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I recently had the privilege of joining Susie Davis on her Dear Daughters podcast. In preparation for our conversation, Susie asked if I would pen a letter to my younger self. You can listen to our full interview right here. The letter I shared with Susie and her listeners is printed for you below.

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Dear Twelve-year-old Christie reading her copy of The Secret Garden for the third time,

I know that book is filling your heart with a sweet but painful ache. I know you want a garden of your own.

I remember how those descriptions of an English springtime blooming with daffodils sent you straight outside into your father’s Texas garden. But I also remember what you found there: mosquitoes, fire ants, scorching heat, and a humidity so thick it took your breath away.

You gave up. You did not ask your Dad “for a bit of earth” as Mary had in the story. You would never grow beautiful things. Didn’t have what it takes, apparently. Best to stay indoors and read another book and another book and another book until the Texas summer finally gave way to the first cold front of November.

Dear girl, so hungry for beauty. Keep reading those books. Keep dreaming of daffodils with yellow trumpets through you have never seen them with your own eyes. That desire for a bit of earth has been planted in you by your Maker. It is good no matter that it hurts so much right now. Don’t stuff it down too far. Don’t see it as a sign of your own failure. Nurture it with stories. Feed it with the roses your mother cuts from your father’s garden and places in a jam jar on the kitchen table. Enjoy the Texas wildflowers in March, those fields of red and blue. They are every bit as beautiful as Mary’s secret garden, though they need no care from you.

One day you will understand why you read that book so many times, and you will give thanks for the ground beneath your grownup feet.

You will understand that this is no ordinary ground. It is ground prepared for you–prepared for your spade and your watering can, your dreams and your desires–years before you knew it would be given to you.

And when the daffodils you planted bloom by the hundreds you will sing a song of praise to the God who calls forth music from yellow-petaled trumpets.

Yours,

Christie

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