In the Silence: A Divine Dance Through Loss
It was the morning after the final dance.
I know the feeling all too well.
In a duet, there is a beautiful trust built between two individuals and the choreographer who helps guide the dance. A deep stretching of muscles and tender transferring of weight as the man and woman maneuver their way through mapped-out movements. Spinning, lifting, sliding, jumping, and stillness. Each dancer will sacrifice months of time, say no to invitations to gatherings, and forfeit physical comfort in preparation for a special moment of serendipity. When it’s time for everyone to come together to experience the cultivated work, a great anticipation stirs between those who are prepared to share and those who are present to witness.
Hope and wonder mingle among sparkling eyes.
Family, friends, and random ticket holders discover their seats and settle in. The lights come up, and the music lifts. Suddenly, we are ushered into a tasting of rich wine. The dancers paint an image of velvet red and copper ribbons intertwining from an unseen force. Almost as if a gentle wind was nudging them toward the rafters and across the stage. The empty spaces between bodies pull like the strings of a violin vibrating with a static frequency. The quality of movement dramatically shifts as the crescendo hits, then everything slowly melts like caramel being poured out.
Awe. Shock. Brilliance.
A buffet of emotions fills the crowd. An eruption of noise fills every crevice of the room as an offering of admiration and respect is surrendered in the fleeting moments of closure.
Feet shuffle as the theater empties, the stage is swept, and technology is turned off.
A visceral awareness of the negative space compresses the dancer who finds herself still on stage. The moments in-between start and finish, poured upon and saturated with savory devotion and passion.The space, now an empty shell, just like her.
A Different Kind of Dance
I left my parent's house at 5:30 that morning. It was the day after the crescendo we called a "Celebration of Life." I drove to the lake to watch the sunrise, then came to our home—which didn’t feel like home anymore. My husband had been in a battle with cancer the second half of our marriage, for nearly three years. The disease progressed quickly, and on July 31, 2022, he was ultimately healed in peace.
I found myself at home, unable to move from our bed for hours. With my sinuses inflamed, I felt my way to the bathroom vanity. As I faced the girl in the mirror, I noticed eyes that had never seen such dark and heavy bags under them before.
I spent every day by his side. Every day for two years. And here I was, left in this quiet gap, an in-between of the past seven years, and the future we were hoping for.
My home was filled with a mess of medical supplies and new gadgets we used to help his body heal. I stood there in the aftermath with memories of joy and grace mixed with trauma and pain like a shook up density column from 7th-grade science.
A house full of meaningless things.
I was angry. I had prayed, fasted, researched, lifted, washed, bandaged, and surrendered everything—and at the end of all the processing and unanswered questions in prayer were crickets.
I stood there in fear it was for everyone else.
All the work. All the growth. All the love. All the time and sacrifice. I shared and gave away, but nothing was given back to me to hold onto.
As I stood at the mirror looking through the window of the soul staring back all I could see was the gratitude from others’ who found hope through our eyes.
And that was enough.
I realize that must have been what Jesus felt.
Giving all of Himself for others. Living for others to live more freely. Laying His desires and preferences down because it was better for Him to support the well-being of others...even when that meant He would suffer.
“Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”
He knew His suffering would be worth the joy beyond it. He endured for the joy set before him. This joy is for mankind to be fully restored to life in Heaven. We get to receive an unbroken promise of eternal life in exchange for eternal death because Jesus made himself the forever sacrifice for sin.
“He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces, he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds, we are healed.”
The king of kings understands suffering and loss. We are not without empathy from the one whose love draws us closer to Him through any circumstance we face in life.
These truths didn’t just pop into my head as I stared intently at my reflection. Over the course of three years, Michael and I both prioritized getting to know God at His word. We surrendered time watching movies for time listening to pastors like Priscilla Shirer, Bill Johnson, or Alex Seely explain God’s character. We learned about the power we have through the Holy Spirit to pray and for our prayers to have a mighty effect. We began to integrate healthier choices for our mind, body, and spirit through understanding God’s design for life from the scriptures.
We have the invitation and responsibility to seek first His kingdom and His righteousness. When we make concerted choices throughout our day to choose His way above our own, He will reveal His truths in the most unlikely ways. He is the author of life. The truth is His and it sets us free from the broken narratives we adopt for ourselves and this world echoes back.
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
The structures and ways of our world are broken. We are ensured we will experience pain and trouble as we navigate life. We are also given a promise that our hearts can remain strong and our minds full of peace because this life is just part of the story. The world has been overcome, and in time, we will fully understand the picture God has been painting since the day time began.
Hope is Vital
What the girl on stage and the girl in the mirror have in common is they both find themselves in a moment of silence with an echoing awareness of their finite existence.
In our questioning, in the still and uncomfortable moments of stark reality, God is still God. He is good. He is love. He is our provider, protector, and everlasting peace. He heals, restores, and redeems all things that are broken.
We have the choice in moments of loss to worry and stand in the dark or to be still and know with a step toward the light. We can ask our Father for His perspective, which expands deep and wide, like the view from a spaceship breaking through Earth's atmosphere. And here's the thing, as long as we have breath in our lungs there is hope to experience good things again in life. A new dance, a new sunrise, a new relationship, a renewed purpose.
“Where there is no vision, the people perish.”
Hope is vital.
And when breath leaves our lungs, there remains an even stronger hope. I'd like to leave you with one of my favorite scriptures the Lord revealed to me at the beginning of our cancer healing journey.
“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.”
Through the stillness and silence, we are reminded of a hope that will not disappoint, despite disappointing circumstances. A hope that stretches past the visible into the realm of faith and everlasting life.
Cover image by Sophie Davison
Amanda Pretorius
Amanda Pretorius is a Nashville-based writer and dancer. She studied dance at Middle Tennessee State University and has traveled with adjudicated and performance-based dance companies as an Assistant Director and Principal Dancer. Through her husband’s cancer journey, she’s discovered God’s Truth about healing, relationships, and purpose.
