Sometimes I love Dancing With The Stars, and sometimes it irritates me. And sometimes I’m caught by surprise. Last week, an unexpected thing happened: I learned something from watching Bindi Irwin dance.

At first, it was her spirit of joy and gentleness, in the face of her losing her father at such a young age, that was captivating. He seemed to have been such a loving father who bound his family together in strength and courage and excitement and wonder. The meaning of their loss could be deeply felt. Just a snippet of this is shown on DWTS, but it was enough to start a spark in me. I am in awe of this 17 year old lovely and her courage, wisdom, and spirit that seems to transcend this earth.

Watching her week after week started me contemplating my own spirit. She had gone through such a great loss, and yet her spirit flew. In examining my own spirit, I learned something about allowing anger to take over. I had given my spirit away to bitterness, anger, and resentment. But I could claim it back.

It was in contemplating Bindi Irwin’s joy through pain, that I saw it. God will heal that place when it is given to Him. T.D. Jakes says it another way: he calls it “reckoning” — in reckoning, or reconciling, the past with the future, there is a death to vulnerability, fear, and anger and a new life that rises out of the ashes. And dying to the past, he says, takes away its power.

A young, beautiful spirit danced on TV, causing me to wonder, through the tears, what was it she knew? Part of it seemed to be: allow the healing in, give away the pain, give healing room to grow, and know that God is greater than that which plans to destroy.


The Last Book

DSCF0301I found the book, one day, just where she had left it — in her lovely white wicker chair, next to her bed with the yellow and white flowered quilt. “Waiting For Autumn”. It was, most likely, the last book my mom held, the last book she tried to read, her place still marked.  She would have run her fingers over the embossed decorative cover, contemplating the dragonfly printed there.  I pictured her squinting, eyes watering, trying to make out the blurred words.  I wonder if she liked what she read?  I wonder if it made her dream?  She had picked up this book, from my sofa by the window, on one of her visits and started reading it.  I gave it to her to take home.  So when I came across it a few years ago, while we were packing up her bedroom, I needed to have it back. It was, most likely, the last book my mom tried to read, the last book she held.