My hands fluttered from position to position, marking the classical moves that would be a part of the next practice set. My eyes were riveted as the famed Madame Fokine, with her natural flourish, showed us what the steps would be. Our pianist set the tempo.
I am a trained classical ballerina.
I have spent hours practicing, grueling class after class. In the middle of the summer, with temperatures soaring past those in the 90s, without fans. An arabesque, jetes, cabrioles, and my beloved pirouettes, the sweat running in rivulets down my back.
So clearly as if it were yesterday, I remember when Madame Fokine asked me to speak with her after class. Throughout the studio when that command performance was issued, girls insides would tremble far more than their strained muscles, and there would be an instant hush.
Her piercing blue eyes belied her age, and my own could not leave her face. Every bit the lady, she held her cigarette in a long holder reminiscent o the roaring twenties. She tilted her face up, letting smoke swirl above her head.
“It is time.”
I knew what those words meant without her having to explain. I was ready to take class en pointe. The torturous start to a real dancers start to life as a ballerina. The beautiful baby pink toe shoes would be bought, and I would come to recognize the craftsman who made the shoes I favored.
Those shoes would become the bane of my existence and the beauty of my art. The hours spent at the barre, and then those awe-inspiring moments of performing.
Today, my feet ache each morning when I rouse from my bed. They have calluses that refuse to go away, despite the years of not having donned a leotard and tutu, and my many pedicures.
When I think of feet - especially my own - I think they are probably the most unattractive part of my body. They need constant tending and attention. Neglected, they become something many women would want to hide in boots rather than parade in strappy sandals.
Oddly enough it is my worn feet that oft remind me of my Lord.
I think of His calling on my life, much like that of when Madame Fokine issued her decree that I was to meet with her. The Lord spoke into my young life, and a hush fell. I could not deny His existence, and I felt his power, and the attraction of His call matching the hole in my heart I hadn’t even known existed. A hush fell, and I listened to his voice.
I wanted to share my experience with everyone I came in contact with, and suddenly to my Lord, my feet became beautiful. And, now many years later they are even more so to Him.
Beautiful feet?
How beautiful on the mountains
are the feet of her [those] who bring good news,
who proclaim peace,
who bring good tidings,
who proclaim salvation,
who say to Zion,
“YOUR GOD REIGNS.”
My life - as are my feet - is dirty and messy, and sometimes untended. I have calluses and rough skin, dry and most weeks I am in need of a pedicure. But, God doesn’t see that.
My Lord sees my testimony of where He has brought me from and where He is leading me to, offers me the opportunity to share the work He is doing in me with others. He sees the beauty of my “feet” as I share what He has done in my life in less than eloquent words. He sees the beauty in my “feet” as I offer to pray for the check-out lady who loses her composure as tears threaten or when I awkwardly pray in the parking lot for a woman with two crying children who has just locked herself out of the car. And, He blesses my less than perfect sharing with the covering of His blood.
Forego your pedicure. Bring your tired weary earthy feet, callused and worn, which will be made beautiful in the eyes of Christ as you share his Gospel and His Grace.
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