Interpretive dance, oye.
The other time I watched it, I sat by a guy who, at one point, ran a tool and die workshop. Manly man stuff. He asked questions through the whole performance, I was a mess.
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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 5/ A Praying Mom
Part 1 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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Expressions of
faith happen in so many different ways. (I’m exclusively referencing
Christianity.)
When I was in
college, I was introduced to the concept of interpretive dance as a form of
worship. Much like, I mean no offense to those who do missions in Africa--I
also mean no offense here. I don’t get it and feel awkward when I have to watch
it. The first time I saw interpretive dance, it was a couple of young girls in
a Methodist church service. I believe it was a conference on Christian
Education where I was a presenter. The girls were around the age of eight and
intentionally mirrored each other while they performed, but one was much larger
than the other and me, with my irreverent sense of humor, I was dying inside—it
took so much self-control not to judge or ask if anyone else was seeing what I
was seeing. I had these terrible thoughts about that dance not being a mirror
and how much farther the wingspan of the taller girl was and many other things
I will not admit to. Terrible.
I came from a
place where faith was private and predictable in all its expressions. The
church had a liturgical year. Liturgy was the weekly arrangement, it was
predictable, and it did not deviate. Sometimes there would be talk of more “modern”
worship music and all that meant was piano instead of organ. No guitars, none
of those new-fangled guitar things.
Mom was a
Lutheran before she married and Dad, a Catholic. Mom wanted us to go to church
as a family so we went to the Catholic Church. I didn’t realize until late
elementary school that our family said a Lutheran and Catholic prayer at meal
times. We, as a family, did other faith-things a little different, too. We
gathered each night to say the Lord’s Prayer, we would go around the room and
say our own “intention” or short prayer for someone or something, and then we
would read a children’s Bible story. One story at a time, the Bible came alive
and unfolded with these great illustrations and easy to understand words. As we
all learned how to read well, we’d take turns reading aloud. I thought it was
normal. It was late in high school before the praying together stopped, and only
because of schedules and homework. When we are together it still happened
sometimes but mostly just at mealtime.
Even when we did
not pray as a group I am sure they prayed for us. I believe the power of a
praying mom might be one of the strongest forces on the planet. A bad friend
influence would go away, albeit painfully, still gone. Or a schedule that was
overwhelming would figure itself out. Or peace would come when it shouldn’t
have. If we were fighting or anxious, Mom would just say, “Satan, flee! You’re
not welcome here.” It was sometimes just a whisper, but directly addressing the
problem. I love my mom.
Mom had specific
clear expectations for us. We knew what was expected without even being told
sometimes, it was that predictable and consistent. I don’t believe I needed to
be punished for anything after about age eight. Besides a corrective look or a
“you better get your attitude in check” comment, I was a rule follower and I
knew the rules.
The last time I
remember specifically disobeying and being punished for it, I was probably six
years old. It was when I went into the neighbor’s house, I was friend with the
little girl who lived there and she invited me in. She wanted to show me her
room. I told her I wasn’t supposed to go in. She said it would just be a
minute.
The rule was: you
can go over there, but if I call for you, you better come and if I go looking
for you I better be able to see you. Well, she called and I didn’t hear and she
looked and didn’t see me. I was probably gone for all of ten minutes but I
thought it wouldn’t matter and it did. When I went back home, just across an
alleyway, I got the “where were you?” talking to, and then was grounded for the
first. Nothing serious, I just couldn’t leave the yard that day. I imagined that the line where the dirt met
pavement was electrified like my uncle’s fence, the one for the cows, I stepped
on it once and got quite a shock. I would put my toe on the line between the
dirt and pavement, just to test, and then stare at the neighbor’s house—I
didn’t like her room anyway.
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I got it, really
understood, I was asked to do things a specific way and I didn’t see the value
so I didn’t listen. Mom didn’t act
angry, I could tell she was, but she did explain that if I was lost or hurt she
won’t have been able to help me. I never did that again—I was sad I made her
worry.
I think God does
this with us too, He brings us to places where He can calmly explain--show us that
are better ways for us. Sometimes the way we think about past hurts finally
click into place and that free us; sometimes a person says something that sets
us on the right path. If we listen and take guidance He will lead, but we have
to seek Him and listen. That’s prayer.
