Dancing Again

Often spoken are the resigned words, “Life isn’t a fairytale.”

Often spoken … and often accepted.

Every life has its violent dawns, and its fearful twilights. From the very first eyes that witnessed God’s wondrous creation, brimmed the very first teardrops. Why then, is tragedy still the crux of nightmares, so unfailingly wrought in the deepest corners of our minds? We fear the inevitable, because no matter how certain it is, it always seems to catch us by our throats when we least expect it.

I fear the inevitable. I shudder at the eve of night. Yet, something keeps me resting – something big enough to frighten away fear itself. I’ve felt its presence on the wind and the waves. I’ve basked in its comforts, which beam endlessly from undying sunrays. I’ve felt it surging through my veins, sending a crimson flush to my cheeks. I’ve felt it wrap me in weightless warmth, when all reason can see, is cold. What is this mysterious aura that sings me to sleep on the darkest of nights? What … or rather, Who?

At age eleven, I was told by my daddy – in his broken and graveled voice – “Last night, Anna got sick. She got really sick … and this morning, she went to be with Jesus.” Those words will always be kept in the most confidential spaces of my mind; they are clung to with precise memory, but only referred to when most needed. Anna is my sister. She was six and a quarter precious years old when she went Home.

Every inch of my being longed for the little sister who was no longer here for me to hold – no more would I braid and curl her soft, dark hair. No longer would I hear her sweet voice, asking me to cuddle up with her and our sister in their bed, on an especially dark night. Never again would I watch her swaying back and forth as she listened to a song she loved, and henceforth, I would never hear her singing in her pure and precious voice.

My heart ached for my own loss … but when I looked into the swollen, moist eyes of my eight-year-old sister – one who had such a beautiful kinship with Anna – my heart mourned. What would life be like for her without her constant companion? When I saw my parents, slouched … crumbling … in their seats, tangled in each others arms, as if they were the only things that could hold each other back from death, my heart mourned. When I saw my brave older brother sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner, all alone, with tear-stained cheeks that he tried to hide, my heart mourned. When I looked at my two youngest, innocent brothers, confused and yet, oblivious, my heart mourned – how could they, so young and organic, come through this tragedy with the carefree goodness that every child should possess?

How could I – how could we – survive? Writhing in our places, screaming for a release from this hole in our hearts … could there be joy after this?

This new dimension – a universe revolving around a burning heart of tragedy and struggle – was unbearable. Everything felt foreign, because everything had changed.

I felt no hunger, thirst, want, or desire. Pain constantly pressed and twisted my inner being. Upon every awakening, for a moment it seemed like it was all a dream, and then reality set in … and tears ironically greeted the morning dew.

The most difficult thing to accept was the altering of everything and everyone I held dear. Seeing those, I knew to be strong, reduced to a state of weeping. Sitting under my mother’s arm, I realized that my shoulders had been there for her to cry on as she whispered words of comfort to me. I’ll never forget the times when I was struggling to breathe, ready at any moment of abandon to burst into tears; my daddy would come and wrap me in his protective arms, and he would cry the tears that I felt brimming, whilst he solaced me. This reality was horrific. Yet, a purpose presented itself as we expressed with passion, our affection and devotion to each other.

I’ll never forget the day that I laid eyes on Anna for the last time; people gathered ‘round, offering words of comfort and condolence – people I knew and loved. Yet, through tears and focus impairing pain, still searing through my core, I couldn’t see more than a blur, surrounding the porcelain girl who lay, impossibly motionless in a bed of white satin. For all of the love that these people offered, it was simply a bandage on a wound with one Cure. I was a leper, in Love. My senses were dead – yet, my heart and soul could feel destiny beckoning with more unrelenting vigor than ever before.

When hope is simply a glimmer in the distance, we have two choices: Assume that hope has deserted us, and wallow in the depths of despair … or chase that hope, recognizing that we need it more than ever. Though I may not have grasped the poignancy of this decision when we made it, my family and I joined hands, and moved, unified towards hope ascending.

Hours twisted with no end, and yet somehow turned into days, and days into weeks. Each moment, my family became knit closer than ever before. Sometimes, hours were spent gathered on the floor – praying, crying, and reading from the Psalms. These were days of healing, though slow … strenuous … and it seemed, unending. In our darkest hours, our truest blessings were revealed; for Christ was always right by our side – in our midst. As if the sweet scent of rosebuds had been summoned up from the dead, frozen ground.

Each morning began with sorrow at hand, but each day was a new sunrise, and a new dawn of hope. Each new tear, was one less that we had to bear. Our Father proved his promise to be true – His mercies are new every morning. I, more than ever, began to truly adore my God for the familial bond which was growing thicker, greener, and stronger between us, and my family, with each painful moment. While kneeling on the floor, hands clutched with my cherished ones, I learned never to take life … or love for granted. Life is fleeting, and love is eternal; thusly, Love should be considered our greatest asset. It’s in the very breath of a child of the Almighty God. It seeps from the ribs of joys brimming abdomen.  Love knows no limits.

Affliction is as inevitable as the fear we hold for it. In this earthly keep, we are never to be assured protection from grief. We’re born into this world with cries of pain. Our first steps are accompanied by dozens of falls, and the first glimpse of knowledge we receive is followed closely by knowledge we wish we didn’t possess; but detriment can never disillusion the miraculous nature of life!

When I was four years old, I accepted a God I loved; in a peak of childhood wonderment, I took a truth I’d been given since birth and believed in it. When I was eleven and staring inevitably into the blackened depths of sorrow, I accepted a Father. He took me, and cherished me, whispering ancient words in my ears. I watched as He cradled my mother’s downcast chin in his palm, and I witnessed as His arms consistently caught my daddy, as he fell to his knees. I felt faith as I’d never felt it before – faith in a Caregiver, and faith from a Caregiver.

I’ve heard many people utter these words of resignation: “Life … is not a fairytale.”

Many have uttered them … but I will not accept them.

The death-defying truth is … life with Christ, no matter how tragic, painful, or dark, is a fairytale. What defines fairytales? It can only be the love story. In every life, there is – or can be – a defining romance; a timeless love that does not avoid, but overcomes the most horrific of curses and foe. The day that I accepted the Lifegiver’s breath, I accepted His offer of eternal love.

My God is my Savior – my fantastic Knight in Shining Armor. He’s slain the monsters that are too big for the imagination, and He’s given me devotion that I simply can’t comprehend. I see this world in which I dwell as home. Yet, in reality, I lay silently in a stone keep, fast asleep and dreaming of the promise that has been whispered into my very soul – the promise of salvation.

Once upon a time … I was born. I’ve seen and felt sorrow that I would wish on no one … and yet, I’m grateful for it. What kind of story would mine be if it was all sunshine, and no dusk? It would be unmoving; and the virtue that defines one’s life is his ability to keep moving forward. That ability doesn’t exist without a Hope to chase – a proverbial North Star. The origin of life is love. The origin of Life is Love.