Out of the fifth floor window of a downtown hotel room, something in motion caught my eye. I was only vaguely aware of it before I looked, the way you’re aware of an insect buzzing nearby: you sense it, but unless it lingers or comes closer, you don’t turn in its direction. The peripheral distraction continued, though – so I set down my coffee cup, laid aside the newspaper, and focused my eyes on it, instead of on the day’s headlines.

“It” was someone on the balcony of a nearby building – across the street and just slightly below me. At first I thought the person was a child waving his arms wildly at someone just inside the glass…but a closer look revealed that it wasn’t a child at all. It was a child-sized woman doing what must have been her morning workout, dancing with all the verve and energy of an NBA cheerleader – skipping and leaping from one side of the balcony to the other in fast time and flinging her arms up and out as she went.

She moved to a beat that I couldn’t hear, and she danced with the passion of someone leading a whole class of dancers behind her. Only she was utterly and completely alone on the balcony, with nothing but the brick and glass of other buildings around her. Once I realized what she was doing, I couldn’t stop watching…waiting to she if she would eventually tire, and bend over in spent exhaustion. But she didn’t – not for a long time.

She danced and danced and danced. It seemed as if she was inviting the whole city to dance with her. And if there was no music in her ears from tiny earphones I couldn’t see – there was music inside her somewhere. Music itching to travel through her oxygenated muscles to her very fingertips and toes, then off into the wind.

I wasn’t so much curious about her routine, though. I was curious about her motivation. What compelled this woman to dance on the balcony before 7 a.m.? What thought or note or feeling caused her to dance with such enthusiastic abandon? Did she do it everyday? (She certainly gave the impression that she could.)

When she did finally stop, I went back to my coffee, but instead of picking up the newspaper again, I considered what I’d seen…and this is what I thought: when the joy in me is so strong and pure and true that it comes out no matter where I am, the world will notice. When I express it with abandon, and with no thought to whether or not I have an audience, an audience (however small) will find me. And if I don’t occasionally fling my arms out in praise, or leap, or cry out, or plead with my world to notice God’s glory…someone else on some other balcony will. He’ll get His glory. It belongs to Him. The question is, will I get in on the dance?

“And as He was now approaching, near the descent of the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the miracles which they had seen, saying, ‘Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’ And some of the Pharisees in the multitude said to Him, ‘Teacher, rebuke your disciples.’ And He answered and said, ‘I tell you, if these become silent, the stones will cry out!’” (Luke 19: 37-40, NASB)

© Leigh McLeroy 2005