Dear 13-Year-Old Marie,
I want to begin by saying something I couldn’t say then—I love you. I didn’t know how to at the time. I couldn’t see how rare and radiant you truly were. You were the youngest of four, tucked inside a home full of broken pieces, with a mother whose heart was shattered and unaware of her own worth. Because she couldn’t see her beauty, she couldn’t show you yours.
But I see you now—sitting on that front porch, wearing that golden yellow, white, and navy striped Esprit dress. The sun is fading, and you’re racing against it to finish your homework. No lamp, no fanfare, just you and your quiet determination. That moment didn’t feel golden back then—but it glows now, forty years later, as I entered this 53rd chapter of my life. I never thought I’d live to see this day, and yet here I am, not just alive, but awakened to you—the girl I never celebrated, but who was the gift all along.
You didn’t laugh much. You didn’t have sleepovers, phone calls, balloons, candles, cake, or gifts. But you were the gift, Marie. Not because of what you had, but because of who you were becoming.
You searched for your worth in faces that resembled your own, hoping someone would reflect your value back to you. But what you didn’t know was that your brown eyes, the ones you thought were just ordinary, would one day be the very eyes through which God would show you the unseen. You would grow to see what others missed—hope buried in despair, beauty rising from ashes.
Your hands weren’t like theirs, because they weren’t meant to be. They would one day hold the broken, lift the fallen, and write truth that touches hearts. Your fingerprints would leave marks that could never be erased—because they’d been pressed into the lives of others by the very hand of God.
Your heart—sweet girl—it was branded in the furnace of affliction. Every tear became oil. Every wound became a well. You grew in the soil of rejection, and instead of turning bitter, you bloomed. You loved deeper because you had been deeply wounded. And it was that very rejection that led you to the arms of Jesus. It’s in those arms you have been pushed back into even now.
Your legs were not made to run with the crowd. They were made to stand strong like mighty oak trees, planted by the waters. No one stood up for you, so you stood for yourself—and became what you needed most. You grew roots. You became unshakable.
Your feet—small but firm—chose a path few could see. You didn’t follow the voice of the enemy, even when it echoed loudest. You walked alone, but you weren’t truly alone. God led you the long way around because He had to teach you how to fight. How to hold on. How not to give up on what—and who—you loved.
When you didn’t know how to love yourself, God gave you your children. At five years old, you said you’d have five babies—and you did. Each child taught you something sacred. And in the process, God taught you how to mother—not just them, but yourself.
You didn’t end your life at 13, though the thought came. And at 30, pregnant with your last son, you almost gave up again. But that’s when purpose began to crown. That’s when the promises, the prophecies, the words spoken over your life began to breathe and make sense.
All the weight you carried built strength in your arms. You didn't know how strong you were until you had to hold on to the altar when life came to pluck everything out of yours arms you loved. That’s why you never gave up on love, marriage, family, or your inheritance. You’ve learned to love yourself because you finally understood how much Jesus loves you.
And now, because of that love, you can tell others: Keep going. God is taking you somewhere sacred. There’s an appointment at the altar with the Father, and this time—it’s forever.
You laid your dreams down when they felt dead. You gave God your ashes when you wanted to die. And in exchange, He gave you beauty.
So today, I honor you—not just for surviving, but for becoming. I see you now, my dear one. And I love you—with all that I am.
Forever yours,
Marie