Arms high, I am twisting and turning in my kitchen, doing
this grace-filled silly song, tension escaping from my fingertips and the first
fruits of freedom lifting my limbs into place seeking life in the land of the living
kind of dance. I am a grey hair and a new wrinkle shy of this coming fifty-two,
and I am wriggling in my kitchen, a balletic grammie-dance for a grand-boy who
knows only the joy and laughter of a twist and a giggle, and grammie’s awkward
steps are lovely.
I
Am
lovely.
He runs to me and I
snap him up in my arms and hold him tight to my heart, and know that he is medicine,
God-graced serum infused with hope for the future, and healing for my broken
past. He lays his head on my shoulder and we dance, sweet and soft to praise
songs and monkeys who are no longer granted permission to jump on beds. But we
hug, and we praise, and we jump, and beds in my home are once again messy.
He knows me, as my Savior knows me; fresh and clean. No past
tattered life stained mess. Just the purity of love held in eyes wide blue.
And I can earth dance heaven strains with hands made to
shirk these chains meant to dig scars into wrists no longer bound. I am Grammie
brave dancer with this boy so grand, and I whisper words of faith in his ears,
and trust My God Ever So Faithful with his very life, and look to the future where
he will stand and dance a freedom dance all his own.
