My One Word

A friend and mentor of mine challenged me to NOT make a New Year's Resolution this year. Instead, she said, "Pick a word." Just one. Where is it that God is at work in your story? Where is He trying to weave in a new thing, or, perhaps, develop a thing that is anemic, starving from lack of attention? So I picked one word.

It is February, and I have decided that "one word" is more difficult and more freeing than innumerable resolutions (resolutions, that would surely be broken by now). Because once fear, shame and guilt have been unharnessed they are useless in driving me. They lose their pull, and I find that my own self-discipline is not enough to move stubborn habit, wheels entrenched in mud. Still, this letting free of shame, guilt, and fear has been a good exchange. Because while this trio, well harnessed, can move a thing they also trample the soul. They crush and suffocate. Stifle.

So now here I stand, having let go of my former motivation, only to find that I do not have the strength, the emotional hudspah, to get" it" done." It", illusive "it", is almost everything. I have the muscles of an amoeba.

My word? My non-resolution?

Dance.

Let me tell you a story.

Years ago, pre-Eddie, I found myself in a long, weird and utterly dysfunctional relationship. I'd love to say I was innocent, and throw this former boyfriend under the bus. But, as any good psychologist will tell you, no man can be a verbally abusive, dehumanizing, devaluing, selfish ass of a boyfriend by himself. I stuck around. Way. Too. Long. And in the process my self-confidence took a pummeling.

Now at the time of this Dr. Phil-ish relationship it was hip to go out to West-Coast and East-Coast Swing Nightclubs. You know, like Dancing with the Stars, only less impressive and with more clothes on. So we'd dance. I knew the steps. I knew the moves. And on the dance floor I got yanked around. My arms felt like they would be yanked out of their sockets. This guy couldn't lead. I couldn't follow. I danced in fear of the next yank, trying to anticipate the next move so I could preemptively move in sync, avoiding the pain. And when I erred I was yanked and belittled. The result was a clumsy, disjointed imitation of the real swing, hardly dance at all.

Eventually, I got a clue, and left this relationship behind. He grew up. I did too.

I met Eddie. Some of first dates we went dancing. Eddie knew how to dance, and he knew how to lead. I knew the steps too, but I was used to harsh treatment, yanks and humiliation. I couldn't follow. Couldn't. It was a process, for me, a process of learning to trust. He knew what he was doing. He wasn't going to hurt me. I wasn't going to be embarrassed. He led me gently, surely. I could rest in that. With him I could dance. And I learned to dance without the hiccups of fear, and the jolts of insecurity. I knew what to expect of him, even in while learning a new move or spin, or flip. I grew accustomed to his touch, and responsive to his lead.

Eddie has always been like this, in dance, and in our relationship. Good to me. And I am a better me. I fell hard for this man; I'm still falling.

So, back to my one word: Do you see it, this parallel in my mind? I learned to dance with my husband, but sometimes I think I have not yet learned to dance with my God. I am not yet accustomed to his touch, responsive to his lead. I anticipate, making a preemptive move to avoid a yank. A yank that would not come. I have not always lived the spiritual sigh, lived safe as I am, in the hands of one who loves me. I have been, at times, bound to fear, and shame.

I want to dance.

I want to hear the melody He whispers in my ear. I want to join my heart to the cadence he offers and let my feet follow his sure-gentle lead. I want to dance, entwined in the steady hand of divinity.