Some mornings I wake up already feeling defeated. I don't know where I am going to summon the energy to spend all day with my boys, keeping them happy and busy and using teachable moments to shape the men they will someday be. Sometimes I drive to Starbucks and breathe deeply the coffee-soaked air while I wait for my Tall Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Sometimes I reach in my cupboard for some candy or another sweet treat. And some days, I pull up iTunes, load our kid-appropriate playlist, and crank up the volume to 11. The boys come running and we all just DANCE. We shake our booties and wave our arms and jump on furniture. I swing the boys around and throw them in the air. We shout our favorite lyrics and thrash our heads. And it feels good. We can't help but smile. We laugh and connect and move.
There was a time when I was told that dancing was bad. That if I loved Jesus and wanted to please him, I would keep my hips still and my body motionless whenever I listened to music. But one day I realized that was wrong. I believe that our bodies are beautiful, that we are made in God's
image, and using my body in this way, to experience joy and inhibition
and celebrate, honors God more than anything I can say. And so I
dance. When I look at my children, breathless, hot, and happy, I know what God sees. He sees joy. He sees love. There is no shame or condemnation. Only dance.
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