Last night during Family Home Evening, a bunch of young single adults got together to learn some ballroom dancing. I have to admit I have an obession with watching ballroom dancers. They all appear to be so graceful and beautiful.
Yet, as I began last night I couldn't find grace at all--My knees were equal to a new born calf, my face was the color of a tomato and I was laughing like an hyena. Me?! Ballroom dance? You might as well ask an elephant to willingly step into a freezer.
As the night progressed, I found myself getting a little better; I prefered to lead I admit it. It was a lot easier if I knew where I was going, when I was going to turn, etc. However, the ballroom dance teacher spotted my pride and came over and asked to be my partner. He repeated the instructions to hold a good frame and pay attention to his movements. I obeyed and soon I was dancing gracefully across the floor in perfect sync with him and the music.
As I found the perfect sync, my memories were flooded with images of my parents dancing in the kitchen, at weddings and church dances. I felt as though for a small moment, I had found my mother's grace. I was finally dancing the rhythm of sloooooow, sloooow, quick! quick.
Miracles happen every day.