Sometimes the most holy thing you can do is
sing a song, lift your hands, and move your hips a bit.
I don’t dance often, just around my dining room,
with a laughing baby in my tired arms,
tinies swirling and twirling through the furniture,
sometimes I dance at the grocery store, as I push the heavy cart.

I am distrustful of concerts and light shows at church,
I have mega-church-baggage, I know, so.
On Sunday, a woman I know, a woman I like, mama of three,
stood on stage in her jeans, with a guitar in her hands,
surrounded by neighbour-musicians, her husband, too,
and she sang loud and lusty psalm praise, her throat exposed,
her feet thumping, hair moving, voice carrying anthems, and I stood
in front of her, unable to move while
everyone sang like Pentecostals.

I cried into my boy’s coarse hair (he likes to be held during
singing, he likes
me to sing into his ears,
he’s too heavy for this, but
I do it anyway)
because it was just us
always just us, a remnant gathered,
singing songs, moving our feet,
we’ll still be singing and dancing
when the evening comes.

I heard that they found the “God Particle,” this Higgs boson.
And it sounds a bit like Cuban dance music, a tango, there’s a high note there, too.
I keep listening to it on the BBC website, and
The God Particle, it sounds like dancing.

Of course it does.
Of course it does.
Blessed be His name.



In which I write a love letter (to my own body)
In which I write about benches, restoration, and egalitarian pleasure parties
thank you for sharing...
  • Pin this page1
  • 15