A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of volunteering for my parish’s Vacation Bible School. The first year my mom roped me into working as a crew leader, I was a rising junior in high school who deeply resented the fact that I had to spend the week watching small children and singing dumb songs. By the end of that week however, I had to admit–grudgingly perhaps–that I had had a pretty good time. A friend of my mom’s said I was an excellent crew leader, which was good for my adolescent ego, and despite all appearances, I really did enjoy my time with the kids. I even found myself singing and dancing along with the catchy praise and worship songs they played almost constantly for three hours. If anyone asked, I might have told them I was doing it ironically, but the truth was I really did enjoy it.
The next year, there was no VBS at my parish, and the year after that I was working and getting ready to start college, so last year I–and my mom, I think–were surprised to hear me volunteer willingly, almost enthusiastically, to join the Vacation Bible School crew again. Part of it might have been boredom; I couldn’t find a job last summer, and had done basically nothing except run three miles every day to stay in shape for soccer. But more importantly, I found myself looking back fondly on the songs and activities that I had sneered at in my affected teenage elitism.
I played a fairly big role in the program last year. In addition to leading a crew, I helped with set-up the week before and played the lead character–a bumbling zoologist named Dr Paws–in the introductory skit every morning. While fifteen year-old me wouldn’t have been caught dead in a weird khaki vest and safari hat, spilling things, falling over and making a general idiot of myself, eighteen year-old me had a blast. And any embarrassment I suffered was completely worth it when a little girl came up to me at the end of the day to say hi because she wanted to “meet Doctor Paws.”
This year, Vacation Bible School fell in the midst of the two busiest weeks of the summer. Brother #1 was taking driver’s ed. Sister #1 was working as the choreographer for a kids’ drama camp, and I was working as a part-time nanny for my aunt. So every morning I would wake up and take Sisters #3 and #4, Brother #2 and Cousin #1 to VBS, where I worked as a crew leader, drove the kiddies home, and had about an hour and a half of downtime before I had to go pick up my sister from drama camp. It was hectic, not to mention exhausting.
Which is why it seemed fitting that the theme of VBS this year was “Power Lab.” Every day, the kids learned about something that Jesus gives them the power to do: be thankful, be brave, help others, live forever, tell others about Him. For my part, I was just praying Jesus would give me the power to wake up on time.
I did wake up on time every day. And every day I got to the church, wondering how I’d manage to sing and dance and engage in discussions with the children without looking and sounding like a zombie. Yet I did that too.
On the last day, during arts and crafts, the children were supposed to decorate a magnet. There were plenty of extras, so I got one too. The magnets were coaster-shaped and make of a chalkboard material, so we were supposed to add stickers and then write in chalk something to tell others and remind ourselves about Jesus. I added some stickers around the edges then sat, wondering what to write.
It was simple, really, once I thought about it. That quote. That quote that shapes my philosophy, my blog, my life.
Are you in the presence of God? Is God beautiful?
So why aren’t you dancing?
There wasn’t enough room on the magnet for all that, so I wrote as best I could: “Why aren’t you dancing?”
Our pastor stopped to look at it at the end of the day. I explained the full quote to him, and he smiled at me and asked, “Well? Why aren’t you dancing?”
It’s easy, really, to think of reasons not to dance. There are so many bad things in the world, so many sadnesses. On the previous day, our pastor did a skit for the children. They played a slow, quiet song: “Come to Jesus,” it sang. And as the music played, different people walked across the floor to Father. A little boy. An old woman. A girl with a broken arm. One came crying, another came limping and coughing and barely able to stand. And every single one, Father wrapped them in an embrace and led them to the cross. I’m not sure how much the kids got out of it, but many of the adults were crying, and I wept as well. Because I have carried heavy burdens, things that left me unable to dance. And time and time again, no matter how far I wandered, they have led me back to the cross.
The song ended, we dried our tears, and it was time to move on. Another song, full of life, and the children began to dance again. And I danced with them. Because after the tears had come an inexplicable joy that demanded I lift my voice and my hands.
All this is what I thought when my pastor asked me why I wasn’t dancing.
The unreasonably catchy kids’ praise songs were still playing in the background as the children began to leave with their parents. Some, however, were still dancing along with the motions they’d so studiously learned over the course of the week. Motions I’d learned too, even enjoyed as I bopped along in the back with my assistant crew leader. Motions I’d been so sure I couldn’t manage another day because I was just so tired and they were just so goofy. But every day, I danced. And I began to dance almost subconsciously as I laughed and bade farewell to my pastor.
Because I am in the presence of Jesus. And Jesus is beautiful. And Jesus gives me the power to dance.
Why Aren't You Dancing? 