Lydia swept into my life two years ago. I don’t remember when we hit it off. But I think it was one day while I was eating lunch near her desk at the back of our clinic. Her newness at the full-time Social Worker position had not warranted her an office just yet. So her cubicle was open to the traffic of the office and an adjacent conference table where I ate. I don’t know what it was, perhaps a common love for the Cosby Show (she calls her mother Phylicia Rashad), a realization that neither of us needed much to make us laugh, or maybe it was some divine deep calling out to deep.

Soon Lydia became known not only as Social Worker, but also as Miracle Worker. She can settle down the most manic of patients, patiently sit with pregnant teens, and ache with the recently laid off over the lack of health insurance options. Her days are full of heart-breaking stories, and most days she listens patiently to each one. Every morning she walks through the office greeting patients and staff with “Good morning.” Even if it isn’t cheerful, it is always strong.

Lydia sings to herself as she works; I catch a few bars as I walk past her corner of the clinic. She laughs approximately 14.8 times every hour, most days more. She praises the Lord when her heart is heavy and waits on Him to supply her hope. She makes fun of patients with me. Our inside jokes only require a glance to convey a hundred hilarious insights. At some point, we started to joke about Ebony & Ivory being our song and the artistic name of all our self-portraits. When I start to become short and lose eye contact in the midst of clinic chaos, her first question is, “Are you okay?” And I know that she genuinely wants to know.

For my 23^rd birthday, Lydia encouraged me to celebrate grandly. She herself generally has at least three birthday parties and highly esteems the observance of “birthday week.” A variety of friends met for cheesecake and then to take in some soul music in downtown Memphis. Will Graves and Soul is a local jazz, R&B band that covers greats like Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye and Donny Hathaway as well as their own music. They play most Friday nights at Café Soul, an unassuming nightclub on North Main near the Civil Rights Museum. The lights are dim, the seating is sparse, and the food is fried. The bartender may know a total of four drinks, but he brings those with gusto. There are few pale people and I feel like I am eavesdropping on a vibrant culture I rarely have the privilege of experiencing. We sit and soak in You are the Sunshine of My Life, Golden Time of Day, and What’s Been Going On. The music goes down smooth, rich and thick—a balm for ears.

The dance floor is small, perhaps only ten small parquet tiles wide and long. Few people dance, only a couple here and there. The floor is really too small and calls for too much attention. But when Will Graves begins Jill Scott’s Golden, Lydia comes over to my seat. “Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand and lifting it high, pulling me out into the dance floor. We dance-walk to the empty floor, right in front of the band.

I am usually a terrible dancer, completely uncoordinated and self-conscious. Lydia is graceful and fluid. Somehow on this night, she shares some of her finesse and I too am confident and breezy. I feel eyes on us from across the room, but refuse to acknowledge them with insecurity. We are living our life like it’s golden, golden.

Later that night, I whispered incredulously to Lydia, “I can’t believe you got me to dance.”

“Girl,” she responded matter-of-factly, “you were just waiting to dance.”

This is Lydia. She chooses to walk in power and freedom. Her beauty extends beauty to others. Her spirit thrives in power, not timidity. She lives out Marianne Williamson’s words:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

I pray that she will continue to be clothed with strength and dignity—that she will continue to laugh at the days to come. From this vantage point, it’s much easier to invite someone to dance.