When Daughters Dance in Crimson Fire

Blog Post: When Daughters Dance in Fire

When our first daughter, Katherine, was born, there wasn’t a single functioning hospital in our part of Honduras. A hurricane had torn everything apart. We had to travel back to the U.S. just to have her safely. But Abigail and Sophia? They were born right here—up in the mountains, where we had almost nothing.

There were days when it hurt to watch what my girls were going without. I knew what they could have had in the States—cleaner schools, safer streets, more resources. Instead, they grew up with water we hauled in by hand. They studied under candlelight. They faced hard truths too early. They didn’t ask for any of it—but they lived it with strength I didn’t understand at the time.

Now I see it: they were being molded.

I watched them wrestle with language—Spanish at school, English at home—but they became fully bilingual. We sent them to class every day, even when it meant Rebeca and I wouldn’t eat so we could cover tuition. We didn’t know how, but somehow God always made a way. And while we were struggling to get them through, something bigger was happening: they were becoming.

Today, Katherine is a gifted artist with a bold voice of her own. Abigail is about to finish medical school on a full scholarship—she’ll be a doctor soon. Sophia is walking the path to becoming an industrial engineer. All three are brilliant, fire-filled, and full of grace. They love God with a passion that humbles me.

They are beautiful. They are exotic. They are Latina women made of heat and light and mercy. And watching them grow has been one of the great honors of my life.

The painting I’m dropping today—Dancing in Crimson Fire—isn’t just about movement. It’s about them. It’s about what happens when a girl learns to dance through hardship, through sacrifice, through spirit. This piece is my tribute to the daughters who made me a better man.

You don’t just see that painting—you feel them in it.

—Esteban

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