeling demoralized, discouraged, inadequate, and not enough. Not brave enough. Not strong enough. Not wise enough. Courage: the willingness to share your heart story. Assignment: write about a time when you felt like you weren’t _________ enough. Their reaction: all eyes dropped to the floor. But when I said, “And here’s my not _________ enough story,” their eyes slowly wandered back and caught mine again. Ah! They were with me. They were listening. My story? I never felt popular enough. Growing up with my brother made for some extreme comparisons. He, one of the most popular kids on campus, and me, the not so popular kid. I wasn’t pretty enough, sociable enough, crazy enough. Now their eyes were glued to me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one in that room who had felt inadequate at some point. Then a question arose: “Miss Griffin, can I write about how I still feel inadequate? Does it have to be something from the past?” Wow. So I’m not the only one who still fights the “I’m not ________ enough” battle. And so they began. With their pens quickly moving across the pages, they filled up the lines with their stories. They confronted the feelings of inadequacy. They owned their stories. They brought courage to life.

I saw courage this week. Not on a battlefield. Not in a movie. Not in the literature I teach, but rather in the students who enter my classroom. And week three hasn’t even begun.

Freedom Demands Responsibility.

The Holocaust. Slavery in the American South. Genocide in Rwanda. Terror in Sudan. Persecution in North Korea. These events, these horrific pages of history, these terrifying episodes along the modern timeline--these have broken my heart. They have made me cry. They anger me and forbid me to turn my eyes the other way when wrong runs rampant, when evil flourishes, when the weaker ones of society are taken advantage of. Perhaps it is that fervor and desire to see evil punished and justice given that demand my attention and focus when the current issue of human trafficking surfaces. It's a gross topic that we don't want to believe exists. It's not entertaining. It's not pretty. It's downright morbid and perverted, but it has flooded our nation, and it has inundated our streets. Therefore, to turn a blind eye, while easy, would be selfish.

But does God care about such an injustice? Is he concerned with the enslavement--physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual--of men, women, and children? Psalm 10 strongly affirms that he does: "O Lord, you hear the desire of the afflicted; you will strengthen their heart; you will incline your ear to do justice to the fatherless and the oppressed, so that man who is of the earth may strike terror no more." If God has a heart for justice, should his people not share that heart? If we are his people, if we are the Body of Christ, should we not cultivate a heart that mirrors his and a character that reflects his? Should we not be the ones working to enhance the freedom of others because we have received complete freedom from the Giver of true freedom?

Former South African president Nelson Mandela once declared, "To be free is not merely to cast off one's chains but to live in a way that enhances and respects the freedom of others." Do I truly and fully live out my freedom if I fail to work towards the freedom, both the physical and the emotional, both the psychological and the spiritual, of others? Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel declared in his Nobel acceptance speech, "What all these victims need above all is to know...that while their freedom depends on ours, the quality of our freedom depends on theirs." For those in slavery to be freed, those in freedom must act. For those living in freedom to genuinely experience freedom, they must vigilantly and faithfully work towards the freedom of others.

Tell Me a Story.

I love stories! I guess I have to love them to enjoy my profession. How fun would teaching literature be if I didn't enjoy a quality story? Yes, they captivate me. No matter how many times I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I still relive with Scout those harsh yet amazing summers in Maycomb County. Every year, when I flip through the pages of the Holocaust survival story found in Night, I cringe at the renewed realization that humanity can be so cruel, yet I find hope in the beauty of those who chose to rescue, of those who chose the more difficult path and stood against the common trend in society. Whether it's in the futuristic setting of Fahrenheit 451 or the utopian society of The Giver, losing myself within the pages of a book not only fascinates me but also offers to me glimpses of characters who learn from their own mistakes and those of others, of people who grab onto hope and refuse to let go.

Beyond the tales of literature, there exist other stories not written down in books and not typed into a blog. I can't check them out at the library nor can I download the Kindle version onto my phone. I won't find them on a shelf or be able to borrow them from a friend. They come in the form of friends around a campfire or of folks sitting around the dinner table or of people gathered together in the living room. These are the stories of how God brings men and women, boys and girls to himself. Testimonies--I love listening to believers' testimonies! Just like any good story, personal stories of Christ's redemption present a hero, but this hero, our Savior, does not just create a happy ending, he offers eternal life that begins on earth. The context may change; the characters always vary; the conflicts cover a wide range, but the hero remains the same. The hero offers a restored relationship between the Creator and his creation.

Hope--that's what truly good stories have in common. Because Atticus takes a stand in Maycomb County, others find encouragement and hope for a better future. When Jonas decides to flee the community, he finds hope in memories and in the outside world. Even as Frodo and Sam almost perish, Aragorn finds hope to fight against the forces of Mordor. Yet, these stories of hope pale in comparison to the ultimate Story of Hope, the story of the reconciliation of man to God, a story lived out in the lives of believers. Those are the stories I never tire of hearing. Those are the ones that stir and move me the most.

Confronting the Ugly Truth

In April of 1994, the African country of Rwanda entered into what today is referred to as genocide. Over the course of one hundred days, about eight hundred thousand Rwandan lives ended at the hands of their fellow countrymen, and the world watched in silence. Facing the facts proved too horrific for the Western World. Realizing that a solution would cost much caused the United States and Europe to turn a deaf ear to the cries for help. While some knew the truth and chose to ignore it, others chose never even to learn the truth. 1994--just fifty years after the Holocaust, yet people still chose to ignore. Someone once said that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy, just not caring.

When will we stop passively reading about injustice from a history book and start involving ourselves as part of the solution to current issues regarding the suffering of others? From North Korea to Sudan, genocide still exists. In addition to victims of genocide, today, an estimated 27 million people (according to UNICEF), both adults and children, find themselves caught in slavery. That number far exceeds those in slavery during the 1700s and 1800s. While evil will always exist, we do not have to fold our hands, shut our ears, and content ourselves with the erroneous idea that the problem is too overwhelming or that the issue doesn't directly affect us. We don't have to not care. In fact, not caring contradicts the very character of God. In Psalm 10:17-18, the psalmist reveals God's actions toward those suffering injustice: "O Lord, you hear the desire of the afflicted; you will strengthen their heart; you will incline your ear to do justice to the fatherless and the oppressed, so that man who is of the earth may strike terror no more" (ESV). Perhaps part of the reason for our collective apathy is that the truth is just too difficult to swallow, but swallow it we must. In the words of the Director of International Justice Mission Gary Haugen, "Any serious contest with evil requires a painful confrontation with the truth."