Man, old folks can dance. Anne Lamott reminded me of this today, and it's a memory I hope I don't ever lose. I was in Philly with some teenagers and my homie, Nels. We were doing ministry work in the city, and of all the things we were doing, the old folks home was supposed to be the most boring. Sing some little songs, smile real big, get through the day.

Nobody told me we were going on Square Dance Day.

Anybody that knows me knows that I am terminally white. Now, square dancing may be strictly the purview of white folk, but there's white and there's white, get me?

Now, I have trouble finding joy just about every day, and I have the blessing of being able to come and go as I please. Anytime I feel like it, I can drag my ass out the door (under my own power, thank God). Where in the world would I find joy in a place that held me captive? But that's what these old folks have every day. Captivity. You might as well call it a zoo for the elderly.

But here's the rub: once we walked in the door, there was joy to spare. And, once the music started, the joy increased exponentially. Not just from the dancers - even the folks who couldn't get out of their chairs for one reason or another were full of it. But those dancing ladies... wow. They may have been in their nineties, but I felt like I'd run a marathon that day, and they hadn't broken a sweat.

That was one of my best days. It's just too bad that I had to go all the way to an old folks home in Philly to find it.