It’s Five Minute Friday, and the prompt word is “Dance.”
He picks me up from the ash heap, dirty Cinderella without the ball gown or glass slippers, only rags and muddy, sooty shoes. No magical pumpkin coach to transport me to His palace on my own. He Himself lifts me up right where I am, right how I am, all bruised and charred and smeared with dirty sin-ders from an ugly little world that’s held me slave and captive.
And He begins the dance.
He leads, I follow, stumbling, but He goes on in gentleness, and my feet gain certainty and sometimes even something of His communicated grace. And as we dance, He draws me closer, and my shyness fades to inner glow, and to my stunned surprise I notice the dirt has fallen from my rags, and they themselves are turning silken, lovely, and the glory of His wondrous self is reflecting off this lost little maid, giving her some of His glistening beauty.
My ankle turns, I stumble. He holds me firm from falling, and my eyes look grateful up to His, and He is smiling into mine and I am overwhelmed with wonder, choked with gratitude, as we dance on toward the palace.