A Big Stage, A Little Girl, and Me

I have always dreamed of being on stages. Big, dark stages. With bright lights. In my face. Sequins. Loud music. Sweat dripping down my face. Thousands of people cheering in the seats. I can't see their faces. Are they even there? It doesn't matter. I'll sing to the empty seats. All 2000 of them. I can't see the balcony anyway, but it's definitely there. And so am I. I am there. I am present there. I am loud. I am bold. Beautiful. Seen. Heard. Loved. Adored. I am there to give hope to the thousands. And to the One. The little brown girl in the back row of the balcony because that's what her family or her school group or her group of friends who bought her the ticket could afford. She would see me and see herself. She would see herself on that stage, and dream. She would see herself and have permission to see more, to see bright lights, and to hear her voice echoing across the space from wall to wall. She would see me and hear me and hear herself. She would be filled with hope and faith and confidence. Assurance that wherever she wanted to go, she could get there. 

I am here to give hope. To give permission for faith, for dreams. I am here to bring a smile to everyone who will allow themselves to smile. I am here to heal the generations of pain, poverty, persecution, prejudice. I am standing up tall and strong and solid. I am staying. I am praying that the One will see that she can do it, too. That she can pull herself up and out. That less than best is not good enough. Not to settle. To rise above it all. She is me. I am her. We are ready.