I was a bit early to the one of many annual dance recitals that take place every Spring. It was hot. According to the car thermometer, the Alabama summer was already making itself known despite it still officially being Spring. Humidity and heat – the makings of longings for a pool and fully functioning air conditioning. I was “hot as the Devil’s Armpit.” Sweat dripping down my back and the thought of a heavy meal nauseating. I enjoy people-watching (I tend to be a bit voyeuristic in nature), so despite my sweaty back and underlying nausea, I took the opportunity to people-watch.
I find it ironic to be such a clumsy non-dancer type I’ve spent many an hour at a dance recital. Little frames with tutus that bounce with every energetic step. Slicked back updos (my particular participant and her cohorts were sporting a “side bun” held firmly in place by enough hairspray to open the ozone layer. Little lashes highlighted with initial introductions to mascara. Shiny lip gloss. And so many sequins the airport landing lights pale in comparison.
I giggled as I watched the same scene play out over and over. Mamas herding those energetic bouncing tu-tus to and fro, gripping bag upon bag filled with I don’t even know what, emergency hairspray and sequin adhesive I suppose.
Daddies dressed in their Sunday best counting the minutes to shed their tie and unbutton their collars. Siblings long ago lost in an electronic device, video games preferred over recital. Perhaps there is a video channel dedicated to just such a thing, perhaps not.
Grandparents and great grandparents braving the heat to cheer on a beloved grand baby, declaring they “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Bouquets of flowers purchased to gift the performers, destined to wilt a little in the sun, all except for those few prepared recital veterans who had brought a preparatory styrofoam cup with water. I mused at how despite their obvious differences and backgrounds, for this moment in time on this particular day, they were all the same, sharing the common denominator of coming to see the cutest and best dancer there, their own. As I watched then file past me I was reminded that this season with its updos, tutus, sequins, and fun, this season is a familiar one, a season of dance.
The King’s Book says there is a season for everything a time to mourn and a time to dance. Perhaps that is why those days, those recital days are so meaningful, because it has been declared by the Lord Himself that there is a time to dance.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8