Imperfect

I have to admit…I am struggling to get back into writing mode. I love the things I have had the opportunity to do over the past couple of months, but they have distracted me from writing. I have gotten out of the habit. And I have missed it. Meanwhile, I feel as if I have very little to give and that all of my offerings are rather, well, imperfect.

Last week, though, something clicked inside of me. First, I watched as every member of our family opened homemade gifts. Every gift was imperfect in one way or the other, but few store-bought treasures could top them. Faces lit up as the gifts were received and enjoyed.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching the delighted responses to the homemade treasures, and I lit up as I received some of my own. But the depth of the delight didn’t hit me until a few days later.

Doug and I curled up on the couch Friday night to watch an old favorite: Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Neither of us are big Costner fans, but there’s just something fun about that version of the old legend. As we watched the opening credits, we began to study the tapestry images in the background. The tapestry was definitely handmade. It was obvious from its imperfections. Although the stitches were expertly created, there were still little variations in their size and direction. Imperfections that could never come from a machine.

Doug made the comment about the same time that it hit me: Imperfections often make something more valuable, not less.

I struggle with wanting my every effort to be great. Wonderful. Perfect. But in truth, I don’t like perfection in other people. It makes them seem so very unreachable. I know I can never attain to their status, so I feel clumsy and awkward in their presence. I feel that my work and effort are rubbish next to their accomplishments. Until I see that they are real, I struggle to like them at all. So when it comes down to it, why would I want my work to truly be perfect?

God is working on me, molding me into the perfection for which He created me. And for now, my imperfections show that I am willing to allow that molding to take place. They show that I am under construction, just like everybody else.

Yes, imperfections are beautiful. And that thought just might give me the push I need to let those imperfect thoughts flow through my fingers once again.