For F

The mediocre ballerinas of Winterton Primary School drift uncoordinatedly across the stage. I am one of them. And I am sure that I’ve just laddered my stockings after forcing my very long legs into Lisa Bolt’s borrowed tights. My pink skirt too is looking more like a hair scrunchie around my waist rather than a billowing petal. No doubt yet another detrimental wardrobe side effect after another growth spurt. 

This particular shambles of a dance is to the Sleeping Beauty Suite. Our wistful dance teacher no doubt hoping that the grandeur of the music would elicit some grandiose dancing. She was mistaken. Whether puppy fatted, long of limb or awkward of movement we are a fairly peculiar little bunch of farm girl ballerinas waving hula hoops which have been cut in half and covered in paper flowers.

But we have a secret. 

We know that our sloppy pirouettes are just preparing the stage to show the audience what a real dancer looks like. We exchange gleeful glances and Meg Irons practically glows. As the music builds to a crescendo Grace bursts onto the stage. 

In a vision of movement, coordination, fluidity and smile she is intoxicating to watch. And we do watch. The entire dance comes to a standstill as we gaze at her in the spotlight spinning and leaping. 

And it is not just the way she moves. It is the spirit in which she moves - her face is alight with pure joy, kindness and loveliness. And that’s why we all love  and in no way resent her talent. Because she makes us all feel proud to share the stage with her. 

And it is not just the stage where who she is celebrated. She can run, she can think, she can lead. We make her our head girl. She is our collective delight.  

And the years tick over and in a sad twist of fate my long skinny legs turn into pear shaped curves and I realize that I should only dance like no one is watching - but ensure that no one is actually watching. 

And in our returns home we stick to the farmhouses of our youths and learn of the successes and heartaches of our childhood friends through our mothers - who talk to all the other mothers. 

But we remain connected through the pull of our particular mountains, to the classrooms of our childhoods, to the children who brought beauty into our lives. 

But our secret is no longer our secret.

Grace continues to dance. Not on a dusty, poorly lit rural school stage. She dances for the whole of creation. She inspires miracles. She flies grounded planes. She brings broken beloveds home. She speaks of miracles and we believe. She creates life in all she does and we dare to hope. She shows us light from the darkest place...

Grace perhaps your dance has been paused. Perhaps the choreography is suddenly difficult to follow and almost impossible to understand. Perhaps you need to step offstage and be still.

We will step into your space for you. With our laddered stockings and insufficient footwork we will dance the steps you have taught us and will shelter you in our love. We will hold you up into Heaven and we will cover you in prayer. 

And once you have made sense of the new dance you have been given and once you feel the courage to emerge back into the spotlight we will clear the stage in awed silence, just as we did as children, to allow the testimony of your magnificent spirit to dance once again.