I have always been drawn to the lithe beauty of a ballerina. My build was too athletic to translate into a slender storyteller of dance, but that did not stop me from kicking off my soccer cleats and twirling around my room in the house where I grew up. It was not until my late 40s that I took my first ballet class with some other brave women. There may have been more apologies than pliés in my attempts, but I did my best to push through my missteps with grace (and a sizeable sense of humor).
As a young child, I had a musical jewelry box that, upon opening, would reveal a spinning ballerina. She wore a lovely white tutu with a satin bodice. Her hair was up as elegantly as her arms, and she was surrounded by pink velvet. My jewelry collection was minimal, but I opened the box almost daily to twirl with the ballerina. Through time, the ballerina and I both aged. One of her hands broke, and I recall not looking at what was missing but thinking still of her beauty. She still twirled despite her brokenness. She was still splendid in her grace.
As I attempted to learn ballet, I remember it took a lot of focus to remain poised when my balance tempted me to uncoil. As the class ended and I traded in my ballet slippers for work heels, I realized I had met several ballerinas. Despite their missteps, scars, and brokenness, I still come across those who continue in grace. Their imperfections only add to their dance.
One of these ballerinas of grace was a former neighbor who walked out of a retail store carrying gifts for her first grandchild. The sun was as bright as her mood as she headed to her car. She did not see the man approaching her from behind; he hit her repeatedly with a brick. I saw my neighbor after she returned from the hospital. Her face was swollen in various shades of purple and yellow; she wore a neck brace and had one arm in a sling to support her shoulder. She made her way slowly to the mailbox. And that is when I wanted to tell her it was good to see her, but nothing came out of my mouth. Instead, I wondered how this woman would ever feel comfortable in this world again. How could she trust even the sunny days when such a day betrayed her?
I was embarrassed when she spoke first. “How are you doing today, dear?” she asked. Our conversation lasted longer than her energy. Yet, here she stood before me, wearing her bruises and brokenness, but maintaining her sweet-tempered personality. She was who I always knew she was — an elegant lady.
Before I thought better, I blurted, “Aren’t you afraid to go out again?”
She looked at me like I was more afraid than she was, and perhaps she was right. “Absolutely!” she said. “But the fear of living in fear every day for the rest of my life scares me even more. If I remain in the house all day, every day, I’ll be a victim my entire life, and I refuse to give my assailant that much power. He had his day, but I will have the rest of mine.”
A couple of months ago, I conversed with a woman I had just met. This woman appeared to be close to my age; she was funny and had a contagious energy. As our time together lengthened, I would not have noticed the scar under her chin had she not pointed it out as she told the story of how she was held at knifepoint when she was a senior in high school. The thought of her carrying that scar with her for most of her life pained me. “I thought I was going on a date,” she said. She didn’t need to say more.
“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you smile, each time feeling the tug and tightness of the scar under your chin? Isn’t it a constant reminder?”
Her smile broadened. “Yes, it’s a constant reminder, but I’ve changed the narrative!” She felt her scar with her fingertips. “This reminds me that I’m not the evil that attacked me — I’m here to be the opposite of that darkness. This scar tells me every time I put on my makeup that no trauma, disease, ailment, or rotten day can take me out when I’ve God getting me through. And there ain’t one day He hasn’t got me through. Not one.”
As I went home that day, I could not help but think I had just met one of the most epic ballerinas on the planet. I rested my head on my pillow encased in silk. The softness lulled my thoughts as I reflected upon the ballerina with the broken hand in my childhood jewelry box. She and so many other ballerinas in my life have encouraged me to dance. Dance wounded. Dance crying. Dance happy. Dance broken. Dance however I choose… but keep dancing.
These ballerinas taught me to celebrate the victories rather than ruminate over the losses. When the devil tries to convince me that my pain and problems are too much, I must remember that he wants me to worship my struggles rather than my Savior. Like that epic ballerina said, “I’ve got God getting me through.” And so do you, my friend. So do you.
May we continue in grace today, trusting God with all our tomorrows. And may we be brave enough to show ourselves and others that, through Christ, imperfect ballerinas are beautiful and can still dance.
Tiffany Kaye Chartier
SGLY, dear reader.
(Smile, God Loves You.)
Tiffany Kaye Chartier, Author 