Daughters, dances, divinity and devotion.

 

My teenage daughter loves to dance. Ever since a very young age, she has watched videos of different kinds of dancers and then tried to imitate their steps. She was teaching herself and doing a very good job of it. Seeing her passion for dance, we enrolled her in dance classes. Enrolling her in these classes didn’t just mean she learned to dance; it also meant we were invited to watch her perform at shows that the dance school organises. Recently, we went to their Christmas performance.

As I expected, it had lights, smoke machines, and a good sound system. The performances themselves were many in number. Some were tap dances, some ballet; some were street style, and others were jazz. Some were performed by children as young as seven or eight years old, while others featured older, grey-haired (I am being kind here) adults dancing as well. It was a loud, smoky, and artistic evening, divided into two sections with a 15-minute interval. My daughter’s dances were in the second half of the programme.

Finally, the time arrived and out came her class. There must have been about 16 of them, all prepped and ready. The music started and the dance began. I watched with the pride of a father. She moved gracefully and glided effortlessly. In my opinion, it finished a bit too soon, and I wished they had picked a longer musical piece. Her second dance went much the same. She moved elegantly and beautifully and, once again, I thought they could have—and should have—picked a longer piece.

After it was over, I noticed that throughout the evening I had observed various dance troupes and how synchronised—or, in a few cases, not synchronised—they were. I had noticed who was sharp, who lagged, and who stood out. But when it came to my daughter’s dance, I cannot tell you what anyone else did or how synchronised the group was. My eyes were transfixed on her. Everyone else was a blurry background. As she wove her way through others on stage, sometimes at the back of the group and sometimes at the front, all I could see was her. The others simply faded into an almost inconsequential presence.

Why? I did not sit there and tell myself to focus only on my daughter. It was not out of some sense of fatherly duty. It was not out of a desire to evaluate her performance. It was because she’s mine, and I love her. I only wanted to see her. I didn’t have to train myself to do that; it was the natural overflow of the love for her that resides in my heart, fixing my eyes on her and no one else.
Paul writes to the Colossians and exhorts them to “set your hearts on things above, where Christ is seated…” (Colossians 3:1). The author of Hebrews likewise exhorts believers to “fix our eyes on Jesus…” (Hebrews 12:2). These are not suggestions for nice living. They are commands to obey for our own good and for the building up of our faith. Yet, in all honesty, we struggle to do this. The world is often not a blurry background. Our worries and anxieties show no sign of being an inconsequential presence. They distract us and compete for a place in the foreground of our lives—our minds, our hearts, and our eyes.

What do we do in these times? I often find myself thinking I need to be more disciplined. I need to be more intentional about looking to Jesus. I need to psych myself up and be ready to keep my eyes fixed on Him as the next movement of this dance of life begins. I need to put in place habits, life choices, and disciplines that ensure my eyes stay fixed on Him. All of these are good, helpful, and worthwhile, and there is nothing wrong with them. But coming away from the dance the other evening, I was reminded again, that it is ultimately a matter of love. When my eyes drift, it is not primarily an issue of discipline or intentionality; it is an issue of affection and love. It is an issue of the heart. I did not need discipline to watch my daughter. I needed love—and I already had it in dwelling in my heart
Maybe when we stumble in our obedience to these commands, our first prayer ought not to be, “Lord, help me be better and more disciplined.” Maybe it ought to be, “Lord, help me to love You more.” The question we have to ask is one of love. The reminder we need is one of love. I go to Calvary. There, at the foot of the cross, I linger. Looking around, in one direction I can see the manger, where Jesus took on flesh so that He could become our sin. In another direction, I can see the empty tomb—a reminder of the victory He won and the hope I now have in Him. Looking up at the cross, I am reminded of the immense love of God that planned all of this and wrote my name in His book as an adopted son. As these thoughts crash over my heart, I am once again overwhelmed by His love and find my own heart swelling with gratitude and love for Him who loved me and gave His life for me.

I went to the recital that evening waiting to see my daughter dance. I came away thrilled by how brilliant she was, but also with a heart full of love for a God who would even allow me the joy and honour of fixing my eyes on Him as He moves through this “dance” we call life—what we call His-story.