An Unexpected Turn

I took ballet classes for many years when I was growing up and eventually found myself in an advanced class full of dancers who were much more dedicated to that craft than I was. I had begun ballet because I loved costumes and then I just drifted accidentally into an intense program. I’ve drifted into lots of things accidentally in life—the product of being a distracted daydreamer.

My ballet teacher used to warn me that if a ballerina takes a year off, it will take two years to regain what she lost. So when I decided to stop taking classes, it was with the belief that I would quickly lose much of what I’d built up. That fueled various dance-related, recurring nightmares for years after quitting. In one, I was required to dance in place of a prima ballerina who’d twisted her ankle. I tried to explain that I wasn’t qualified, but no one would listen. In another, I was in a dance competition, condemned to humiliate both myself and my partner in front of a large audience. Both dreams ended with me apologizing repeatedly to no avail.

I’ll never forget the night my dance nightmare took an unexpected turn (I know that’s a terrible pun, but I couldn’t help it). As usual, I found myself backstage in a line of dancers. We were being paired up for a competition. When my assigned partner came to stand next to me I began to apologize and explain that I wasn’t a good dancer, really shouldn’t even be here, and that it would be in his best interest to find a new partner right away. I was surprised to find that he was totally unfazed by this and only smiled in response. That’s when I noticed he didn’t really look like a dancer himself. He was a big guy with shaggy, shoulder length hair, large features, a kind, good-humored expression, though not handsome, and he was wearing a long coat. He looked like a homeless man. Odd, I thought. I explained further that he would for sure fail the competition if he stayed with me—literally zero chance of success. He smiled and said he wasn’t worried about it. 

When it was our turn to go on stage he said, “keep your eyes on me and it will be okay.” I did as he said and kept my eyes on him mostly, though I was still aware of the audience as well as the other dancers and judges watching us. I apologized for my terrible dancing but he only smiled again and repeated his instruction, “keep your eyes on me.”

It occurred to me now, for the first time, that this man looked familiar somehow. He even smelled familiar! I asked him, “Have we met before? I feel like we have.” He laughed and said, “Yes, lots of times.” 

“How do I know you? Where have we met?” I asked. 

“I’ve known you all your life,” he said. 

Then I knew who he was, without a doubt. How had I not recognized him right away? “Jesus,” I said. Then I woke up. 

One of the things that struck me most was the way the competition, the other dancers, the judges and the unending need to apologize for my poor performance dissolved completely after keeping my eyes on Jesus. The dance went on but the reason for it had changed. He was my audience and I was His. He still calls me to this again and again—to that place where my performance is no longer my focus. 

Blessings to you this week as you keep your eyes on Him. 

~Amy