All my adult life I had been a wife and a mom with several other hats thrown into the mix. But when my son was in middle school, I had an inkling all that was about to change. Not the wife and mother part, but the other hats, the other dabblings. I had written a few Bible studies and taught several more. I had scribbled a handful of sudden glory life lessons learned on holy field trips and stuffed them in a metal drawer. That’s where the stories stayed—stuck in between my files on appliance warranties and tax returns.
Then one day I opened the drawer and noticed the swelling file had become multiple files. Hundreds of stories and studies bulged from green hanging file folders begging to be set free. They seemed to have grown overnight, but the truth was, they had multiplied while I wasn’t paying attention. I began to pray about what God would have me do with all these scribblings, if anything.
One year after I first uttered the prayer, I met a gal who was starting a parachurch organization called Proverbs 31 Ministries. She invited me to join her on our local radio station to record a few short segments featuring ten of my stories. When we finished, she turned to me and said, “Sharon, I have been praying for one year that God would send me a ministry partner to take over radio and help me with the running of Proverbs 31. I think God is telling me you are that person.”
“That’s nice, Lysa,” I replied. “But I don’t know anything about radio and running a ministry. I think you’ve got the wrong person. But I’ll pray about it.”
I had no intention of saying yes. Nice Christian girls in the South always say they’re going to pray about something when they have every intention of saying no. My plan was to say no after the respectable amount of time had passed.
I’m not, I can’t, I don’t, and I never will, flew in the face of my newly discovered identity in Christ. I was Moses at the burning bush arguing with God—questioning the wisdom of it all.
But you know what? I did pray about it. I struggled with that list of verses about my new identity in Christ posted on my refrigerator door. I read them with more of a question mark at the end than a period. The three-headed monster of insecurity, inferiority, and inadequacy reared its ugly head with taunts, and I began to question everything I supposedly believed. I argued with God. I identified with Moses.
Who am I that I should go?
- I’m not smart enough.
- I’m not talented enough.
- I’m not good enough.
- I can’t talk in front of groups.
- I can’t write.
- Shoot, I can’t even spell.• I sound too Southern.• I don’t know anything about radio.• I don’t have a theology degree.• I don’t know anything about running a 501(c)(3) organization.
I’m not, I can’t, I don’t, and I never will, flew in the face of my newly discovered identity in Christ. I was Moses at the burning bush arguing with God—questioning the wisdom of it all. I was fully aware I was not practicing what I had been preaching, and I had a decision to make.
Two weeks into my hissy fit with God, Steve suggested a romantic vacation to the island of Bermuda—a paradise off the coast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. On one particular evening, we splurged at a fancy restaurant, complete with a four-man band playing music from the forties and fifties. We had taken a scant few ballroom dance classes, and Steve was itching to see if we could remember the foxtrot.
“Come on, Sharon,” he urged. “Let’s take a spin on the dance floor.”
“No way,” I said. “Nobody else is dancing. I’m not going to be the only one out there with everyone staring at me. And suppose we mess up? I’d be embarrassed. It’s been a long time since we’ve practiced, and I don’t remember all the steps. Let’s wait until there are some other people out there so we won’t be so conspicuous.”
After a few moments, the first couple took their place on the parquet. They squared their shoulders, pointed their toes, and framed their arms. In one fluid motion they graced the dance floor with perfect dips, sways, turns, and twirls. They looked good, and they knew it.
Nope. I was not going to embarrass myself tonight. I hunkered down in my seat with renewed resolve. I refused to budge. Then couple number two joined couple number one. Their steps weren’t quite so perfect, but they looked pretty good too.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “But let’s get in the back corner behind that big ficus tree so nobody can see us.”
And off we went to try to remember the slow-slow-quick-quick of the foxtrot. The whole time I was hoping all the audience members were still mesmerized by the polished artistry of couple number one.
As I dared to look at the crowd, I noticed they were not looking at couple number one, number two, or even wobbly kneed number three. All eyes were fixed on a fourth couple approaching the dance floor. You see, the husband was in a wheelchair.
He was a middle-aged, slightly balding, large-framed man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. His dapper attire included a crisp white shirt, a snappy bowtie, and a stylish tuxedo. On his left hand he wore a white glove—I guessed to cover a skin disease. With a smiling wife by his side, he approached the dance floor with a graceful confidence and fashionable flair. Suddenly everyone else faded away, and they seemed to be the only two people in the room.
As the band churned out a peppy tune, the blithesome wife held her love’s right hand and danced. He never rose from the wheelchair that had become his legs, but they didn’t seem to care. They came together and separated like expert dancers. He spun her around as she stooped low to conform to her husband’s seated position. Lovingly, like a little fairy child, she danced around his chair while her laughter became the fifth instrument in the musical ensemble. Even though his feet never left their metal resting place, his shoulders swayed in perfect time and his eyes danced with hers.
My heart was so moved by this love story unfolding before my eyes that I had to turn my head and bury my face in Steve’s jacket so no one would see the tears streaming down my cheeks. As I did, I saw person after person dabbing linen napkins to dewy eyes. This portrait of love and devotion transfixed even the misty-eyed band members.
But God is not looking for perfect people with perfect children, perfect marriages, and perfect lives. He is not searching for men and women with perfect steps to do great things for Him. He is looking for courageous believers who will rely on His power to work in and through them to accomplish all He has planned for them to do.
Finally, the music slowed to a romantic melody. The wife pulled up a chair beside her husband’s wheelchair but facing in the opposite direction. They held each other in a dancer’s embrace, closed their eyes, and swayed back and forth, cheek to cheek.
Surprisingly, I no longer worried about whether anyone was watching me. I didn’t care if my steps weren’t perfect. I wasn’t even concerned about being compared to and falling short of perfect couple number one.
The Lord spoke to my heart in a powerful way. Yes, there was a burning bush right smack-dab in the middle of the dance floor.
Sharon, I want you to notice—who moved this crowd to tears? He seemed to say. Was it couple number one, with their perfect steps? Or was it the last couple, who had no steps at all? No, My child, it was the display of love, not perfection, that moved the crowd. If you obey Me, if you do what I have called you to do, then I will do for you what that man’s wife did for him.
God reminded me that He is not looking for perfect people with perfect children, perfect marriages, and perfect lives. He is not searching for men and women with perfect steps to do great things for Him. He is looking for courageous believers who will rely on His power to work in and through them to accomplish all He has planned for them to do. He is scouting for followers who will obey Him regardless of their present fears or past failures. He reminded me of His words to Moses: I will teach you what to say. I will show you what to do.
Simply put, God had sent a lame man to teach me how to dance.