Broken feet cannot
dance very well. I learned the steps by
standing on a pair that really tried…but broken feet can only teach a broken
dance. And the feet learning atop them
become warped and broken in the process—perhaps to an even greater degree.
The teaching feet
told me they had learned the steps from the DanceMaster and that everything I
would ever need to know I could learn from them—I would be wasting the
DanceMaster’s time if I sought Him directly. Eventually, the
teaching feet grew too broken to bear my weight, and danced off alone. By then,
my own feet were quite broken: each step was a stumble, every twirl became a
fall. But I had come to love the only dance I knew. For a while I tried to dance on my own—pretending
the stumbles and falls were intentional, celebrated elements of my own clever
choreography. But my feet grew more
broken…and the choreography fell apart. It became evident that if I was ever to dance as well as the teaching
feet, I would have to seek out the DanceMaster.
Over the years, I
had rather hoped that I might catch a fleeting glimpse of the DanceMaster or
encounter Him in passing, but of course that doesn’t happen. As I had never sought Him, I had never found
Him. But the minute I purposed to go looking
for him, the DanceMaster found me.
He said that He
would be delighted to teach me, but He would not instruct me in the dances of
the teaching feet—He would not help me to augment those dances and mask my
stumbles and falls. If I was determined
to pursue those desires, He could not help me. “Are you willing to relearn the steps from me?”
After much
thought, I told Him the only two things of which I was certain: I wanted to
dance better, and I wanted to learn from Him…if starting over was the only way,
I would try it.
The DanceMaster
instructed me to stand on His feet. I
found myself wondering if this was, in fact, a waste of time: He seemed to be
using the same technique as the teaching feet who had left me. But slowly, softly realization dawned—something
was different about His instruction. There was a rhythm underlying each step, a nuance pulsing through His
hands, guiding and rejoicing in every move of the dance. He called it music. If He was attended by something so beautiful,
perhaps the DanceMaster was different after all.
For fully three
years I seemed to struggle without improvement. We never worked on more than the most basic steps, and He never let me
dance on my own—I was always on His feet. Yet standing on the DanceMaster’s feet was excruciating! His feet were not broken and deformed:
standing on them forced my own broken feet to take a different shape, and the
pain was almost overwhelming. For those
three years, I spent most of our lessons in tears. Repeatedly I begged Him to let me dance on
the floor. He always said it wasn’t time
yet; He said that I was not yet strong enough to hear the music on my own, and
that the floor would hurt my feet more. All that sustained me were the DanceMaster’s frequent reminders of His
promise to teach me many new dances when it was time, and the increasing beauty
of the music to which we danced.
One day He said,
“Look at your feet.”
They were so
different! My feet were now shaped more
like the DanceMaster’s, although they were still a little warped and…how
scarred they were!
He said that my
feet were no longer broken, but they would continue to cause me some degree of
pain for the rest of my life. The
DanceMaster gave me permission to dance on the floor now, but said that He
would sometimes have me dance on His feet so that He could make my feet
straighter. He also said the scars will
fade over time, but that new ones will form any time I choose not to dance on
His feet in moments when the pain threatens to overwhelm me.
“Are you ready to
dance through the steps for me?” He asked.
He started
teaching me dances. Each step, each
dance, built upon the one before it. At
times He taught me quickly; more often He was slow and deliberate. Perhaps the music sustained me: slow didn’t
seem so slow as before, and fast was never too fast. He began showing me solo dances, partner
dances, and group dances. Some bore a
vague similarity to the dances I had learned from the teaching feet…but these
were far more intricate and beautiful. The steps which the DanceMaster taught me were far more complex than
anything I could have previously managed with my broken feet. I grew to love combining the steps He
demonstrated into improvised dances I would perform for Him. I’m sure the DanceMaster has seen many dances
more artistically and technically correct. But each time I display for Him my
affection and gratitude by mirroring back to Him the steps He has taught me,
delight suffuses His face and He sings to the music surrounding me.
I was so excited
by all I was learning that I began using my practice hours to introduce others
to the beautiful steps the DanceMaster was teaching me. Some have grown excited and begun to study
under Him as well; group dances are more and more fun! Others have politely rebuffed me and continued
with their own choreography, or lack thereof. Some have grown very angry at the suggestion that their lives could
possibly be deficient in any way that would necessitate the undertaking of such
nonsense. Still others have been deeply
moved by the steps and the altered state of my feet…for a short while…but upon
learning there is pain involved, they have always left in haste; the pain in my
feet is sharpest after those encounters.
But still He asks,
“Will you dance for me?”
Usually I remember
to dance on my Master’s feet when the pain grows unbearable; sometimes He has
to remind me. Occasionally I ignore His
reminders. I sit staring at my feet as the
pain builds and the throbbing envelopes my mind, intentionally tuning out the
DanceMaster’s persistent and gentle admonitions to rise drifting to me on the
music. Once in a while I do this even
when my feet are not very painful at all; but hunching over them and thinking
about them seems to make the pain grow larger somehow, until I forget that it
had not been nearly so sharp to begin with. But without fail—be it minutes, hours, or days later—the music
penetrates my self-induced silence and I begin to hear His voice:
“Will you dance
for me?”
It is always in
those moments when I raise my head to look at Him from across the floor that I
am most clearly struck by how tall and straight and strong the Dancemaster
is. Gazing at Him from a distance is far
more imposing than when I am dancing around Him or held close in His arms. The awe of this realization always spurs my
desire to be near Him, in the shadow of His gentleness, and gives me the
strength to rise and dance toward Him once more. When I sit down I forget that,
while dancing, the pain serves only to keep me light on my feet.
