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 than 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. 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. 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. 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.
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.
