Princesses and all that

I've always loved the story of Cinderella - it was my project story for Children's Lit. in university.  It's still my favourite.

In our culture, calling someone "princess" carries conotations of privilege, being served, and outer beauty. 

I prefer to think of the POSITION of princess, rather than the PERSON of princess.

One of my all-time favourite quotes is from Ever After (the movie) when the queen tells her son, "With great privilege comes great responsibility." (although I heard that exact same quote in Spiderman as well, it doesn't carry nearly the emotional thump for me in that genre)

The names that come to mind when I think of Daughter of the King a.k.a. Princess, are Amy Carmichael and Mother Teresa, among others. 

Amy Carmichael chose mission work in India.  It is reported that she worked for 55 years without a furlough.  Her ministry was to young girls forced into prositution at the Hindu temples.  Respect for the Indian culture had her dye her skin dark, and thank God for her brown eyes that helped her fit in (as a child she had prayed that God would miraculously change her eyes to blue). 
She is quoted as saying "One can give without loving, but one cannot love without giving."
My favorite quote of hers is

"It is a safe thing to trust Him to fulfill the desires

which He creates"

For many years Amy Carmichael was known to the children she rescued simply as "Amma" - which means mother.

Isn't this operating at the most influential with all the privilege that she was born with? 
Isn't that "princess-ish"?

Mother Teresa's life is no less inspiring. 
No sequined gowns, servants serving, bonbons or gilded carriages to be found here.  No concern about tiny waists, manicured hands, or perfectly coifed hair to clutter thoughts and emotions about identity. 

That brings to mind another princess... Charity Graff who runs the Gentle Hands orphanage in the Philippines.
In her recent update she writes about the death of a little boy:

Why then, do my eyes search the crowd for his little face. The little smile that showed only rotton black stubs of his teeth. Why is my heart aching? Why are these tears burning my eyes? Why do I feel weak when I think of him? For more than a year, I have tried to rescue him. My cries have fallen on stone deaf ears. And now he is gone.
I didn’t do enough. God, forgive me.
I did not even know his name.
Visit Gentle Hands site