Dancing by the Light of a Christmas Tree

By Amy Jones

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Suddenly I felt like dancing—a moment that became sacred to me.

Sacred experiences don’t always occur in the temple or at church. One night, I had a sacred moment in the dark, quiet living room of my college dorm.

I’d gotten home late. Everyone was either gone or asleep. I relaxed on the couch, enjoying the glow of the Christmas tree lights. In an electrifying instant, I realized that the house was all mine. In that moment, I wanted to dance.

It was an irrational desire; I was definitely not a dancer. However, this night I was alone and no one would see if I made a fool of myself.

I couldn’t sit still any longer. I had to dance. I ran up the stairs to grab a CD and flew back to the living room on tiptoe. I pressed play and listened as the first song began. Slow steps and careful twirls began my secret recital. Then I gave myself to the music and simply danced. Soon I was running, leaping, flying with my heart, and reaching for the sky.

The music soared, and so did I. If I was clumsy, I didn’t notice. I no longer cared. No one was there to judge me. I danced free in a place where the world could never judge me.

For a moment, I saw myself through God’s eyes, and it was glorious. I was completely myself. Not the self that others expected me to be. Not even the self that I was “supposed” to be. The self that God knew was in me—the truest part of my soul.

What freedom I felt then. I was of worth! I was worth something because I was myself. Me. God loved me, not my skills or my looks. I was beautiful and precious just because I was His daughter.

My dance changed. Instead of expressing the beauty of the music, I was literally dancing for the joy of the beauty of my soul. I spun in the rainbow glow of Christmas lights, knowing that God was watching over me and that He was smiling.

That night the dirty carpet of a college dorm became holy ground as I danced by the light of a Christmas tree and saw the eternal worth of my soul.

Illustration © istockphoto.com/Olga Telnova