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.
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.