During the last 200 plus days, I have made many confessions. I've confessed that I color my hair, don't exercise enough, am unforgiving, and a host of other things. So it probably won't come as a surprise when I tell you that I'm not perfect.
Family and friends are well aware of my imperfections. In fact, my husband and children and, now, my grandchildren point them out to me on a regular basis. I accept that I'm not perfect and am, mostly, all right with it. Because, you know what, perfection is boring.
There, I've said it: perfection is boring. It's also intimidating. Perfect people intimidate me. Being around them makes me want to check the buttons on my blouse to see if I buttoned them correctly, tug at my hair, and run my tongue around my teeth to see if something is caught in them. Don't misunderstand. I admire perfect people; I just know that I will never be one.
I feel a kinship to the friend who missed an appointment because she wrote it on the wrong day on her calendar. While garage sailing with a friend, I felt a new closeness to her when she confided that she gave away clothes when they needed to be ironed. It was a euphoric moment to know that someone else didn't believe in ironing.
Like my physical self, my home is not perfect. It has too many books. Too many pictures of grandchildren. It is cluttered with the bits and piecies of living. The Depression-era quilts that grace my living room are frayed, the stitches uneven, the colors faded. Perfect, they are not. The cat hairs that cover every surface are evidence that I have a sweet, loving companion who wants to be wherever I am.
Only in one thing do I strive to be perfect. And that is in being grateful to my Father in Heaven. That I fail miserably in this effort does not mean that I don't keep trying and striving.
So, for today, I am grateful for imperfections.