The Saturday Journal: Close your eyes–Open your eyes–Soak it all in-Don't miss it.

She took her rightful place on stage–the crowd to her was a deep sea of black–it was quiet. She waited with her head low–for the music to start. The MC welcomed her to the stage. He called her name–this senior in high school, and he said, ‘Her final performance is dedicated to her Dad.’ A Dad whose sudden death just a few months prior left a gaping hole in her heart–her family’s heart.

The music began and her movements crashed like a summer wind in the midst of a violent thunderstorm–others flowed in the serene of a luscious green cornfield–stalks swaying gently back and forth. Her dance–it ended and she laid on the stage floor–drained. Drained from the hard, the anger, the sadness, and the joy. Grief can do these things to a person. And she lifted her spent body and with tears she bowed to the audience–many standing to their feet in silence and others in an outburst of awestruck applause.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. (Ecclesiastes 3:4)

The art of dance–the beauty of music–words on a writer’s page–colors on a painter’s canvas–each allows this limited window of seeing a glimpse into an artist’s soul. And this window–it opens both ways–for the receiver as well as the giver. The melodies–the prose–the colors, they are powerful–emotional–sometimes gut-wrenching. Where bones fill up with new marrow–glory bumps and chills spill over and veins overflow with this life-giving warmth of something that can’t be explained–only the Creator Himself knows.

Courtesy of Epic Photography, Russ Parker, Photographer

My Daddy, he loved music. Old hymns–old country music–when country music was actually country. And he liked some rock and roll–bluegrass too. Music was a big part of his life and in our family’s life. He wasn’t gifted in voice or the playing of an instrument. His gift was in the hearing.

I recall this memory of sitting with him watching an Eagles concert on a not so big screen TV. It was an hour long special. When the show was over and before I left I told him there would be a replay the next night. Same channel–same time. He was quick to say, he would be watching it again. My Mama questioned why he would want to watch it for the second time–two nights in a row–he snapped back (a little) and said, because I want to–

My oldest granddaughter and I were listening to music videos a few weeks ago and we sang and laughed. I introduced her to the music of John Denver. She introduced me to Taylor Swift. As I was scrolling I stumbled upon a favorite musical performance from the show, The Voice and I played it for her. A song she had never heard. And she became like a broken record, “play it again and again and again!”

Artwork by D. Woodie

David–he was a psalmist, writer, musician, songwriter, poet–a dancer. And the writer of the majority of the book of Psalms. David penned words of lament, despair, prayers, encouragement, praise, and song. He leaped. He danced. David held nothing back.

And David danced before the Lord with all his might; and David was girded with a linen ephod. So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet. (2 Samuel 6:14-15)

Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet: praise Him with the psaltery and harp. (Psalm 150:3)

Miriam, the prophetess–the sister of Moses and Aaron–she was a musician–a dancer. She led the women–timbrels in hands–their dry feet and bodies in dance. And their voices lifted high in song–a praise of deliverance as the Red Sea roared in the distance.

And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. (Exodus 15:20-21)

Let them praise His name in the dance: let them sing praises unto Him with the timbrel and harp. (Psalm 149:3)

Praise Him with the timbrel and dance: praise Him with stringed instruments and organs. (Psalm 150:4)

And when the prodigal son came home, his father filled their home with celebration–good food, music, and dancing.

For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry. Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew night to the house, he heard musick and dancing. (Luke 15:24-25)

Praise Him upon the loud cymbals: praise Him upon the high sounding cymbals. (Psalm 150:5)

It was at an outdoor music festival and my Daddy and I took our place among the crowd at the gospel music stage. I watched him pat his foot–place his hand on his knee strumming to the rhythm of the sole guitar. His eyes were closed. His head, nodding in a soothing, peaceful rhythm. I’d seen him this way before–listening to music. I’ve also seen musicians in this same posture, like a trance almost–the pouring out of one washing into another. A time to just be–where no vision is needed by the human eye.

Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord. (Ephesians 5:19)

Sitting so patiently all curled up in taffeta and tulle and turquoise, she smiles at me with this half grin and says, ‘I’m so excited.’

It’s her first recital rehearsal.

She jumps up when it’s her time to go backstage. This little ballerina dancer. And she follows her teacher, Mrs. Maria and the other girls. The door closes and in that moment she aged a little more and I saw her Mama, my baby girl wipe the tears watering her face.

That was five years ago.

And right before her ninth birthday this year, she turned to me and asked, “I don’t want to quit dancing until I’m 45. Well, maybe I won’t quit until I die. Hey Granna, will there be dancing in heaven?”

“Yes, baby girl, I do believe there will be dancing in heaven and lots of music.”

And she answered me with the biggest of smiles, “Oh good!”

Courtesy of Exulting Images

Songs like I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack–The Dance by Garth Brooks–the older I get, the more I linger in the wisdom of these two songs. The stories they share. How moments can turn into days and weeks and years pass and regrets come–along with joy filled memories.

So, close your eyes–open your eyes–soak it all in. Stare long and hard into the curves of the artist's tiny brushstrokes–write the lyrics to a song--bring alive the words to a story, a poem–lift up your hands in holy praise--strum a guitar–twirl the drummer’s sticks. Feel the beauty within the potter’s clay. Listen. Sing. Read. Create. And never, ever miss the Dance.

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Special Advent Series

Beginning the first Sunday in December, A Four-Part Advent Series

Her Story is always His Story

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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.