I was blessed to grow up in a God-centered environment; my mom was a Sunday school teacher when I was in preschool and never stopped seeking the fullness of the Lord. Throughout my childhood, she attended everything from Baptist small groups to charismatic revival nights, to churches that taught the prophetic and apostolic—and she took me with her. The existence of God and my serving Him was unquestionable in my mind. Sitting in a presence-soaked room with loud worship all around me, coloring or playing with dolls was normal life for me. I gave my life to Jesus when I was 6 and got baptized; I got re-baptized two years later after my church showed a portion of the Passion of the Christ during an Easter service and it all became “real” to me then. I now treasure this foundation of faith, and I wouldn’t trade it.
But I was desperate for a daddy. I can’t remember a time, in my earliest memories, when my dad was fully present. Even when he lived with us, he would come home after bedtime and, if I was awake, something else had his attention. But when I was in kindergarten, my sweet momma told me that daddy made a big mistake, and that we were going to make a blanket for my new half-sister, yet to be born. Only now as an adult do I realize the strength and heartache wrapped up in that statement. They divorced two years later.
In elementary school, I remember the other girls complaining about their dads making them do chores, teaching them softball or soccer; or talking about daddy-daughter dances upcoming. And suddenly I felt a hole that I didn’t realize I had—I was suddenly so desperate for a daddy-daughter dance if that would mean I could have his attention. I felt betrayed personally, and at fault personally for his leaving my mom. I thought the blow would have been lighter if he were dead; that I wouldn’t have had to live with the awareness that he was choosing to not come home.
Fast forward: I’m thirteen and too old for daddy-daughter dances. Too mature, I thought, to crave and need my dad’s attention. But that desperation, unfulfilled, turned into bitterness and resentment. I forgave him in words, but that corner of my heart was raw. However, I loved the Lord and taught myself basic guitar chords so I could worship in my room at night; and I practiced hearing the voice of God. I went to a dance studio as a teenager that taught worship and prophetic movement. To me, this was normal: seeking the Lord first, above all. I was pretty isolated, with few friends, so He was all I had. I relied on Him for everything. What other kids would talk about with their friends, I would take to the Lord. I would tell Him about my day. I would ask Him my questions. I would cry to Him about my pains. I would praise Him for my victories. I felt there was no one else I could talk to as openly, honestly, and thoroughly as Him. To this day, I cherish that season of isolation: I was oblivious to how close the Lord was to me. His presence and favor was simply normal life. I was surrounded by it.
One year in high school, I felt the Lord ask me to attend a certain youth camp that summer. This would not have been my desire: I’m an introvert who likes to be clean and read books, not play in mud and run around in 100-degree weather with hundreds of other teens. But I went. And the next year, He asked me to do the same thing: go to the youth camp. Again, I went. And those ten days, in July 2015, the Lord met me as a Father. The camp counselor pulled me aside and (not knowing my story) said she saw me in a ballroom alone with a man in the middle of the dance floor, and that man is Jesus. And suddenly, again and again that week, Jesus began revealing that I was not without a daddy; in fact, I have the best One there is. And every moment I’ve spent longing for a dance with my biological dad, my Dad in heaven has spent longing for a dance with me.
He began stripping layers from my heart, not only revealing Himself as Father, but revealing the situation to me in a different light than I had ever seen it. I had considered myself in a “broken family” and thought myself the victim, but the Lord poured out this compassion and awareness over me where suddenly I saw my dad as the victim—a victim to sin and darkness but also desperation and seeking out love and comfort wherever he could. I saw him as someone who didn’t yet experience full peace and satisfaction in Jesus. All the bitterness I had harbored fell away almost instantly. I couldn’t be bitter at someone who had been deceived by a lie and who was missing out on the fullness of Jesus.
I thought that was my “moment”—the singular encounter where God met me. But He didn’t stop there. I went on a date night in college with my then-boyfriend to learn ballroom, at his insistence. Which, crazy enough, I was against. I didn’t want to dance with a guy! But there, I learned certain principles: that it’s the guy’s job to watch where we were going and to know the steps that are coming next, and it’s the girl’s job to follow. Not to lead or try to anticipate the next thing, not be one step ahead, and actually not even to move until I’m pulled into it.
Living as a missionary overseas right before COVID, I encountered the only time in my life that I considered walking away from the faith. I prayed faithfully for resurrection of the dead, and nothing happened; I needed healing in my body and didn’t get healed. And the scariest part of all: I felt like God was radio-silent. The only reason I could think of was that I had done something wrong. So in desperation, my only prayer was “Why are you quiet? Why aren’t you talking to me? Say something.”
Again and again and again, day after day, week after week. And one day, in a rock-hard bed in the Himalayas, I heard the simple and clear response. He showed me a picture in my head of the ballroom, and he said people don’t talk when they’re dancing together. “Kenzie,” He said, “I’m just enjoying dancing with you.” And the ballroom not only became a recurring theme in that season—one of the hardest few months of my life—but I clung to His words with all I had. “Lord,” I would say, “it feels like I’m going backwards. That I’m going in circles.” And He would remind me that a woman moves backwards in many genres of couples dance; and yes, He said, if it feels like we’re going in circles, we are. It’s a ballroom, not a sprint. This journey isn’t going to look linear.
There was one verse in particular that I got stuck on in that season, Psalm 32:8 in The Passion Translation:
I hear the Lord saying, “I will stay close to you,
instructing and guiding you along the pathway for your life.
I will advise you along the way
and lead you forth with my eyes as your guide. …”
I got stuck on the last part—”my eyes as your guide”—because I was picturing God walking forward on a path and me walking directly behind Him, diligently following His footsteps, with His back to me. And I thought, “Lord! That makes no sense!” Again and again I wrestled. I wanted to be led and guided by Him alone. “But if I’m following you, I can’t see Your eyes!” I thought. And I was frustrated about that verse for weeks. But one day, I heard His tender whispers again: and He reminded me of the principles I learned in that one date-night dance class years before. His job is to know where we’re going, to know the steps and to make sure I don’t run into anything. My job is to keep my eyes on Him. And I got it, suddenly. All of life is a dance with the Father who desires daddy-daughter dances with me more than I ever could; and my only job is not to do the steps right or to figure it out, but to keep my eyes on Him and to be led with His eyes.
McKenzie Holmes 