Ballet Lessons

They surprised us in the lobby of the theater.

My daughter and son-in-law had met me in the parking lot before the ballet. When my husband showed us to our seats, along with two grandmothers and a cousin, Anna mentioned we would need three more spots for some friends of theirs.

Shortly before the curtain, she asked Ross and me to come to the lobby with her to greet these friends. Our other three daughters were waiting for us.

The two from Tennessee had driven to South Carolina to pick up the third. And at 5am they had begun the trek to make it to Ocala before the 2:00 show. A celebratory support for their baby sister performing today—and a belated Mother’s Day for me. What could be better?!

Back in the theater, I sat between my mother and my daughter, surrounded by family in a huge and unexpected hug from God.

Several rows in front of me, a woman I don’t know personally took a seat. She had come to watch her two granddaughters, and this would be their first performance since their young mom graduated to heaven earlier this spring.

I attended that memorial service, where a grieving family had worshiped a trustworthy God in the face of prayers answered differently than they wished. Christina—a mom, mentor, ballet teacher, and courageous warrior—had preached at her own funeral by video taken during cancer’s last days.

Now here we sat—my mama-heart overflowing because of God’s grace to me. And this woman’s heart certainly held by grace in pain, both of those surely stronger than I can imagine.

In that moment before the house lights dimmed, I scrolled the handful of stories in my own family row—the joys and “heavies” of each. And I found the day’s first ballet lesson: In this world, we ride the rails of life and death. Neither cancels the presence of the other. On parallel tracks we experience joy and pain. Fulfillment and grit. The fluent peace of a God who blesses us wildly and the angular peace of a God who withholds the explanation and holds us instead.

While I love watching all the girls in these Bible-based story ballets, the baby ballerinas always steal the show. The little three- to six-year-olds in their big smiles and white tutus are the delightful combination of comic relief, cuteness factor, and that Psalm 8 perfect praise that God ordained to come from children.

They are usually led by an older ballerina whose model movements remind them what comes next. Of course, that also shows what graceful lines they were attempting as they bump into each other, twirl three beats late in a wave that ripples down the line, and then twirl one extra time because that felt so pretty, then grab the hand of one close by because she was supposed to skip with you.

Why do they always get the biggest applause? Because they are absolutely cute, yes. But also because we are caught up in their joyful effort that is more about delight than proper technique.

I wonder if our well-rehearsed worship sets, carefully prepared sermons, and highly disciplined Christian lives look—when viewed from heaven—about as graceful as a gaggle of five-year-olds.

We’re doing our best, even though it honestly isn’t as dazzling as we think. God loves excellence. He equally loves five-year-olds. While we continue to offer the best we have, maybe we also need to take ourselves a little less seriously and listen to heaven’s response to our best, bumbling attempts: Jesus leans over to His Father, “They just make Me smile!” And Father laughs, nodding and applauding, “Bravo! Bravo!” Ballet lesson two.

By the time the 7:00 show began, I was sitting beside my daughter on the floor of a quiet hallway, her head resting on my purse for a pillow. The sudden migraine had already provoked one round of vomiting. Jumping and turning under bright, hot stage lights and loud music looked a bit out of reach when it hurt to stand still.

Everyone from the director to family to classmates had prayed for her. We heard the music and opening narration. She had about twenty minutes before her first number. It was time to stand up, move around, and make the call.

She was still saying she couldn’t do it. And then, without any prompting from me, a switch flipped. She wanted to try.

I encouraged her to use the wall and try some pliés and begin to warm up her muscles.

Within a couple minutes, she bolted for the bathroom. We both thanked God for the timing—there’s usually a window of reprieve right after throwing up. It would be enough time for her class’s three dances.

She smiled, hugged my neck, and dashed off to her place backstage. I slipped into my seat while the baby-ballerina applause was still finishing.

Bryn danced with a beauty and determination and heart of worship that mattered even more to me because of the overcoming spirit I saw rise up in her. One more life lesson and character formation that can only be learned in the fire, not the easy chair.

I went to check on her as soon as the bows ended. A backstage mom was leading the line of small white tutus to find their parents. One of them stepped out of line when she reached the two of us. It was none other than Christina’s five-year-old daughter.

She wrapped her little arms around Bryn’s tall legs and just looked up into her face without saying a word. They held each other’s gaze, and then the wee one bounded off to find her dad or grandparents.

One little courageous, overcoming spirit, recognizing a kindred one and affirming it with a wordless hug.

And I marveled at the God who teaches a wealth of ballet lessons in a single, well-orchestrated day.