p. 27 | The Dancing-School

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 22, 1875

The Dancing-School.

How well I remember the bitterness of my trial when my father refused to sanction my attending a dancing-school. I was a professor of religion then, and, in looking back over the years, I can hardly imagine how it could be so real and bitter a grief to me. But, passionately fond of music, and keenly alive to the beautiful and graceful, I had always had a strong desire to learn to dance. At seventeen, one sees everything through a rose-colored medium, and the proposed dancing-school seemed the realization of my brightest dreams.

It was to be composed largely of a very pleasant “set”—nothing objectionable on that score. Yet I had some misgivings in carrying the question to my father. Though the most loving and indulgent of fathers, he was a little “stiff,” I thought, about some things of that sort. “I would rather that you had no inclination to go,” he said, in answer to my inquiry; “but since you ask me, I must say that I do object decidedly. I don’t want you to be a worldly Christian, Mattie, and I think this is one step in that direction. Dancing will bring you more into society that I consider very undesirable—fashionable, irreligious society. I think you will find it detrimental to your spiritual life, more so than most other amusements. I do not believe prayer will be to you easy and natural, after an evening spent in dancing and gay society. Then I think your influence on your young friends will be a less decidedly Christian influence, if you dance, than if you do not.”

How well I remember now his earnest tone and manner as he said these words! There was much more that I do not remember as vividly; but I was unconvinced. I had heard all this before, and of course brought forward my arguments on the other side. “I could get hold of my young companions better if I entered into their pleasures; my Christian life need not suffer by it, and it should not. I thought myself old enough to decide such a question for myself,” and there was more of asperity in my words and tones than I had ever used toward my father. It grieves me to recall it now.

The words which ended our conversation were, “I think, my dear, that in proportion to the straightforwardness and earnestness of your piety, temptations of this sort will diminish.” That arrow reached its mark. Was my piety earnest and straightforward? Was Christian growth and Christian duty my aim in life? Was not mine a half-way, worldly type of piety?

But I shook off these stern questionings, and returned to brooding over my unhappiness—my father’s unkindness. All day long I was tormented with these thoughts. I know I was irritable and unlovely toward every one. Father was away all day, and mother was sick. After dinner I went into her room. The nurse said she needed perfect quiet; so I had not troubled her with my troubles, but she had heard of it from father in the morning.

“You must carry it in prayer,” she said, as I was leaving her.

“What?” I said, impatiently.

“Whatever troubles you,” she said, with a saddened look, that showed she felt my unpleasantness. “Carry it in prayer.” Could I? Oh! how humiliated I felt. Angry with my father, angry with my mother, rebellious against God who had appointed me this trial, could I pray?

Thank God! For just such humiliation and weakness was prayer given. Long and severe was the conflict, but God gave me the victory. The question which had so engrossed me, whether or not I was right in my judgment, was of no account now. Duty was clear—to yield to my father’s wishes in this matter, cheerfully and unhesitatingly—and with giving up that, I felt that I gave up everything.

I know not whether I was a Christian before, and this was only a re-consecration, or whether this was my first conversion; but I know that never before was my surrender so entire and hearty. The trial was no longer a trial. The burden was rolled away. My soul was at perfect peace.

When my father returned at night he looked at me anxiously. I think my face must have revealed my experience, and his loving greeting revealed his deep sympathy and thankfulness. I well remember how my soul was lifted up and strengthened by his prayer that evening. I knew not whether he received at that time a fresh baptism of the Spirit, or whether I joined in the prayers as never before; but it seemed to me that from that time they were full of unwonted fervor. He prayed so earnestly, so beseechingly, for an outpouring of the Spirit in the midst of us. Other prayers were no doubt going up, and very soon the blessing, so longed for, came. Many nearest and dearest to me were gathered in.

Oh! how I rejoiced in my decision that winter. All along, the dancing-school seemed at war with the prayer-meeting. Those who went to one did not attend the other. Some of my friends, hopeful Christians, attended the dancing-school. Among them I remember one whose religious life from that hour began to wane, till finally it died out altogether. Others I think suffered from it; none were benefited. I was convinced then, I have ever remained convinced, that my father’s judgment, guided, I doubt not, by most earnest prayer, was right.—Congregationalist.