Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Joy (05/18/06)
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TITLE: I Dance | Previous Challenge Entry
By Sherril Wendling
05/23/06 -
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But Mark is oblivious. His slender hands are still galloping over the keys like twin foals in a pasture of buttercups. His eyes lock on Tracy, glowing at him from the first row. Five-year-old Derek nestles in the circle of her arm, creasing paper airplanes on her Bible.
The grand piano croons on.
Brows lift. A ruffling of songsheets ripples from the platform as band members trade uncertain glances. Pastor Hearn perches erect on his carved chair, tugging at his clerical collar with an index finger. Deacon Baines reaches under a lapel and mops his bald spot with an immaculate, folded handkerchief. Why doesn’t Mark stop?
A smile tickles my lips. I know why Mark’s euphoric soul is frothing all over the ivories. Tracy’s miracle.
No more living death, her bones a macabre lunch for mutating cells. The tests are confounding medical specialists across the Northeast. Not a trace of cancer. The wondrous news has kept our congregation breathless for nearly a month. Members of the ladies’ prayer chain coo over her bare head, freshly sprouted with auburn ringlets.
Hmm…Something’s happening. Mark has abandoned his sheet music. His right hand flings unheard melodies into the universe like newborn stars, while his left rides a torrent of harmony, setting the stained glass aquiver.
No one moves.
Father, he’s formally trained. A sight reader. He doesn’t know how to play like this.
But Joy does.
Angelic exuberance cascades from the piano, drenching the platform in a tsunami of abandon. The drummer kicks in. Now the bass guitarist. There’s my Kurt, thrumming the bongos, his peach-fuzzed countenance a study in perfect bliss.
Dance!
Lord? That sort of thing isn’t done here. And I’ve never learned to dance. I don’t know how.
But Joy knows.
My toes curl under the pew, trying to contain the blood pounding in my calves.
The joy of the Lord is your strength.
Wonder explodes from my core, pulverizing doubts into space dust. My shoes slide off with a faint thud.
Yes, Lord Jesus…I will love You. With all my strength.
My body rises, drawn aloft by an invisible hand. My stockinged heels dip over the wooden gunwale of an ancient fishing boat, touching, not the storm-wracked Galilee, but a carpet of red plush.
I dance.
I float past Mrs. Ivorsen in her daisy flop-hat, her face frozen in a pinched smile. I wink at tiny, tow-headed Lindy Alden, afluff in pink and patent leather. Dance with me? Her rosy lips pout as she slides under the seat.
The joy of the Lord is your strength.
My hands arc from heaven to earth, fingers splayed, air-painting glories of the kingdom to come. Can these unfaltering feet be mine? My primitive choreography spins shimmering threads of adoration, stitching a royal praise-cloak, vibrant with jewel-tones.
Tendrils of hair cling to my forehead. Father’s breath fans me. The music thunders on, and so must I.
There’s cousin Beth. Come, Beth. Come dance. Don’t you feel Him? She sucks a breath and turns away, eyelids squeezed tight. Not today.
I twirl, my peasant skirt fanning out in delirious celebration. A movement stirs the rear pew. Four hands edge skyward. I am not alone.
My alabaster soul-casket shatters, its shards ripping wide the veil to my Holy of holies. Incense of costly perfume infiltrates my billowing spirit. No one, nothing matters but Him.
I dance on the serpent’s head.
I dance on his shifting, weedy illusions.
I dance on his lemon-puckered, prune-faced pride.
I dance on his skulking, slithering minions: Self-pity, Self-reliance, Self-love.
I dance on his monstrous, slavering blood-lust.
I dance on his roaring, icy-toothed terrors.
I dance upon Death.
The joy of the Lord is your strength.
His joy. My feet, ablaze with trust.
I dance…
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On Monday morning the phone chirps. It’s Pastor Hearn. You people with your Holy Ghost shenanigans…Don’t you dare presume to take over this church. And don’t encourage others, either. I’ve seen churches split over this kind of thing. Don’t…Don’t…Don’t you dare.
In silence I return the receiver to its cradle and press a palm hard against my left breast, willing the tingling spasm of pain to stop. Pastor Hearn doesn’t know what my doctor knows.
My Lord is waiting in the kitchen. He smiles. He chuckles. He guffaws.
I reach for His outstretched hand.
We dance.
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Thanks for the joyious read.
Love from Daniele xxx
How dare that minister reminds me of Michal, King David's wife who ended up barren. That makes me shudder.