Redemption in a Do-Si-Do: A Square Dance with the Creator

Redemption in a Do-Si-Do: A Square Dance with the Creator

By Kateb

Tumbleweed Crossing wasn’t much to look at on a map a smudge of dust tucked between a pair of yawning hills and a river so lazy it barely bothered to flow. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in heart, fried pie, and more colorful folks than a box of crayons dipped in glitter. This town had its quirks, sure, but it also had a beat a slow, stubborn rhythm like boots on a front porch, or the creak of a rocking chair during a long, late summer evening.

Now, every year, just when the cicadas start fussin’ and the moon hangs fat over Sister Maybelline’s goat barn, the town throws its famous Hallelujah Hoedown. It ain’t just any dance. It’s the dance. A shindig so sacred it could bring feuding cousins to hug it out and get Baptists to shimmy like Methodists. Folks wear their best boots even if the soles are flappin’ their shirts pressed, hats clean, and hearts just a little more open than usual.

But this year, things felt off. Real off. Like a potluck with no cornbread. The gossip was thicker than gravy, folks were short on grace and long on grudges, and even Pastor Clem the man who once preached a 90-minute sermon in a thunderstorm was seen sittin’ quiet by the catfish pond, starin’ like he was searchin’ the water for answers.

Still, they went on with the hoedown. You gotta push through the blues somehow. And Lord knows, square dancin’ has a way of rattlin’ loose whatever’s been rustin’ up the soul. The barn, lit up with lanterns and hope, smelled like hay, spilt moonshine, and a fresh start. Fiddles tuned. Sweet tea poured. Something holy hung in the air like grace waitin’ in the rafters, just lookin’ for a reason to float down.

Now let’s talk folks. Buck “Boots” McGraw, bless his limpin’ legs, still danced like he had fire ants in his pants. Retired rodeo clown, heart bigger than Texas. Then there’s Dottie Mae town gossip, dance floor diva, and wearer of lipstick redder than a cardinal in heat. She strutted in like she owned the place, which she kinda did, socially speakin’. Snake-Eyes Simmons don’t ask about the nickname unless you got time showed up in his usual suspicious glory, rockin’ a bolo tie that screamed “bad decisions.”

But honey, the talk of the night was the new folks twins named Bonnie and Clyde. Yep, you heard right. Moved into the old Miller place lookin’ like city-folk tryin’ to play country, but there was a light in their eyes. Some whispered they were angel investors, others swore they escaped a spiritual cult in Vermont. Didn’t matter they signed up for the square dance competition, and the buzz was louder than a June bug in a tin can.

Come sundown, the skies brewed up drama. Thunder rolled like The Creator was draggin’ furniture across the heavens. Lightning lit up the barn like paparazzi on prom night. Inside, fiddles sang, hands clasped, boots stomped and the square dance showdown began.

Buck and Dottie Mae kicked it off, swingin’ like yesterday’s laundry in a hurricane. They had style, sure, but not much soul that night. Then Snake-Eyes and Sister Eunice yes, that Sister Eunice, from the First Holiness Pentecostal Tent of Everlasting Flame hit the floor. That woman danced like she’d been touched by a honky-tonk cherub. Folks hollered so loud the goats outside fainted.

Then came Bonnie and Clyde.

They stepped in like they’d been waitin’ for this moment their whole lives. Movin’ like whispers, their hands never missin’, feet tappin’ with grace no barn should be lucky enough to hold. You could almost hear a hush fall over the crowd, like even the wind was leanin’ in to watch. And just as they do-si-do’d into a perfect spin, lightning cracked. The barn doors flew open, candles blew out, and everything went pitch black.

Silence.

You could’ve heard a toothpick drop. Then, from somewhere in the dark, someone hummed just a soft, shaky tune. Old spiritual, sounded like home. Another voice joined. Then another. Pretty soon, that barn was alive with harmony, like every broken spirit in the room was singin’ its way back together. Even Big Earl, the barkeep who hadn’t cried since his pet possum ran off, had tears rollin’ like busted faucets.

When the lights flickered back on, Bonnie and Clyde were gone. Just gone. Not a soul saw ’em leave. Only thing left was a single white feather in the center of the dance floor. Some swore it was angelic. Others figured it belonged to Sister Maybelline’s rogue goose. But deep down, everyone felt it something sacred had danced among ’em.

That night, redemption didn’t ride in on a sermon or hide behind hymn books. It showed up with fiddle strings and foot stomps, where mistakes were made in rhythm and forgiven in harmony. It came through laughter, sweaty brows, clumsy steps, and the wild grace of square dancin’ with your flaws.

Pastor Clem got his fire back. Buck and Dottie Mae started a line dancin’ ministry called “Heels and Hallelujahs.” Snake-Eyes launched a support group for ex-scoundrels called “Saved by the Swing.” Sister Eunice now breaks into spontaneous jigs mid-sermon, much to the delight (and mild horror) of her congregation.

Redemption ain’t always a burning bush. Sometimes, it’s a barn full of misfits and a fiddle in tune. Sometimes The Creator don’t call from mountaintops but taps your shoulder on a dusty dance floor and says, “You’re up.” And even if you missed a step or a dozen The Creator’s rhythm don’t quit. You just keep movin’, keep twirlin’, keep holdin’ on to whoever’s hand you got, and trust that love’s leadin’ the way.

So next time life’s got you twisted up tighter than a pretzel in a windstorm, remember this: there’s always another swing comin’. And when The Creator calls your name again for the next do-si-do, you better believe it’s your turn to shine.

Y’all keep dancin’.