REMEMBER THE DANCE

The prima ballerina entered from stage right, and I felt the pricks of pain in my toe as if it were only yesterday. The silk of the ribbons around my ankles and the gentle friction of the tutu skirt on my legs were as real today as they were a lifetime ago on the day of my last performance. Beneath the effortless motions of the pas de deux, I felt the subtle pressure of blisters opening up inside of pointe shoes, the dampness of sweat and blood as I eased my shoes off at the end of the show. On that day, a part of me sat in Row G watching the Nutcracker ballet with my daughter and nieces, and another part of me relived 20-year-old memories of a past self. My head knows the plot of the story and cadence of the songs, but something deeper within me recalls the feeling of the dance. My body doesn’t need to be told; it remembers how to dance. What it remembers is real and true.  

I recently experienced this phenomenon again at a concert. A band I have followed for a long time (apparently 20+ years) went on tour to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the album that signified they had “made it '' in the music industry. While there was slightly less crowd surfing and jumping around the stage, the band, the music, the lyrics, the venue and much of the audience were the same. Just as I could feel that “prick” of pain as the dancer entered onstage at the ballet, hearing these words sung live on stage took my right back to the yearning for God that I felt in that concert venue at age 19. I was hearing with both my current and my past self. One of my favorite songs from their album has these lines,  

“And you're on fire when He's near you 

You're on fire when He speaks 

Oh, you're on fire burning at these mysteries

Give me one more time around 

Give me one more chance to see, yeah 

Give me everything You are 

Give me one more chance to be near You” 

As a teenager, the lyrics spoke to my yearning for God to come close, yet that “fire” was like a scalding burn that hurt and confused me. I was constantly asking God for “one more chance” to see, be near, and touch God. Often, I would jump back from the intensity of the heat. And so, the cycle continued: plead, scald, retreat, regret, plead. Why is it easier for me to hold onto the moments in prayer that are scalding and hard, rather than warm and welcoming? The season of Advent focuses on preparing to welcome the Christ Child into our lives and into our hearts. Sometimes instead of receiving and savoring what God has offered me, I am trying to pass it onto the next person like a game of hot potato.

I take comfort in today’s second reading. “Do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like one day.” - 2 Peter 3:8 

While I may be growing impatient with my slow progress towards trusting and faith, with God I have all the time in the world. I know that restlessness comes from me. When I hear the lyric “give me one more time around, give me one more chance to be near you,” I am reminded of God’s repeated “yes” to my requests, even if my own response seems lacking. Like dancing or songs that are enmeshed in my soul, the liturgy is also a place where years have shown me that God does keep offering me those chances over and over again.  

On any given Sunday, I am sitting ¾ of the way back on the far right side of the Church, but my muscle memory is also taking over. I am also 8-years-old and altar serving, soaking in every silent prayer in Fr. Miller’s eyes. I’m 16 and serving as a Eucharistic Minister for the first time. I’m 20-years-old, and I walk out of the silent retreat I’m attending. I’m 26-years-old, and my heart is breaking as my best friend is ordained. I’m 30, and we are baptizing our first child. I am 36, and taking my kids to their first funeral. My past hurts and failings, my current hopes and deep desires, and the innermost longings are equally present to me. 

As my body re-lives all the senses and memories of the past, I catch the smallest glimpse of how God transcends time and space. God takes my little life with its moments and days and pieces, brings them to the altar, and makes them whole again. If God could make something beautiful out of whatever mismatched ingredients I’m bringing, then my mind can only begin to imagine what God could do as he takes on the pain and joy of the whole world and places them into his Son.

My body doesn’t need to be told; it remembers how to dance. I didn’t need to look up the lyrics to my favorite songs for the reunion tour. I never doubt the “realness” of these memories. This Advent I pray my soul, and your soul, trusts in the memories of God’s goodness and tenderness just as fully. 

Going Deeper 

 

Jen Coito

Comment