If you have the chance to sit or dance - by all means "dance"!

by Nancy Jo Sullivan

When our three daughters were very young, our family often sat in the back row of church. If the children began fussing during Mass, we could easily whisk them out a nearby door. Sunday after Sunday, as my husband held our two youngest on his lap, I kept a watchful eye on Sarah, my Down Syndrome daughter. At nine years old, Sarah’s auburn hair was curly and she wore thick lensed glasses with pink frames. She smiled through every service.

One Sunday, while the organist began playing the opening hymn, Sarah started tapping her feet. She slipped into the main aisle and began dancing, swirling, and twirling to the music.

"Not again" I muttered. I felt my face flush. For the last six Sundays, Sarah had danced in the church aisle when I wasn’t looking. "Aw C’mon...Let her dance!" my husband whispered. He thought it was cute.

"Church is for worship" I replied as I rushed to retrieve my daughter.

While the mass continued, I sat close to Sarah, clutching her hand tightly. Soon, memories from my childhood began to surface. I saw myself at 10 years old, sitting in church, my eight brothers and sisters hemming me in. That Sunday morning, like every Sunday morning, my father sat at the end of the pew, next to my mom, keeping a vigil over our family. A graduate of Notre Dame and a former military officer, Dad wore a plaid suit coat, polished loafers and "Buddy Holly" glasses. He had massive shoulders. "Sing" my father ordered during the first song, his deep whisper sounding more like muffled thunder. His command was quickly passed from kid to kid.

When the offertory came, Dad sent the collection basket down our bench. "Keep it moving" he said with a swift whoosh of his hand. At the communion time, my father postured himself in the aisle, like a drill sergeant, inspecting our veils and ties before we journeyed toward the altar.

My childhood memories faded as Sarah nudged my arm in our back row pew. "Mmom...I...I..I...love to dance" she stuttered, her slanted eyes shining.

A few weeks later, we enrolled Sarah in First Communion classes that met on Sunday mornings during Mass. On the first morning of class, I guided Sarah into a basement classroom that was filled with small children, all of them non-handicapped. "I...I...I...am so excited" Sarah said as she took off her coat. Soon, a teenage girl with a long ponytail drew near. Wearing blue jeans and a tie-dye shirt, she was chewing gum. "You must be Sarah...I’m Julie" the young girl said as she knelt down to make eye contact with my daughter. They clasped hands. Sarah smiled.

Though our church had made arrangements for Julie to work with Sarah, one on one, during the communion sessions, I still felt uneasy. "Sarah likes to dance, She loves music... sometimes she..."

"Cool" Julie said as she smacked her gum, her perky adolescent voice abruptly interrupting my litany of concerns. I waved goodbye and walked myself to the door.

After several weeks of preparation, Sarah was ready to receive her First Communion. On that sunlit April morning, Sarah wore a lace dress with puffed sleeves and a long white veil embroidered with pink roses.

"Today we welcome our First Communicants" the pastor announced. "When I call your name, please come forward to be recognized."

The organist began playing background music. When Sarah’s name was called, she began making her way toward the altar, stopping near the front row to greet an elderly woman in a wheelchair. The lady smiled at her. Sarah smiled back and curtsied.

Then, as the music played on, Sarah made a couple of graceful glides and twirled her way toward the pastor, her veil billowing, her face beaming.

I raced down the aisle to reclaim my daughter but when I passed the woman in the wheelchair, she reached out for my hand. "Let her dance...She’s just praising God..." the woman said softly, her eyes sparkling with joy.

While I waited for Sarah on the steps of the altar, I watched as she received a candle from the pastor. I looked around the church. People were grinning from ear to ear. Some were dabbing their eyes with tissues. "Nancy, Sarah was meant to dance...It’s her way of praising God," an inner voice said.

This Sunday, when you go to church, try following Sarah’s lead. Swing your feet when the opening hymn is played. Let your eyes sparkle with the light of Christ. Share God’s love by looking in the eyes of those who are seated next to you. Greet them with a warm handshake or even a hug. Try smiling at them. The grin you offer to a stranger may lift their spirit in a way you cannot comprehend. And remember, don’t be embarrassed if your soul begins to sing and dance and twirl in church. God loves you. And that’s a reason to celebrate.