I’d done it before, and so I had no reason to believe this time would be any different. I was sure that when I returned home from my mission trip, as always, I’d bring back nothing more than some mud on my boots, a hole or two in my jeans and a lot of great memories. Little did I know that this time was going to be different.

The summer before my high school graduation, I went to West Virginia with others from my church as members of the Appalachia Service Project. Our goals included refurbishing the homes of those in need–where we were heading, there was plenty of need. Along with volunteers from many churches, we arrived at our destination much like an army in miniature, and we came ready to do battle. The tools we brought from home would become our weapons as we prepared to wage war against an all too familiar enemy: substandard living conditions. Our mission was to make the homes of those we served warmer, safer and drier; with only five days to accomplish what we could, we were eager to get started.

My group was assigned the task of rebuilding sections of a home that had been damaged by fire. No sooner had we parked on the home’s dirt driveway than we saw an excited little girl, maybe 6 years old, standing in the doorway of the family’s temporary trailer home. Shoeless and wearing dirty clothes and the biggest smile I’d ever seen, she yelled, “Ma, Ma, they really came.” I didn’t know it then, but her name was Dakota, and four days would pass before she’d say another word near me.

Behind Dakota was a woman in a wheelchair, her grandmother. My job this week was to help convert a fire-damaged dining room into a bedroom for this little girl. After meeting several more family members, we got down to the business of making a difference in their lives.

Grabbing our tools, we went to work. Walls were torn down and replaced. Hammers and nails, saws and electric screw guns, drywall prepping and painting. We moved at a fast pace. During the next four days, I noticed Dakota peeking at us every now and then while we worked. A few times I tried talking with her, but she remained shy and aloof, always fluttering around us like a tiny butterfly, always there but staying just out of reach, watching us intently but keeping to herself.

By our fifth and final day, however, this changed.

Before beginning my work on the last morning, I spoke for a moment with the grandmother. I was especially pleased when she said how much Dakota loved her new room–so much that she’d begged to sleep in it the previous night even though it wasn’t quite ready. As we talked, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Dakota was hiding behind her grandmother. Cautiously, she stepped into view and I could see that as were her clothes, her face was still dirty. No amount of soil could hide those bright blue eyes and her big smile. She was simply adorable. I wanted so much to hug her, but respecting her shyness, I kept my distance.

Slowly, she began walking toward me, and it wasn’t until she was just inches away that I noticed the folded piece of paper in her tiny hand. Silently, she reached up and handed it to me. Once unfolded, I looked at the drawing she’d made with her broken crayons. The drawing, she said, was of me. Scrawled on the bottom of the paper were three little words that instantly broke my heart: “Please don’t leave.” Surrendering to my earlier impulse, I bent down and hugged her. She hugged me, too’ and for the longest time neither one of us could let go.

By early afternoon, we finished Dakota’s bedroom. I gladly used the rare free time to get to know my newest friend. Sitting under a tree, away from the others, we shared an apple as she told me about her life in the hollow. As I listened to her stories about the struggles she and her family endured daily, I began to realize how frivolous various aspects of my own life were.

Suddenly, things such as deciding what to wear when I went out on a Friday night or which wannabe celebrity was starring in the latest reality television series now seemed so trivial in comparison. Thoughts such as this and others quickly took a back seat to what really mattered most to me: my friends, my family and my faith. All it took for me to reaffirm these important truths was the wisdom of a special little girl living in the mountains of West Virginia.

I left for home early the next morning, returning with muddy boots and holes in my jeans. Because of Dakota, I brought back something else too–a greater appreciation for the blessings of my life. I’ll never forget that barefoot butterfly with the big smile and dirty face. In the end, I pray that she’ll never forget me either.