Dance

When she danced, I swear it seemed that her feet never touched the floor. It was as if she were gliding on air. To top that, she was a looker. I mean that in a respectful manner. Her evening gown was blood red and reached all the way to the floor. The neckline was modest. She smiled at every one who passed by, carrying on in small talk and pleasantries. And yet, she never had the last word and never left a conversation unfinished. Beautiful and genuinely nice are not always traits shared by one person. Inner and outer light are rarely together. Yet there she was.
Stranger than that, she had asked me to the dance. My feet were practically nailed to the floor and my back to the wall. I held the punch for her while she graced the hardwood floor with her movements. Every man's eye was trained on her like the needle of a compass pointing north. No matter where she glided to, eyes glazed in wonder followed. Mine were included.
I watched as she danced song after song, never letting me forget that her request for me to join her was open. Men were lined up to cut the rug with her. Slow songs and tangos, waltzes and jitterbugs; nothing escaped her. She never broke a sweat. Even when some of the less genteel men attempted to misuse her or take advantage of a close moment, she simply spun away and moved to the next waiting partner.
The night seemed to go on forever. I never left my spot on the wall. Admittedly, I felt ashamed. She wanted to dance and had asked me to escort her. Yet there I was, two left feet and two drinks in my hand. My esteem dwindled as her dance partners showed her that they too could trip the live fantastic as it were. I had no game on this court.
At the last minutes of the last hour the last dance was announced. Her flowing dress trailed her as she made what seemed to me to be the obligatory request. Only this time she stopped and took the drinks from my hand. Setting them on the nearby table, she linked arms with me and pulled me out onto the floor.
I didn't know how to respond. I loved her and I thought she loved me. But here she was willing to embarass both of us in front of everyone we knew. I tried to stop her. I begged. I told her I couldn't dance to save my life. I pointed out seven other men who had more moves in their little toe than I had in my entire body.
She merely put her finger to my lips as the song began and looke into my eyes.
"I could dance with any number of men who have studied the moves and practiced doing everything right. They would look good with me on the floor. But they've never once showed me the thing I know you have."
Stunned, I managed, "What is that?"
"Love."

There are practices and traditions and rituals that many churches practice. Even prayer and communion fall under this guise. And many people do it so well, dipping the bread just so and getting the 'amen's' and 'hallelujah's' just right. But the heart is not there. God looks not at outward appearance, but at the heart. So you stutter when you pray? Is your heart in it? If so, then God hears and honors that prayer. Don't worry about how well you can dance, just dance with the one who brought you.