Dancing Queen

There's something I'd like to share with you all. I am not typically one to brag, so not many people know what I am about to tell you. I have been given the gift of the dance.

It was apparent from a young age, as I expressed interest in taking dance lessons, specifically tap and ballet. I took to the dance like a natural and loved to express my gift during dance lessons, my chubby little thighs testing the structural integrity of my Danskin tights. My performances as Glow Worm, Blueberry Muffin, and Chickadee received great praise, and I would go on to take the role of Early Rising Red Robin, a veritable tour de force.

After reading Noel Streatfeild's Dancing Shoes I became convinced that, like the novel's main character, I too was destined to attend the Royal Academy of Dance in London. During prayer request time at school I entreated my classmates to pray toward that end, and each night I twirled around the carpeted floors of my home.

Well, in truth, I was never to be a ballerina, but hope springs eternal. Though I'd quit my ballet lessons a few years prior, I decided to take up dance as my major at a summer sports camp I attended. And, at the end of the summer camp, we performed a dance for our parents. That's me on the far left of the front row.



It's not a great picture, and it's nearly impossible to see me. Just know that I was there, dancing my little fourteen-year-old heart out. The great excitement of this day was that, in addition to performing for an audience, we also had a chance of winning awards. Truth be told, I really didn't think I had a shot. After all, there were girls in our group who were on their school dance teams, girls who still took lessons, girls who could remember to do the right moves at the right times and seemed to possess the gift of the rhythm. I really expected to just sit and watch my friends win awards.

And, that's exactly what I did, until I heard my name called. I heard my name called. Really, the whole memory becomes a bit of a blur at that moment, but I distinctly remember hearing my name and the word "Best."

"Best." The word hung there like a promise. A promise that something amazing would follow that descriptor. Some word that would, indeed, testify to the fact that I had the gift of the dance.

And then I heard it, the whole award title. Sara H: "Best Effort."

"Best Effort." For years, I somehow remembered it as "Most Improved," and I believed that's what I'd won up until I came across a box of my old awards. There it was, plain as day. "Best Effort." No wonder I'd decided on "Most Improved." Even that is better than "Best Effort."

And yet, I've lived beyond that day. Most artists aren't appreciated in their own day. And, in my heart, I know that I have the gift of the dance.