Tales Of A God Who Taught Her To Dance So That She Could Be His Partner


“You won’t ever be a good dance partner that way” he said, standing before the stage as he waited to see if she’d react.


to see how her heart would play this out and admit it’s known this all along.

to see if she’d move. If her feet would start to glide in the rythem that doesn’t match her indepedence.

For she really wasn’t a good dance partner and she wasn’t on the path to being one. Her feet only moved to the slides of her piano and her heart beat in time with the music from her soul.

She was the girl who knew how to fake her way through things. Had all the right answers and knew all the right moves. Could make you believe in her abilities to save you, to guide you, even if there was only room for one dancer on the stage. She was too preoccupied to remember a time when she was just a girl.

A girl. A tiny dancer. A blue jean baby. Pretty eyed with a pirate smile. So fragile in the scheme of things.

No leader. No Savior. No guide. No Dancing Queen. Just a queen meant to dance with her King.

She had forgotten how to be everything that Elton John sings about. Had forgotten what sat at the roots of her, after the music stops playing and the leotard is thrown to the bottom of hamper. Because even Tiny Dancer’s need an instructer to show them the ropes. The steps that they take: front and back. Front and back.

The lonliness was harbored in her eyes that night. It was harbored in her eyes and tied to her lashes as it fell and shimmered upon the skin that stretch with her every movement. The lonliness braided itself into her hair and her stayed perched on her cheekbones.

The boy could see it in her smile, could tango with it along the curves of her being. The same being he had known since the days that sand castles and strawberry poptarts were their biggest partners in crime.
His knees hit the floor of the stage, his surrender evident in the bending of his sturdy back. His back that had seemed to strong for just his problems, but never seemed weighed down with his own.

“Abba, Abba.” he cried out to the open room. To a God who knew when prayer was performance or real and this was the most real. “Help her to find her feet again. Her feet that were solely made to follow and dance with you Abba. They want so much to rejoice but they weren’t meant to do it alone, she wasn’t meant to be a Tiny Dancer.”

Follow & dance.

Follow & dance.

One requires more faith than the other, Father.”

Follow & Dance

One asks for control to give God the wheel to the car.

This boy believed in a God who planted kisses on your forehead before sleep every night. Who brings His children in for a hug in the morning when dreams still linger in their eyes. A God who yearned to tug all the pain from the hearts of His beloveds and say “This battle, it’s always been mine. Come back to me. Come back and give it all to me.”

The boy believed in a God whose heart breaks to see His children dancing alone. For girls that dance alone forgot the one who showed them how to dance in the first place, the one who deserves the first & last dance.

The first & the last.

The girl knew this boy. But she couldn’t tango with all the curves of his being. She didn’t know how he wailed in the depths of basements and found ways to put her in the beginning of his prayers and sang about her in his songs of lament. Because she mattered. She had always mattered.

The girl did not know the God who kissed her goodnight on her forehead, who brought His children in for hugs, and who’s heart broke when they danced alone. But gosh, did she longed to. She longed to.

So where does the dance begin? What chord was struck to make this dance begin?

The girl waited for the boy who knew her being since the days that sand castles and strawberry poptarts were their biggest partners in crime. She waited and saw him standing before the stage and nodded for him to come join her on the warm, wooden panels.

He did, for he loved her so. He loved her so.

and together, they began- with slow, slow steps- to learn to dance together. And let the waltz get easier. The waltz got easier for two pairs of feet on that small stage.

And the whole time, with every slow step that they took, the boy murmured tales into the space between their hearts. Tales of a God who taught her to dance so that she could be His partner.


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