So here’s the real story. The story of my imperfection. Of how I’ve read too many magazine covers, listened to too many voices on social media and walked away from too many mirrors more dead than alive. Here’s the story of beginning a new page. Tearing out the perfect and embracing the real imperfect. I’m allowing God to block the lie and open the door to the truth of it. That He is the only perfect, and anything else is an idol.
Over the last many years, my generation of women have voiced how you can have it all. The perfect life. The perfect house, the perfect landscaping, the perfect job, the perfect body, the perfect salary, the perfect girlfriends, the perfect diet, the perfect husband, the perfect vacations. And being perfectly organized at doing it all. And pretty soon all of that perfection is blurred into a half life that resembles a person. And I was the one failing my own perfection story. The binding of perfectionism can drowned a blushing soul.
I did not dust the whole house, only bits and pieces. I did not vacuum. Not at all. I made my bed and made the kids eggs and toast and we made a journey to the garden in boots and sandals. I do not have the perfect garden. It is only a feeble attemp at growing some strawberries and vegetables, so we watered and picked and giggled at the chipmunk standing bravely holding his lunch of our strawberry. He stood on tiny feet under the shade of our weeds and I didn’t shoo him away or pull that tall weed.
I would talk about my job and my salary, but it’s hardly any of that. My job is 24/7 and I don’t draw a salary. I draw fish on the driveway with chalk. I scoop leftovers onto lunch plates and we drink water out of mismatched cups. We play a memory-matching game on a folding table under the cover of an unfinished porch and sand sticks to the bottom of our feet and tracks through the kitchen to the dishwasher.
I would talk about my perfect husband, but he isn’t and, being a small business owner, he’s out of state doing his own research right now. The last pair of shorts and t-shirt he wore are still laying on the floor next to his side of the bed. And, he took our only tube of toothpaste, so I’m brushing with my eight-year-olds bubblegum something or other form of toothpaste. Yuck!
I drove to town today in our imperfect car. The one that my two-year-old spilled coffee all over and into the center console so buttons no longer work, or work well. The one that may be shiny on the outside, but holds 27 duplos, 8 books, 3 baskets of “Your Story Hour” and “Odyssey” CD’s, 6 plastic cars, napkins from 2 different fast food drive thru’s, a coloring picture of goats, and one stuffed elephant.
That car took us to piano lessons for two of my kids, and they were imperfectly great. Their fingers finding keys and chords and new melodies and it’s all music and their teacher grins and says, “We’re gettin’ there.”
It took us to see one mother-in-law who gets fresh eggs from a neighbor and I slide her cash across her counter and she wheels around the edge to tease my toddler. We blow bubbles and name birds at the feeder and the kids recount the holiday weekend and she is the perfect listener.
We get a call to pick up free apricots, so I dig through my wallet and find enough cash for dinner out. We found the perfect green table outdoors and my oldest nibbles a grill cheese and makes a list of all the out-of-state liscense plates we’ve seen today in our resort town. At our last stop we admire the new landscaping of a favorite uncle and giggle at the size of aunties belly. The one who is perfectly growing a new boy cousin, due so soon.
So here’s my perfect day. My perfect life. I didn’t once check social media or run on a treadmill. I didn’t cook perfectly balanced, gourmet meals, and we never did get around to mopping that kitchen floor.
But God took what was, which was all I had to give today, and He made it perfect. And tomorrow He’ll send rain to water my perfectly brown lawn and I will praise Him for that too.
That is my rising. My beautiful rise to imperfection.
In pure imperfection,