Dear Maria,
I should have known God would put you in my way. If for no other reason than because I didn’t do what He asked when I first saw you, I should have known you’d be back.
You probably don’t remember meeting me. Our two teams were in church the Sunday you danced, and I thought, “Wow Lord, you really gave her a gift!” His response, which I promptly ignored, was “Tell her.” I wish I could say it was more than cowardice that made me respond so. After all, when the Creator of heaven and earth asks you to go tell one of his daughters that she’s a beautiful dancer, it’s probably a good idea to run right up to her and say so. Really though, that’s what it comes down to. I was afraid.
You know by now, my friend, how terrible my Spanish is. (Gracias por tu patiencia con mi.) I told God that I didn’t even know the word for “dancer”, and how was I supposed to make you understand me anyway? He said something like, “I’ll help you,” but I didn’t listen. Your mother, Tia Sonja, even brought you to me. When I asked her (and not you) your name, you said, “Soy Maria de Los Angeles”. I think I said, “Mucho gusto” before I climbed into the van.
When you sat down next to me at the Christmas party, I felt the same thing as before. I had to tell you about your dancing. You sang Hillsong in Spanish and I mustered up the courage to say hello, much like a teenage boy must get up the gumption to ask for a prom date. I wanted to be creative, eloquent. Instead I forgot my words, fumbled them like a football at the end of the fourth quarter, and promptly exited the building.
Somehow, you understood me. Maybe it was my awkward hula-esque dance that finally got my message across, but when you got it, your face lit up. Suddenly, we were best friends. You kept your hand in mine all night, except when you went back before the group to dance again.
I asked you what you wanted to study in university, and you laughed, but said you wanted to be a pediatrician. Or an artist. Or an actress. You wondered if I liked being a missionary (I do.), and when we would leave (After Christmas.) and if I had a boyfriend (Nope, sure don’t). When they put up the piñata, you pushed me to the middle, and I slammed right through a huge pink rabbit that vaguely reminded me of Donny Darko. And we laughed, laughed, laughed. And you never left my side.
I thought I’d get to see you again before we left for Thailand, but it isn’t looking like that’s going to happen. I guess I’ll just have to get Vivian to help me translate this letter, because I know there are a few things I have to say to you.
I want you to know that you’re the daughter of the King, which makes you a princess. I want you to know that you have such a sweetness, a gentleness, a spirit of compassion that just surrounds you. I want you to know that the LORD delights in you. That you are His Beloved. That He will pursue your heart until it totally belongs to Him. I want you to know that you are part of a chosen people, a royal priesthood. Nothing can separate you from His love, Maria, not anything. I want you to know that you are precious and valued and worth every inch of love this world has to give. I want you to know how lovely you are. I want you to know that the verse you say at breakfast every morning is absolutely true: With God ALL things are possible, even college. Even becoming a doctor. Or an artist. Or an actress.
Or a dancer.
I want you to know what a beautiful dancer you are.
Love,
Heather
