The Dance of Promise

by Sabrina Glidden

     “Would you care to dance?” the prince asks.

     Cinderella silently stretches her hand toward the man and he leads her across the floor. They drift together, trusting the interplay of their steps as the music wafts over their ears. They press into one another, feeling the depth of each passing moment without words, but Cinderella fears that soon, this will all end.

     The dance—a structure that depends on its partners to operate in synchronicity—takes a certain trust. He knows that as he leads, she will follow. She assumes his competence, his will to lead her across the floor to the rhapsodies of the music.

     Among adoptive families such as ours, however, the dance isn’t so simple. Instead of our rhythms simultaneously falling into place, we must learn by trial and error—stepping on toes and twirling ourselves into dizziness until, at last, we step into a deliberated, unspoken design of trust.

    While Tom and I expected communication difficulties with our sons, we depended on the universal language of love. Hugs, kisses, provision of food and warm beds. Yet our family rhythm was awkward. When we brought our boys to America they were frightened of more than a new world. Never having had the model of family in their lives before, the risks of attachment wrangled in their hearts, causing them to feel displaced instead of embraced.

     A Ukrainian woman who visited our church bent down to their eye-level and began a conversation in Russian. Panicked, Thomas darted down the hall and James smooshed into my legs, clinging for his life. She spoke once more, then James responded to her in words I didn’t understand. She stood and interpreted the horror to me. “He’s afraid I’m here to take him back to his old home.”

     On our way to school, they repeatedly prompted me for reassurance that I would indeed be back for them the same day. At dinner, Thomas would cheer over his plate of hot food, then mention that he hoped it would never end. Once, he indulged in telling me a lie. After scolding the behavior, I held him in my arms, comforting him. He burst into fresh tears and said, “But what if I lie to you one hundred times!”

    When will the clock strike midnight? I could hear the notion echoed in his words. “Then I’ll cry one hundred times, but I’ll still love you, forever,” I countered.

          Their father and I wrestled with ways we could express to them our commitment, finally to realize that no action or words can communicate to the lost places of the heart. Only as we continue taking our steps in this dance together, sharing in the rhythm of life, will the promise of forever permeate their hearts. One day, they will look at their internal clocks and realize that it is way past midnight, and we are still together. We’re getting there. One-two-three, one-two-three. A step at a time.