I have a dream, a special one. It runs through my mind often; more often than most.
It’s a little girl, 5 years old. Her names is Vivin.
In all the pictures I have of my little girl, she is standing straight, stiff, unsmiling. Her hands are at her side, tense against her skirt. Knobby knees and elbows are stiff, afraid to move an inch out of place. The tiny face is intent- sweet but serious. Maybe a little scared. The sweet brown eyes that captured my heart; they’re round and wide and hold so much in their depths.
I have this dream, this special dream for her.
In this dream, neither of us say anything. We don’t have to.
I see both of us, meeting for the first time. I’m right where I belong, in Indonesia with my little girl. She’s right where she belongs, out of harms way and onto a path toward her dreams.
I see one of those tiny, tense hands unclench and reach for mine. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the warm pressure of her small fingers against mine.
We’re in church- my church, her church, any church. The Church.
She climbs up on the seat beside me, and we just sit there together, in silence.
And she looks up at the cross ahead and smiles.