In the dream, I was dancing.
On tip-toe I stretched toward the sky. Graceful, smooth movements perfectly timed. My dance told my story, a ballet of movement without words.
But then they were there, grasping at me, tossing me from one to the other, with cruel hands. Painful bruises, I winced, broke rhythm. I struggled to get away, dance away. But my dance was different. Shoulders hung over, twisting in hurt, while my body slowly turned. A dance interrupted.
I saw a door, went to see. It was a table, laden with goods. It spread, filled the room. I ran in with joy, my eyes delighting at the bountiful treats. I gathered it up, filled my embrace, when suddenly a cruel hand before my eyes appeared. In sobering dismay, I watched as, with firm law, it pointed at the sign. Gold was required here. I looked for its master to plead my case, but no face appeared—only the hand of no compromise.
I moved slowly to obey its command; it slapped the treasure from my arms. Arms stinging, I retreated, moved reluctantly to the door. I cast longing gazes over my shoulder, but the sign, growing bigger, blocked my view. One without gold was not welcome here. With head hung low, I exited the room.
As my feet began their saddened dance anew, my tormenters reappeared. More angry than before. They shoved me this way and that. Uttered cruel, mocking words that crushed me beneath their weight. With the blows, I felt my body begin to break. Was there no escape...?
I slowly woke. Groggily, I switched on the lamp; reached for my nightly reading, the Book. Read Isaiah 52:1, “…you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Yes, come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.” Light turned low, I slid back to sleep’s embrace.
I huddled on the floor where they left me, a broken mass of pain. Suddenly, a hand appeared, palm up—an invitation. Harsh experience, held me in stillness. Then I saw the wound. Surely the one that bore that scar—knew some of me.
Slowly, I raised my eyes, His face was tender. Love in His gaze.
I placed my hand on His. He gently raised me to my feet. At His touch, my brokenness began to heal. At first it was a little twirl but then my feet—they wanted to leap. We danced awhile then He led me to the door. I resisted a bit, I knew I could not pay the price. But He beckoned me, I followed Him in…
The sign was there, I hung my head in shame. He lifted my chin. Before me, the hand appeared. He stepped between. Then it was gone… the sign, too. He smiled and urged me forward. My toes tingled as I danced to the table.
I left the room with arms piled high. And knew I’d be back for more.
I began a new dance that day, free and full of grace. My dance was strong, my heart light. My heart was comforted—I knew He’d never leave my side. Jesus truly is the One, the Only. He is Lord of the dance.
My dance told my story, a ballet of movement without words…
“Moreover, the law entered that the offense might abound. But where sin abounded, grace abounded much more, so that as sin reigned in death, even so grace might reign through righteousness to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Romans 5:20-21 (NKJV)
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