I grew up surrounded by three brothers, GI Joes and machine-gun spray, which was mostly spit. I learned to belch, whittle and I know what a half-nelson is. Then I went on to raise three of my own boys, admittedly more secure in their boy-world than my own vague snippets of girl-memories. In kindergarten I took ballet but my body seemed more conformed to tree climbing and cartwheels than pirouettes. I kept the pink slippers and
danced alone in my room.  Barbie and Ken watched
from my shelves, scorned, ridiculed and often dismembered by one of my brothers.

But I believe there is a princess in every girl. I see this more clearly now that I have granddaughters. Brooklynn turned three in August and spent the day in her various princess dresses, even climbing and tumbling in them, uninhibited by any menacing brothers. When she puts on her princess outfits, I see her transform. She understands that she can be beautiful, feminine, and the apple of her daddy’s eye. In the right setting, with a stable and loving father who mirrors her beauty, inside and out, which she is fortunate to have, this is a very healthy insight. In the wrong setting, as the TV show “Toddlers and Tiaras” portrays, it is the beginning of a frightening trend towards narcissism, insecurity and confusion.

Watching her nudges the secret princess in me. Like many other women, I did not grow up with a stable father. It wasn’t until I met Jesus Christ over twenty years ago, that I began to comprehend my value to Him, that I was “an ambassador to Christ,” a woman “worth far more than rubies.” I pray this is sealed in my granddaughters’ hearts. When I look in the mirror, the woman staring back at me does not look like royalty, but inside I
am wearing my princess dress. And I am probably doing cartwheels too.