You may have heard this story. It is of some people group of long ago with intricate and beautiful handwork. It was said that they purposefully left a flaw in each work of their hands in acknowledgement that they were not gods.
I don’t think I’ve ever once had to do it on purpose, but I surely see it in everything I do. It used to be my opinion that everything was ruined by something. I’d labor so hard on a complicated project and then one stitch out of place would mar it for me. I’d always know it was there. All my best effort was never good enough. That’s enough to make a person stop trying.
A grace is leading me to a better place. When I painted my kitchen and saw the first not quite straight line of paint stretched up on the wall that I knew I would see each day, I smiled. I smiled deeply thankful for that which I already knew would be there, an imperfection. There’s comfort in it and reality to it, a knowing that One is perfect, and that’s totally enough. There’s the steady hope that all will be remade new, and that is enough for me. That wall wasn’t straight to begin with but even if it had been the flattest, most plumb wall ever made, I’d have managed to be what I am, imperfect and beautiful in this mess.