These things are a struggle to write. What are the prominent, share-able pieces of me that highlight who I am?

I could tell you about my beginnings. About how I was born a girl into an immigrant family that held their breath for a boy; how one of my first loves was my love of neon orange government cheese; that one of my earliest memories is of looking at other girls and wondering why I wasn’t pretty like them.

I could tell you about my middle. About how my parents sent me to private school and bought me a Brittanica set while the soles of their shoes stayed frayed and unglued; how my sheltered life drove me to books and writing and made me a dreamer; how everything I did was to please other people because I always felt like something was deficient in me and I wanted to feel loved at best, prove my worth at least.

I could tell you about my transitions. About how I lived on the continent of Africa and hated my American life when I came back; how adoption made me a mom after a decade-long wait and I now wonder if I’m cut out for all this; how I used to argue cases in a courtroom and now am battling cancer (again); how I prided myself in perfectionism and how God has freed me from this deception.

But these things that fill my rear-view mirror don’t quite show you who I am.

I could tell you about the things I like. About my love of cheesy pizza despite my lactose intolerance and of running despite my impossibly slow pace; the paintbrushes perpetually scattered across my farmhouse table and the books on my shelves I can’t stop collecting; the coffee mugs in my cupboard I fill and share with friends; how staring at a fading sunset never gets boring–nor do hugs from my husband and son.

But these things don’t make me who I am, either.

I could tell you about my Savior. About how I grew up hearing his name but as a “good girl” didn’t really understand my need for him; how I worked since childhood to build my image into something great and he kept knocking those bricks down, revealing in time that my architectural plans were utterly flawed; how through grace and mercy I’ve been shown the filth of my rags and my love and desperation for him continue to grow. His name is Jesus.

And that, my friends, is probably the best of my pieces I can share with you: the pieces that showcase a sinner saved, and being saved, by grace.

Welcome to my space. I tend to ramble (in person, and on paper) and my emotions swing heavens high and oceans low, but through it all the Lord is continuing to use the ruins of this life to restore me, piece by piece. I can’t wait to be fully restored one day–on the other side of eternity–until then, here I am, doing my best to lavishly honor and please him, and looking in the unlikeliest of places for things that make me smile along the way.