"Look what I made you," she beamed, unable to keep it a secret any longer. She handed me the crayon/colored pencil drawing of a colorfully dressed girl with a toothy grin and a pink bow on top of her head.
"Oh my gosh! Thank you!" I gushed. "This is so cute! You drew this all by yourself?"
"Yeah," she answered proudly. "It's YOU," she emphasized, pointing specifically to the picture of the girl on her handiwork.
"It's me?" I asked politely in surprise. A delighted smile slipped across my face, hiding my laughter as I looked at the blond-haired, blue-eyed cartoonish character she had drawn.
I have dark hair and dark eyes.
"Yeah," she answered and, as if reading my mind, explained simply, "I ran out of brown." The inflection in her voice picked up as she added persuasively, "But it still kind of looks like you!"
"It....does!" Smiling, I verbally agreed as I tried to encourage her childlike creativity---but all the while wondering which part of the yellow-haired girl in the orange-pink-and-green outfit she thought looked like me.
But now I know the answer.
She didn't have me pegged in a box.
In her mind, I was more than what she saw with her physical eyes each week.
She didn't need a brown crayon;
she could draw me with every color of the rainbow.
Sometimes I live in that freedom, knowing I am more than the body others see; more than what I do well or do poorly; more than my good or bad choices; more than my career, my past, or whatever label anyone chooses to slap upon me. I am comprised of significantly more than the earthly limitations others or I have placed upon myself.
But on weaker days, I mentally pick up my brown crayon, draw four corners around me, and live inside its constricting walls.
I forget I can be more than brown.
Or maybe I just grow afraid to pick up another color.
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