May I Have This Dance?

I stretched my leg across the black bar, leaned forward slightly to give my hamstring an extra tug. My gaze panned the gym, landing on a tall Asian gentleman moving ever so gracefully around the perimeter of the weight machines. He appeared oblivious to the people surrounding him, the grunts, chatter and piped music. He moved smoothly in fluid motion, his feet making deft half-circles, his arms extended like he was dancing with a partner in a ballroom. Continuing my stretching, covertly watching this stranger, I thought to myself, who does he pretend he is dancing with? Did he have a wife? Was he a widower? A girlfriend? Can he see me gawking his way? It got me thinking. Could I tune out the rest of the world for twenty minutes and pretend my moves were the most beautiful thing on earth? That it didn't matter if sweaty people stared at me? Then I took it one step further. If I closed my eyes, held out my arms, and pretended I was dancing with Jesus, who I believe would not make fun of me, how would I feel? Serene? Protected? Peaceful? I've never really considered the idea of physically dancing with Jesus. I wonder if perhaps He isn't already patiently waiting in the middle of the dance floor. His face illuminated by the glistening chandelier, his foot tapping to the beat, his heart praying for me to hear the music He planted in my soul. I don't know who the Asian man danced with, but I know his expression carried a look of pure contentment. Maybe I will pop in a CD, kick my shoes off and fox-trot around my living room. You just never know who might cut in.