It hit me like a lightning bolt this morning.
I was reading an article over at theMOBsociety (a friend mentioned the site to me a few weeks ago and ohh I'm so glad she did), and the author mentioned that moment where we look at our kids sleeping and just drink in their perfection.
And that's when I realized what you all probably know already ...
It doesn't wait for the absence of imperfection. It dwells simultaneously, and it's right there for the appreciative heart to notice.
My life is a far far cry from perfect. There are so many things I want to do, wish I'd've done, and don't think I'll ever manage to do. Character qualities I admire in others but so clearly lack. Sins I keep on repeating. People I've hurt. Things that make my heart feel heavy, and full, and sick. Imperfections (largely my own).
My sister told me once that when she gets frustrated and
sick with the state of the world, she takes comfort knowing that that
discontent is evidence of her soul longing for its true home. Mmhmm. I feel
that way a lot. Like so much time is spent in the gap between
what our hearts desire and what we actually encounter.
But I also find moments that are simply perfect.
Sam hopping off his bike to exclaim over Vava's sidewalk chalk scribbles, declaring they're too pretty to walk on.
Vava laying her cheek against Patrick's head, sighing, "aww, Papa."
When I drop something heavy on my toe and cry out, and they run clumsily into the kitchen asking, "you okay, mama?"
Patrick laughing with me over something that strikes the same happiness-note in us both.
A dresser full of baby clothes, waiting.
That flash of illumination in the heart when God speaks.
Perfect. Merciful evidence of our true home, sprinkled (lavishly!) in the imperfect.