Dancing for the Pure and Delightful Obligation of It

We danced last night, at least in part to keep a promise. On the way out of church yesterday Lori told a friend – newly widowed after 65 years of marriage – that we were headed to Nashville for a conference related to Lori’s work, and that she hoped we would get to hear some music and do a little dancing.

Dancing, after all, has been one of our commitments ever since our dating days when Lori’s grandmother called to recommend that she, “dump the preacher.” Among the reasons – and there were multiple – was the sad and numbing prediction that, should we marry, her “dancing days would be over.” Ever since, and in her honor, we have made it a point to take a turn or two on the floor. We aren’t very good; it’s primarily a matter of principle.

Hearing this story after church, along with our Nashville plans – and no doubt deafeningly mindful of her own closeted dancing shoes – our saintly friend elicited from Lori a promise to not simply dance, but to dance every night. In our first foray, then, into downtown’s historic honky tonk corridor last night, we picked one, and danced.

We enjoyed it – immensely – but that wasn’t so much the point. No matter how much we laughed, no matter how many times we apologized for misplaced feet, no matter how far from our awareness receded the presence of others in the room leaving only the radiant joy of each other’s face in view, it was all about obligation. We were keeping a promise…

…to dance. Every night.

One down; two to go.

Thanks, Grandma Roose. Thanks, Irma.

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