The Song I Was Meant to Play

“I’m not really good at singing, Mom.”

I cringed at my daughter’s words when she appeared at my elbow one afternoon. She is indeed tone‑deaf. It was Bible School Week, and singing is always a huge part of the week. Before I could form a reply, Grace added, “But everyone has different abilities. Right, Mom?”

I pulled her close. “And when did you get so wise?”

A little child shall lead them. And so she has. Grace is eight, but sometimes she sees life more clearly than her mother. She figured it out without me. Comparison is misery—I know this well. Growing up, there was always someone who could outhit me, outrun me, or earn better grades. I admired my classmates’ lithe figures and stylish dresses and tried desperately to keep up.

Somewhere along the way, I found myself. Good friends helped, and when I met Steve, he helped too. Confidence grew, but the old dragon of comparison still lurked. In my twenties, my friends sewed adorable dresses for their daughters and taught them to be little ladies. I loved my boys fiercely and I wouldn’t have traded them for anything, but I longed to fix hair and play dolls with a little girl.

In my thirties, my children’s health faltered. I looked across the fence and wondered what it would be like to have healthy children, to live freely without medicines, doctors, and diets. The old enemy of envy threatened again.

Now I’m in my forties, and sometimes the same dragon still tries to disturb my peace. “God,” I pleaded recently, “I thought forty‑year‑old women had everything figured out. Other women my age seem calm and serene. Why am I still floundering in the middle of nowhere?”

God has a sense of humor. He reminded me of that this week.

Grace and I were cleaning out her drawers and closet, preparing for a deep purge. I’d ordered a small IKEA desk for her art supplies, and Steve promised to build a new bookshelf to replace her wobbly one.

“I’m going to sort through my books, Mom.” Grace planted herself in front of her shelf and began making piles. “May I give some of them to Sophie and Edith?”

I agreed and kept working through her dresser and closet. We made piles to donate, piles to redistribute around the house, and piles to trash. Some books graduated to the upstairs shelf—favorites like Cat in the Hat and Are You My Mother? The Biscuit books went into a pile for her cousins.

“What should I do with this one?” Grace asked, holding up a plain, unfamiliar book: I Wish I Were a Butterfly. I didn’t recognize it.

“Add it to the donation pile,” I instructed.

A little later, as I crossed the room to tackle the nightstand drawers, I noticed the butterfly book again. Curiosity nudged me. Where had it come from? I picked it up. “Hey, let’s take a little break,” I suggested. “Let’s read this together.”

I’m glad I did. Within a few sentences, I knew this book was going straight back onto our own shelf. “For most of the crickets in Swampswallow Pond, sunrise was a happy time…”

Grace and I sat among piles of chaos, but we hardly noticed as we savored every word of the story. The littlest cricket didn’t want to go outside with the others. A toad had told him he was ugly, and he believed it. When he saw his reflection, he saw only an ugly brown creature. Why did he have to be a cricket anyway?

His mother refused to let him sulk and shooed him outside. Still, he wouldn’t make music with the others. Maybe they didn’t know they were ugly.

Glow Worm scoffed at his attitude. Ladybug told him he needed to learn contentment. Dragonfly said envy wasn’t right. But the littlest cricket refused to listen. Glow Worm would become a lightning bug. Ladybug was the color of laughter, if such a thing existed. Bejeweled Dragonfly flew around on whispery wings. What did they know? It was easy to be happy if you were anything but an ugly cricket.

It wasn’t until the Wise One on the far side of the pond spoke to him that the littlest cricket began to see his worth. As she spun her web she said, “It sure would be easier if I could hear music.”

So the littlest cricket fiddled while the wise spider worked. A butterfly fluttering by overheard and said, “Oh, what beautiful music that creature makes. I wish I were a cricket.”

Isn’t that just so true? We long to be someone else, or to have something else, instead of embracing what God has planned for our lives. Why is contentment so hard?

God gives each of us a melody—gifts meant to bless others. Grace may never sing well, but she has the gift of hospitality. She welcomes guests with ease and makes them feel comfortable without even trying. I can write and sing, but I cannot cook like my mother‑in‑law. Josiah isn’t athletic, but he’s a human calculator, and that gift will serve him well.

The dragon of comparison still prowls, but I’m learning to tune my ear to the music God wrote for me. And maybe that’s the real miracle: discovering that the song I’ve been trying to change is already beautiful enough to play.