The third event took place on a dance floor last December. It had been the most beautiful ceremony as our son, Jesse, exchanged vows with dear, lovely Annie under a spreading oak in an open meadow. Now the celebration had moved indoors and it was time for the groom to dance with his mama. It wasn’t required, but we had decided to do it. I don’t know why, really, because I’m hopeless at being led. I dance alone. I dance in my bedroom and at the stove as I wait for the kettle to boil. I don’t dance with a partner in public.
We had decided to go for it even though there was no time to practice; no time for me to unlearn the stepping on his feet I was sure to do. As we faced each other, holding hands and waiting for the music to begin, I smiled into his sweet, young face and asked, “So, what are we going to do?” “We’re gonna go crazy,” he grinned.
The first notes of Queen’s Crazy Little Thing Called Love began, (a song I had chosen, for goodness sake!) and we did exactly that. We went crazy. We danced all over that floor and we had an absolute riot. The crowd was wildly enthusiastic for us. I danced with abandon and the utter joy of celebrating Jesse and Annie’s love. When I came off the floor, a close, long-time friend said, “How have I never known you had that in you??” I laughed and looked over at my folks, “Don’t worry,” I confided, “My parents didn’t know it either.”
I was transformed through that dance by the sheer delight I sensed from God as I cut loose and celebrated all that is good about love and marriage. Completely at ease in my own skin, I experienced the pleasure of being myself. I was transformed by the assurance that God enjoys a good party—and so very thankful I don’t have to be a Puritan.
(Photo by Jessica Taylor at 37 Degrees )