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I'd done it before, and so I had no reason to
believe that this time would be any different. I was sure that when I returned
home from my mission trip. As always, I'd bring back nothing more some mud on
my boots. A hole or two in my jeans and, of course, a lot of great memories.
The summer before my high school graduation, I
went to West Virginia with others as volunteers to repair the homes of those in
need. Arriving at our destination, my group was assigned the task of rebuilding
sections of a home that had been damaged by fire. No sooner had we parked on
the home's dirt driveway than we saw an excited little girl, no more than six
years old, standing in the doorway of the family's temporary home. Shoeless and
wearing dirty clothes and the biggest smile I'd ever seen, she yelled,
"Ma, Ma, they really came!" I didn't know it then, but her name was
Dakota, and four more days would pass before she'd say another word near me.
Behind Dakota was a woman in a wheelchair —
her grandmother, we'd soon learn. I also discovered that my job that week would
be to help change a fire-damaged dining room into a bedroom for this little
girl. Grabbing our tools, we went to work. Over the following days, I noticed
Dakota peeking at us every now and then as we worked. A few times, I tried
talking with her, but she remained shy and distant, always flying around us
like a tiny butterfly but keeping to herself.
By our fifth and final day, however, this was
about to change.
Before I went to work on her home on that last
morning, I spoke for a moment or two with the grandmother. I was especially
pleased when she told me how much Dakota loved her new room — so much, in fact,
that she'd begged to sleep in it the previous night, even though it wasn't
quite ready. As we talked, I noticed something I hadn't seen before — Dakota
was hiding behind her grandmother.
Cautiously, she stepped into view, and I could
see that just like her clothes, her face was still dirty. But no amount of soil
could hide those bright blue eyes and big smile. She was simply adorable. I
wanted so much to hug her, but respecting her shyness, I kept my distance.
Slowly, she began walking toward me. It wasn't
until she was just inches away that I noticed the folded piece of paper in her
tiny hand. Silently, she reached up and handed it to me. Once unfolded, I
looked at the drawing she'd made with her broken crayons on the back of an old
coloring book cover. It was of two girls — one much taller than the other — and
they were holding hands. She told me it was supposed to be me and her, and on
the bottom of the paper were three little words that instantly broke my heart.
Now almost in tears, I couldn't control myself anymore — I bent down and hugged
her. She hugged me, too. And for the longest time, neither of us could let go.
By early afternoon, we finished Dakota's
bedroom, and so I gladly used the rare free time to get to know my newest
friend. Sitting under a tree away from the others, we shared a few apples while
she told me about her life. As I listened to her stories about the struggles
she and her family went through daily, I began to realize how boring various
aspects of my own life were.
I left for home early the next morning. I was
returning with muddy boots and holes in my Jeans. But because of Dakota, I
brought back something else, too-a greater appreciation for all or the
blessings of my life. I'll never forget that barefoot little butterfly with the
big smile and dirty face. I pray that she'll never forget me either.
