On my most favorite of days, the brick and mortar mailbox sentry standing silently and solemnly at the bottom of our steep, winding drive, serves as harbinger of buried treasure.   

Without knowing what precious gem awaits, I pull open the door and rifle through the stack of noise, a papered frenzy of carnies hawking for their wares. 

If I wanted to buy something, I'd go to the store; I resent their relentless intrusion. 

 Fresh air has found her way to the bottom of the pile, a welcomed guest among the uninvited.  She is cloaked in wrappings both familiar and unremarkable, serving merely as means to end. 

I don't have to shake this gift to know what's inside; I've received others in the past.  That only adds to my excitement, because I know what to expect: 

The voice of a child, reaching across worlds, in words and wonder.

She tells me she had a happy Christmas and that she wore a nice outfit.  She got a cooking set and dolls and is quick to thank me for my gift.  She tells me that her family is doing well and she hopes the same for me.  She asks me to pray for her mother.  Every day. 

Will I remember to pray for her mother every day

child's thumbprint
She sends me two gifts.  One is her signature in pink, her thumbprint; she can't yet write so her teacher becomes her scribe, an adult writing as a child, and it's the child I hear.

The second gift was invisible, delivered in five words and ending with exclamation:

I send kisses to you!

Her letter closes as they all do, "Love, Isaura".

A dollar a day is changing the course of her life; and because of that, she is changing mine.

How can I not love my Compassion "daughter"?

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