Or have you ever had someone break up with you?
…
You know that feeling when your throat gets tight?
When there's a loss that you don't want to happen,
and the walls of your throat cling to the last second of denial?
When you have to say goodbye when you don't want to?
That's kind of how I feel right now.
17 months ago, I lived in a village called Iluman in the mountains of Ecuador.
A bunch of cobbestone streets situated in between two active volcanoes.
Where avocados were 7 for $1 and waterfalls were in walking distance.
A little village, home to a family that I fell in love with.
Especially three little girls.
If you've followed my story the whole time, you know them.
Sisa, Yarina, and Lisette.
These girls grabbed my heart like never before.
We would play princesses, I would do their hair, I would sneak them extra food after dinner.
We would buy them ice cream, play with flowers, and chase the chickens.
We'd go on field trips to the internet cafe and Skype friends back in America.
Chubby little Sisa wouldn't smile at first,
but by the end she was the silliest, giggliest two year old I knew.
Little Yarina had a badly infected ear,
and every day I'd clean it and rebandage it until she was good as new.
The very grown up six year old Lisette loved to color and would sit on my lap for hours.
They taught me I was worth loving,
just because I was me.
They put a crown on my head and giggled,
calling me a princess.
They reignited childlike joy in my heart
and unknowingly called me a daughter of God.
They fueled my desire to be a mother to a generation.
They're my little girls.
I've been back from the Race for 6 months now.
All I've been able to do is send them one package.
One letter, translated to Spanish.
A ton of pictures of us.
And a few little gifts to make their days.
(Some crowns of their own!)
But I've been desperately trying to get back.
On my own time, on my own dime.
Honestly, the details and needs are all there.
Except I have no one to go with me.
And I can't just go to a village in Ecuador alone.
All I want is to visit my little girls.
Jesus, WHY won't you let me love your little girls?!
I've been avoiding this.
I didn't want to start grieving.
I've always wanted to go back to my little girls.
But the door keeps closing.
I don't know why.
I don't understand why I can't just go love on them.
Even for a week.
Or four.
I just want to go love my little girls again.
To play princesses.
And to give them the gift they gave me.
Joy.
But the opportunity just is not there.
So I have to grieve.
Our last night in Ecuador was extremely difficult.
I sat with my babies coloring and eating for a little bit.
And as I stared at little Sisa stuffing my leftover rice in her face.
And little Lisette doing Yarina's hair.
I started to tear up.
And then Yarina looked at me, and started to cry.
Soon enough, I had all my babies clinging to me.
And we were all crying.
We all knew it was time to say goodbye.
We hugged and cried for an hour.
The next morning, I hugged them all goodbye.
Little Yarina gave me her only little Teddy bear.
I tried to give it back,
But she told me to take it – to remember her.
And to take care of her Teddy.
Then, with a fake smile on, we got in the back of our truck, ready to head to Peru.
And as we drove away, they chased the truck.
And I had to leave them in God's hands.
I kinda feel the emotion of that day often.
That throat closing up, saying goodbye when you don't want to, kinda emotion.
I still read their little goodbye letters to me. And tear up a bit.
Cause it doesn't look like I'll be getting back to Ecuador anytime soon.
So Jesus, take care of my precious little girls.
Love on my little babies tonight.
Wrap them in your arms.
Heal their chapped little cheeks.
Don't let their ears get infected.
Provide them with more than rice and avocados.
Help them attend the church they live behind.
Let them know they are princesses.
They're Yours.
I love you, my little girls.
