| Sunny Side Up
with Kathleen Gibson June 11, 2008 Dancing with Daddy When he was a young man, Daddy was the best dancer for miles around. In the late 40�s when he fell in love with Jesus, his priorities changed. He spent the next few Saturday nights making one last circuit of the county barn dances. He�d danced his last dance, he told all his old partners. His priorities had changed; his heart and feet had heard a different call. I�d heard that story often. His conviction and courage inspired my own. But when the Preacher placed an engagement ring on my finger, and I began dreaming of my wedding day, I longed most for one single memory�a dance with my father. Just one, with his arm about me, my eyes locked on his. A dance to sway farewell to childhood, hello to a new, adult father-daughter relationship. But, no. Our wedding reception in our small church basement soon faded into memories of Styrofoam cups that tinkled in no kisses, impeccably arranged wooden stacking chairs, and the even thwack, thwack of platform shoes chastely stepping on painted cement. Decades later, Dad and Mom hopped in their motor home and traveled the thousand miles between our two homes frequently, parking in our backyard for weeks at a time. One afternoon, while �visiting� in their tiny abode on wheels, I stood to demonstrate a dance step I�d recently learned for a community theater production. I�d taken only a few steps when Dad grinned and cleared his throat. �That�s not how you do the polka,� he said. �It isn�t? What am I doing wrong?� His feet tapped the floor in front of his chair. �Well, you put this foot here, and that foot there, and your rhythm is all wrong�ya� don�t do it so fast.� I started over. He chuckled and shook his head. �Nope. Still wrong.� I tried again. He laughed harder. Finally he stood, and tried to demonstrate. I watched, breathless, as my then seventy-year-old Dad�in need of a knee replacement, bounced and rotated, maneuvering between the fold-down table and the easy chair. Like a yo-yo, my long-ago wish bobbed back, and I caught my breath. Maybe I�d get my memory after all, more precious for its tardiness. But Dad barely got started before he stopped. I released my breath, disappointed. �Uh, can�t do it in here,� he said. �I need more room.� We trooped indoors. I shoved aside coffee tables, put some music on and finally received my father�s invitation to dance. His arm about my waist, mine on his shoulder, we danced just long enough for him to teach me the polka. Just long enough for me to find the child, the new bride again� A one, two, three, Daughter, follow me! One, two, three, lahdee, dahdee, dee. One, two, three, Daddy, how�s your knee? And just long enough to realize that if the first dance is always the most memorable, the last dance always the sweetest, then this dance was the best in every way. Thanks, Daddy. �2008, Kathleen Gibson Respond Home |
 |