When To Dance

Now I confess to being a dancer! Always have been. I grew up in a Cajun family, and honky-tonk music and Cajun fiddles were always playing in my house. Both of my parents were alcoholics, but if a fiddle started playing, they would try to get up off the floor and dance. The fighting would continue later but for now...Even when I was young and being taught that dancing was sinful, I often had to go with my parents to their beer/music/dance parties where everyone brought whatever instrument they played (I use the term loosely), cleared a room for dancing, set out the food, and let 'er rip! Into the early morning they would play every song they knew and some they didn't! I was always called on for a 12-year-old's rendition of "Walking The Floor Over You" and "Your Cheatin' Heart". Then when the hour was late and somebody was really feeling religious or guilty (those two usually go together),I would sing "He Looked Beyond My Faults"!

The only other dancing I dared to do was what passed for dancing in our Pentecostal church. Even though I could only do it as the "Spirit moved me", it was always to the music being played. All things done "in the Spirit" were evidenced by having the eyes closed. That way, when you accidentally backhanded somebody or fell over the mourners' bench, or took out a section of sheetrock wall, you could deny responsibility! But the hard part was finding a move or step that worked with the music but not letting it appear as though I was actually listening to the music (God forbid I would enjoy it!)!

Without going into all the debate about the subject, I will simply say that there are times when dancing is the only thing to do.

During my second week in the hospital, I was sinking into a deep depression. The fact that I had developed cancer had startled me, scared me, angered me, and then I got depressed about it. I had begged the doctor one morning during his visit to tell me why and how I had gotten cancer. He replied,"Mr. Frank, if I knew what caused it, I would know how to cure it."

My depression deepened as I realized that I had no control over this, and, on top of my medical problems, I was faced with a long-term recovery and, even though my wife had great benefits with her job, there would still be a tremendous financial burden for the foreseeable future.

Every day, like a piece of loosely woven fabric, I came apart at the edges. My digestive system had been traumatized, so I could not have anything by mouth until the surgical site healed to a certain point and the nerves reconnected. I was so hungry, though, that I tried. A piece of American cheese, or a single Saltine cracker, would inevitably end up on the floor. And not in its original state!

I could not stretch out flat on the bed because of the soreness of my abdomen. My dignity was gone. I had been stripped naked and bathed with a wet blanket while nurses walked in and out of the room. I had doctors walk in with 5 interns in tow to use me as a medical example and illustrate how to insert and check various lines, tubes, and fluids! I hurt all over! Weak as a kitten, I was forced to get out of bed every morning, and while the nurse changed my bed linen, I had to drag an IV pole, with a painful tube down my nose into my stomach that had my nasal cartilage on fire, another into a hole in my abdomen (held in place by a stitch of thread that stung like a wasp sting) to inject nutrition and fluids, two tubes inserted into the abdomen drain off infection, and a final tube into the bladder (just for the indignity of it, I guess), up and down the hall for my daily exercise. I was tired, scared, and angry. Aside from my family and a few close friends who will be mentioned later, I felt abandoned by the religious organization that I had devoted my life to.

All who live long enough will have experiences like this and perhaps worse. Living for God and devoting ourselves to His work most assuredly does not shield us from life, but there is a difference.Paul said in Hebrews 12, "Consider HIM who endured the contradiction of sinners against himself, lest you faint in your mind."

At one point in my misery, as I gazed down at my emaciated body and saw my stomach and abdomen swollen and lined with staples and disinfectant, HIS gentle voice spoke to me and reminded me that there was not one painful thing that I had, or would, endure during that terrible time, that was done to deliberately hurt me. Nobody did anything out of hatred or meanness. Every stab of a needle, slice of a scalpel, denial of food, every pain, discomfort, isolation, and restriction was about helping me and saving my life!

"What if", HE whispered, "They hated you and wanted you dead?"

What must my lovely Lord have endured to save, not His life, but mine! How torturous was it for Him, who "knew no sin", to "endure the cross, despise the shame", and keep His eye on the goal of "the joy that was set before him"!

That's when I decided it was time to dance, and this is why I believe God is okay with dancing because dancing is about grace. God's grace. I know the traditional, theological definition of grace is "the unmerited favor of God", but I can't wrap my brain around that definition. I know my failures, and my humanity still needs to know how and why He loves me.

Neither is grace the kind of mushy, sentimentality that God slings around arbitrarily or (worse) deliberately! Like when a pastor complains from the pulpit about the cost of putting new tires on his wife's car and somebody in the congregation can barely buy groceries to eat that day. Or somebody is blessed with a new motorcycle, and the person sitting behind them is getting evicted because they are still waiting for God to favor them with some kind of job!

That day in the hospital, God told me His definition of GRACE! It is "Doing a thing with no wasted motion."! God's grace is like the beautiful movement of a seasoned gymnast, prima ballerina, or even a star NFL player who makes the impossible catch.
Those who are grace-full make the thing done look easy to do and beautiful to watch! They make every move count! It is the shortest way to the goal!

I don't know why I got cancer, and I really don't know why I lived to tell about it. I have attended the funerals of better people than I who didn't survive. I may get it again. I don't want it but I guess there are worse ways to die. There are tragic ways to die and I would never get to say goodbye!

So, with the knowledge that God's plan for me had no wasted movement, and He would finish (with beautiful style) what he started in me, I donned my stereo headset, popped in a tape of the loudest, "jammin'est" gospel choir I could find, crawled out of my bed and, holding on to that IV pole, eyes wide open, in the flesh, with tears streaming, I danced all around that hospital room till I knew it would be alright!