My brothers would often chase me around the unfinished basement and up the staircase and around the furniture and back down again until they caught up with me or I found the perfect hiding place. Those were the only kinds of adventures I ever had. Those shivers of excited and pretended fear that shook my little frame and popped out in giggles and squeals were the only manifestation in my life of fright in any form. I knew nothing of hunger or cold or desperation, yet I complained of being hungry before dinner or chilly when I stepped outside or upset because I scraped a knee. I've wasted so much time whining and wishing and waiting.
I wasn't being ridiculous. I was honest. I was a little girl.
The world outside my house is a big one and an exceptionally frightening one. I still have not seen all the hunger or the cold or the desperation that goes on... not even in my own neighborhood. I won't ever see most of it. I can solve almost none of it.
There are books so big with words I can't pronounce and in languages that I'll never learn, and they come by the hundreds of thousands of million-bajillions. Places that I'll never hear of will sit undiscovered by me or anybody. And as if this planet wasn't enough to deal with, there are bigger things that cannot be explained or imagined that float along far outside of our atmospheric bubble.
I am far more a little girl now than I used to be, so why is it that I feel ready to face this enormous place? My emptiness is filled with one simple truth: I am a daughter of God.
What can I be afraid of?


