Rhythm.

Do you ever look around when your church sings that line in the song "I Could Sing of Your Love Forever" that says "and they'll dance with joy like we're dancing now"?

I do. Every time. And every time it's totally awkward. Why? Because no one is ever dancing.

Maybe it's just the song's fault. The tempo doesn't exactly set the stage for a jig (unless you're into "dating Jesus," in which case, you might also like to slow dance with Him, in which case, I suppose this would be the perfect song).

But somehow the issue seems deeper than that. At least in my own life.

How often do I dance with joy? (How often do you?)

I've heard it said that Christians should be the most joyful people on the planet because we have this unshakeable hope in Christ.

I believe that. I really, really do.

I also believe that I'm very much human, and while I do have this hope that is steadfast, me and my humanity are so quick to forget it.

God help us all. Fallen as we are, broken, skeptical, tired and worn, hurt and confused, entirely self-consumed. We're a fine bunch to display before the King, aren't we?

And yet, we're given this biblical command to "rejoice in Him." (Phil 4:4)

Seriously? A command? As if that can be forced!

Or maybe it can't be. And maybe it's not supposed to be. Maybe the reason He gives it is because it really is possible. Genuine, wholehearted celebration. Of the dancing sort.

I don't know about you, but I find myself stuck somewhere between believing the possibility of that verse simply because it's the Bible, and trying to make sense of it in the midst of the every day, sometimes exciting, often mundane life.
When you receive healing, rejoice.
When God feels near, rejoice.
When you feel like it, rejoice.
When you don't, rejoice.
When your dog dies, your health fails, your friend leaves, the bills pile, the questions come, the doubt taunts, the promotion passes, the spirit weakens, the scale lies (no, it doesn't), the days darken, and the music fades....rejoice.

Because sometimes it just means holding tight to the promises of God against all odds. Trust me on this. I'm living it first hand.

In our darkest days, it is still in Him that we live and move and have our being. (Acts 17: 28) Joy comes not when we force it or fake it, but when we lay back and just rest in it. It doesn't mean having answers (God knows I don't!) or being able to make sense of things as they are. Maybe life isn't so much an Irish river dance as it is a waltz, grace-fully weaving in and out of the hard stuff of life. It's this undying hope that things will be okay, that we'll make it through and be better, wiser, more redeemed people because of it.

Redemption? Now that seems like a catchy tune.

It's certainly something I can tap my foot to.