In the still hours before the children woke, I waited by the window, feeling winter’s chill seep quietly through the glass as I watched the morning creep up over the back field. The sky was deep and dark, with the crisp outline of crescent moon still suspended in its grip. I watched as the warm glow of sun broke just over the horizon–thin pale line of orange, growing slowly thicker–quietly pushing back the dark. Now the sky bleeds up from the field, orange, to yellow, pale blue, then that deep dark of the night, and suddenly I notice the tree: silhouetted against this beautiful canvas with moon hanging still overhead. I hadn’t seen it a minute ago in the depth of the dark, and it struck me how that very tree—now breathtaking against the early morning—had been so very plain and dreary yesterday in the cold winter day.

My eyes are fixed on that tree now, tracing its lines, crisp and dark against the brilliance of the sunrise. I’ve often thought we should get rid of that tree. It’s been chopped and regrown multiple times over many years, leaving it a stumpy, gnarled mess. In the daylight I can pick apart each imperfection and plot how to make it less of an eyesore…more of what I want it to be.

Growing up a Third Culture Kid, I learned very early that I didn’t really belong anywhere. I learned to spend every moment scanning my surroundings, comparing myself, trying desperately not to stand out, and then turning around and letting myself be as contrary as possible. I picked myself apart trying to be someone other than me. Even now, I find myself scanning, comparing…retracing the lines of my life, and wishing them different. This life I find myself living—this day in, day out laying down of my own desires, this trudging through dishes and laundry, and waiting by bedsides for sleep to come, and wiping peanut butter off counters and faces, plodding forward to what feels like nowhere—this is not where I had dreamed I would one day be. I had dreamed of being a mother, but somehow in those dreams I was overwhelmingly content to be so. I love my children dearly, and cherish each moment with them—they have brought more joy to my life than I could have thought possible—but there is still part of my heart that feels a kind of deep disappointment that I don’t quite understand. I have watched friends and family accomplish awe-inspiring things; I have watched them be able to measure their success with a paycheck, or with applause from the people around them. I have watched them cultivate close friendships, and travel the world…. Those high school years full of big dreams and big hopes are almost twenty years behind me, and I haven’t yet written an amazing book. I haven’t backpacked across Europe with friends, created fabulous art, or camped in exotic places. I haven’t found that one person I can completely pour my heart out to. I haven’t lost those last ten pounds or learned to speak eloquently in front of a captivated audience. I have no impressive list of accomplishments to put on a resume when my kids are finally all in school. But why does that matter? It shouldn’t. I know deep in my heart that spending the last fourteen years giving of myself to the little people I grew in my body is perhaps the most important thing I could have done with all those years. So why the disappointment? Why do I keep scanning, comparing…My lines are different. I want a solid, amazingly beautiful tree with lovely branches. Not a gnarly one. Not this one that has been chopped and regrown, and half dead in places. …I retrace the lines of me that feel ugly, look ugly. The lines I obsess over, trying with all I have to erase and redraw, regrow, rewrite… If only I were different.

My eyes are still fixed on that tree out my window. I retrace the lines of me. If only I COULD redraw, regrow… For a brief moment, the sky behind my tree bursts into brilliant color before quietly fading to its pale blue of day. My Creator paints that sky. He paints it with such love, and it makes these gnarled lines look astonishingly beautiful. I step back and look at the silhouette of my own tree against the colors my Creator paints. I retrace the lines of me. Perhaps I haven’t accomplished any of the things I imagined I would. But I have slept under the breathtaking beauty of a bush-sky in Kubacha. I have laughed so hard that my heart jumped out of my eyes. I have melted into the arms of the man I love and felt him hold me. I have held my four babies countless times and stared into their deep brown eyes, watching them search mine with that deep knowing that holds us there in that moment. I have cried and prayed with my daughter over the loss of a friend. I have plunged my fingers deep into Earth’s soil and watched seeds grow. I have drunk in the laughter of my son that comes full and hard and fills the room. I have created chalk masterpieces on cement patios with little hands and little voices chatting as we draw. I have smelled the sweet scent of boxwoods out my window on a warm, spring morning that spark memory and lift my spirit. And today I have watched Ubangiji paint the morning with His brilliance, turning an ugly tree into a beautifully unique and stunning silhouette.

I retrace the lines of me. And at least for this moment, I smile.