“I am the dance, and I still go on…”
We sang “Lord of the Dance” in many Catholic liturgies during the Easter season. I hadn’t give it too much thought until Chris shared the song in her SJT post this month. The line above ends the stanza about Good Friday, the marking of Christianity’s darkest day:
I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black;
It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.
They buried my body and they thought I’d gone;
But I am the dance, and I still go on:
I lingered on this line, reflecting on the transformation from verb to noun. Throughout the song, there is an exhortation to dance “wherever you may be.” But here, the metaphor becomes the miracle: “I AM the dance.”
How do we find hope in darkness?
How do we see our way through grief and heartbreak and find the courage to dance?
Or is it finding courage to believe?
I learned this past week that my one-year-old Bernese Mountain dog has spinal meningitis. Her odds aren’t good. My heart is in pieces and in a way, I’m tumbling backwards to November 2022 when we lost our four-year-old Berner, Penny, to cancer. It feels like a bad dream. I can’t find legs to stand, let alone dance. How can this be happening again? She doesn’t even have her full silky coat yet.
This dog healed my heart. When I feared she would remind me too much of Penny, Bonny wiggled her way into our hearts with her talking, her rambunctious welcomes, her sitting up like a rabbit, her constant voracious appetite. We dared hope that she would live to be the old dog that Penny couldn’t be.
Deep in my aching heart, I know Bonny has been a gift for us. She healed our hearts.
She brings joy into our home. She lavishes love on anyone who walks through our door. She insists on leaning her 80lb silkiness into the legs of strangers who stop to admire her. She was so gentle with our infant grandson, so careful. She even tolerated the vacuum – from the safety of the backyard.
All I want is to give her love and life – but life is not mine to give.
So we grieve – even while she is with us – wondering how long we will have. And once the shock wears off, we will dance with her, while we have her.
We will dance in the remains of winter snow that is till blanketing our property. We will dance on walks by the lake that she loves to drink from and swim in – even in winter. We will dance when she talks to us, reminding us it’s close to feeding time (even when it’s not).
And with our tears and our heart break, we will find a way to remember the gift that she has been in this oh-so-short year.
“I am the dance… I still go on…”
God does not promise us a life without grief or suffering.
God only promises to be with us.
To be the joy that triumphs over darkness.
We just have to accept the invitation to join the dance.
Patricia Franz writes picture books and poetry. She believes children, dogs, and sourdough have a lot to teach us about life, joy, and wonder. She has raised two boys, four dogs, and holds a master’s degree in Theology with a focus on children’s spirituality. Patricia, her husband, her Bernese Mountain dog, Bonny, and her sourdough starter split their time between the Arizona desert and the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
Oh my so beautifully written…..
Patricia, I am so sorry to hear about your beloved pet. No pet owner wants to hear news like this especially when our pet is so young. Your heart is heavy, but you dance with memories and the daily joy she gives. We lost a pet to feline leukemia after less than a year. Although it was hard, we celebrate that year of joy she gave us. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Thank you, Bob. It’s the price of love, right?
Patricia, this is so beautiful and touching. Peace to you and your husband, and to Bonny as she lives out her ending in the joy of your beautiful place with the snow and lakes and wonderful walks. Thank you for your words about the Lord of the Dance song. It is a wonderful song, and your words make me appreciate it more. Peace and healing to you again.
Thank you, Denise. We hope to find out this week a bit more about the timeline.
Patricia…I feel like I could write forever in response to this post, and, at the same time, do not have enough words for the depth of emotion. First, dogs. These creatures that embody such unconditional love. They enrich, even expand, our souls. The loss of them…heart-scarring. Your beautiful Bonny, who brings such comfort and light, and now, this news. What I cling to here in your words is the celebration of life and love for the profound gifts they are, and the savoring of time together despite its all-too-temporal nature. While Bonny’s odds aren’t good, I pray for the good to triumph. It is already triumphant in the giving and receiving of great love. She is young and I hold out for better news for her overcoming the infection. She has been given a magnificent caretaker in you. I love your last lines about God’s presence in the midst of grief and suffering. The words of 1 John 4:8 come to mind: God IS love. If God is eternal, then so is love… to insulate our hearts from loss would be to shut out love as well…in the time we have we MUST keep at it. Lastly – your words are a balm after my recent discovery of all five finch fledglings dead in their nest on my door earlier this week. This is the the first I’ve written of it. I’ve watched generations of finches thrive and go out in the world here, season after season, and it’s been an immeasurable joy to witness; but these parents have lost seven babies this spring, after building two exquisite nests so beautifully lined with soft fluff. I have read that birds mourn their dead offspring and it appears these parents kept trying to feed them after they died…anyway, my heart is tremendously wrenched at present and I feel so deeply for you and your Bonny. Thank you for your words of grace and belief. As I hold you all up to God in prayers, I hold my hand out to God: yes, I will still dance.
You nailed it, Fran: pray for the good, give thanks for the joy. I live on a line from Václav Havel:
“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.”
Like those finches…we keep trying, no matter what.
Thank you for your kind words, Fran.
Patricia, sometimes pets come to help us heal, recover, to move on but they can only stay a short time. In that short time, they love you as much as you love them. They hold and snuggle you as you snuggle and hold them close while you shed tears of joy in their fur for such a gift to have been given to you. Bonny has been this gift to your husband, you, your family, and everyone she has met, she has brought joy to all. I speak from experience, which is why I am crying as I write to you.
Almost thirteen years ago, we were given a tiny purring bundle of joy. Our youngest daughter named her Callie. Callie, a calico kitten lit up our family. She loved every one of us including our three other cats, our extended family, our neighbors, and we all adored her. Callie had an aura of light around her. I imagine Bonny has an aura of light around her, also. I believe these special gifts, pets are angels. Unfortunately, they can only stay with us for a short time, but I can tell you this–their spirit is always with you, you will still feel their light.
Hold Bonny, walk, and run with her. Play in the snow with her. Watch her delight swimming in the lake. And when you need to – snuggle her, cry into her fur because she understands. She feels blessed to have given you joy as much as you feel blessed to have given her joy.
My heart goes out to all three of you. I am saying prayers for all three of you.
Thank you for all your kindnesses, Gail.