I can’t expect to be perfect.

“Perfect,” after all, is a matter of opinion.

A perfect day, weather-wise, is subjective according to different people’s health, plans, needs, and personalities.

A perfect hair day is equally subjective. Probably more than ¾ of the eyes that see your hair today probably wont even notice it’s perfection (or lack thereof) anyway cause they are wondering about their own hair.

A perfect outfit. Subjective. Not everyone likes the look of heels and oversized sweaters or converse with ripped jeans. If your honest with yourself, the perfect outfit is mostly determined by your mood and the event your attending. Let’s be real. The perfect outfit is definitely a matter of perspective.

A perfect meal. In a child’s definition that would be something greasy, unhealthy, but happy, like French fries and a burger and the guarantee of a few minutes to burn energy in the play park after. An adult’s definition would be something more along the lines of a quinoa salad with fresh veggies and hummus and gluten-free toast with the guarantee of no stomachache after.

A perfect body. Subjective. Generational, gender, cultural and societal trends all play “piggie in the middle” with this one.

A perfect grade. Now here we narrow the playing field. If the teacher or prof has a set standard to mark their tests and assignments by, then there is some objectivity. But even still, the value is placed on how well you performed on that specific assessment. What if you memorized your entire textbook, could spout of the dates and details of historic battles and concoct steller thesis’ for fun when your in the shower every day, yet when the final paper is due, unforeseen circumstances leave you with three hours till the submission deadline and, either a broken heart or a body wracking in pain or a loved one never to be seen again and there you have it…a C. Did that paper accurately assess your understanding of this course? No. Your grade could have been, should have been, perfect. If life was perfect. Which it isn’t. And that’s the whole point.

Perfect is subjective. It is ringed round by ideally aligned circumstances which, if even shifted a micro-millimeter off balance, it all goes to pot, as my mother would say.

Perfect is situationally dependent.

Did I add that perfect is exhausting?

You’ve felt it.

On those “can’t tame these curls” days, and those “I said the wrong thing, but I’m too proud to admit it” days, and those “I can’t find a thing to wear,” days and those “I didn’t make the grade…didn’t mop the floor…didn’t make the phone call…didn’t think twice” days?

Too much “perfect” seeking leaves you wanting to quit.

Wanting to do something drastic.

Escape. Ignore. Maybe try harder. One more push!

 

Jesus.

The Perfect One.

When he walked along the streets of small-town Israel, he called the imperfect his best friends, his world changers, the ones who didn’t have it all together.

Jesus wasn’t big on appearances. He actually critiqued pretty harshly those who strove to “appear” perfect.

It’s not that Jesus’ standard of perfect was low, or subjectively shaped by the culture around him or his upbringing etc.

It was that his standard of perfect was Himself.

He was the divine, sinless Son of God.

And as the Perfect One he didn’t even own a perfect house that was perfectly clean.

I highly doubt he sought perfection in his closet every morning.

I don’t think he had a closet.

Apparently a stunningly perfect physical appearance wasn’t his forte either.

His idea of a perfect meal was sitting on the grass with 5,000 unexpected guests and not enough food that became enough and the goal at the end was for everyone to leave full, not for everyone to leave seeking to one-up that meal at the next gathering. Jesus really wasn’t one-Up-able anyway.

Jesus must have had perfect grades. I mean, he existed before the world, before knowledge was even a thing. But we don’t hear much about it. Except maybe once in the temple when he was twelve when he blew the teachers out of the water with his know-how.

But remember how his teaching came across?

Parables. Mystery enshrouded principles of an unseen kingdom.

Highly subjective.

A bit hard to grade objectively.

It kind of depended if you were ready and willing to hear it.

“He who has ears, let him hear.”

Relationally, I’d say Jesus was perfect.

Well…except for when he called his best friend, “Satan,” and told him to get behind him. And he let one of his close friends die even when his sisters asked him to come and heal and he could have, but he didn’t. Till later. And he rebuked his disciples for having little faith…a lot. And he tossed a few tables and drove merchants out of the temple with a whip once…didn’t do much for his popularity scores, or his “Perfect Messiah” scores. He offended people right, left and center.

Maybe not so perfect. According to our standards. Subjective.

So here we have it.

A divine, perfect Son of God who didn’t meet all the standards we set for perfection in our daily lives, yet he was the only truly Perfect One.

Why?

Because perfect isn’t found in shiny taps, organized closets, hairspray bottles, bank accounts, GPA’s, squeaky clean marriages, gym memberships, flawless family dinners, drama-free relationships or that artsy beach-wood window pane you can’t seem to imitate from instagram…

Here’s the point. We can’t reach the world’s varying standard of perfection. It’s impossible. We also can’t reach Jesus’ divine standard of perfection on our own. It’s impossible.

So we give up.

 

Wouldn’t that be nice? To stop keeping up appearances, to stop trying to control it all, to say and do the right thing?

 

Here’s what Jesus did that changed all this striving for perfect business.

He came, perfect. From birth.

He lived, perfect. (remember, not according to our standards, but a Higher standard)

He died, perfect.

He rose again, perfect.

And when he died he took all our imperfect on his perfect and his perfect overwhelmed our imperfect and then our imperfect died and His perfect overcame.

We’re talking about more than a spotless toilet bowl now.

We are talking about eternal things. The things that matter beyond this week and this year and this life. We are talking about the part of you that will live on forever, long after the doctors shake their heads and your eulogy has been read.

Imagine this.

Your soul, perfect.

Your standing before God, perfect.

Your sins, your messy life, your mistakes and heartache and accidents and self-loathing and bitterness and judgementalism and negativity and lust and poor choices and pride and unforgiveness and greed and gossip and disobedience and defiance and anger and violence and arrogance and infidelity and envy and lies and stubborn willful independence….

All your depravity…

All your sin….

All that imperfection, which is judged by God to be imperfect and that deep down in your image-of-God self you know is imperfect…

That imperfection

REVERSED.

Overcome. By PERFECT.

True perfect.

It’s the forever perfect too.

Not just until you mess up again type of perfect, like when you spill your perfect coffee on your perfect outfit and then it’s all gone to pot again.

No.

This is a forever perfect.

I can’t expect to be perfect if I’m not one with the Perfect One.

Scrubbed floors are nice to have. So is peace with your brother and honour for your employer and an A+ on your final exam.

But here’s the catch.

If you strive for perfection in those things, in this temporary, situationally dependent world on your temporary strength, you are going to wear out.

But if you walk this life with the Perfect One

Who made you perfect eternally,

your motivation in this life changes.

Your not doing it all to keep up appearances, to impress others or satiate the ravenous need inside of you to be acknowledged.

Leaving that behind….that’s restful.

And He’ll rub off on you, the more you are around Him.

And you’ll do things like empty the dishwasher for your roommate or write an encouragement note to your co-worker or hug your dad because He is rubbing off on you. His love for people. His heart to serve. His heart to bless. His version of perfection…rubbing off on you.

And you’ll put on clothes in the morning and walk out the door confident because He sets the standard and says you look good.

You see?

It’s all upside down and inside out.

Perfect isn’t the goal anymore.

He is.

The Perfect One.

And that’s the perfect place

To be.

Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,

and all these things shall be added to you.

Matthew 6: 33

“Your beauty scared him,” lisped the child.

Thank Heaven for beauty.

Here.

In this in-between place.

Where we paddle through

Leagues of darkness

Pushing back hard

Going toward

That light

That beauty

That starts

Like a wink

A wink from Papa

Just starting

On the other side

Of that thick grey line.

It says, “Keep paddling.

You’re almost home.”

And at the wink all the edges blush

And the stars modestly retreat

And the fields open gracious arms,

As Lucy Maud would say,

To greet the beauty.

The true beauty, you understand,

Not what social norms proliferate,

Not that insatiable something that you can’t make your own,

On a good day even.

Not that unreachable pot of gold,

That makes you weary

Trying.

Always trying.

Not that beauty.

 

It’s this beauty.

This beauty that scares him,

That makes him flee

Like all the dark when the great cosmic wink

Lights up all around.

 

I needed this beauty. Now.

This knowing that the earth turns back toward the Light.

That the endless paddling

Brings me to a soft shore

Where I can rest.

I needed this.

This wink that says,

“You can do this,

This now.

See Me,

Everywhere,

Now.”

 

So I gather the beauty like wildflowers,

Fingerprints left behind from Creation,

Snapshots from heaven,

Maybe just the edges of heaven,

But still,

I gather beauty

Because Your beauty scares him

And I watch the darkness

Flee.

 

 

 

Warm

Right from the start

Even in the dark

It’s warm.

 

Birds,

Sing a foreign tongue,

They fill

All the sweet warm

With a tangle

Of euphoric praise

 

And the gold radiance

grows slow

And matures

Before our eyes

And it’s hot

Right from the start.

 

Water

Foreign warm,

Settles round,

Drinks me in,

Lures me further.

 
There is a quiet there,

A stillness,

A peace so deep

It could enter you.

 

They dart quick

Or meander slow

On this sun rippled

Dance floor

Clumping in common

Or ranging alone,

We stalk them

With our eyes

From above.

 

A dinosaur head,

A crooked grin,

The slow, deliberate flap

Of thick, underwater wings,

Makes me scream

Into my snorkel,

Makes dad laugh,

Into his.

 

Barefoot freedom,

Climbing out farther,

Beyond where I dared before,

And the waves splash

And fill the crevices

And the dinosaur head

Tosses me another smile

From underneath.

 

The sun sets here

And everyone watches

Lining the beaches,

Camera ready.

The show is free,

The sky, an obliging backdrop

The sun, all glorious

Center stage,

While You blend colours

Like a master.

 

And they clap

As she slips like a burning disc

Out of sight beyond the curve

where water kisses sky.

 

Warm

Even in the dark

The air heavy

Laden with scents

Foreign flowers

Entice me down

To walk amongst them

To breathe them in

And remember Eden

And listen for

Your coming

even here,

in all this warm,

right from the start.

 

 

I am held

By arms much stronger than mine.

Arms that can hold the weight of all I carry

So I can rest.

 

Here I rest for real.

Here I breathe in deep.

 

The air is moist and cool,

Like breathing in a rainforest.

The green is intoxicating.

It distracts me constantly;

The sheer profusion.

 

 

 

Ferns thickly populate along the creek,

Insinuating mysterious goings on

Of the fairy people

Beneath their lacey canopies.

 

 

Here water runs eternally,

As it falls like a shower,

As it mists like a kettle,

As it sweeps down the gutters,

And tumbles over the edges,

And pools amongst the skunk cabbages.

 

 

And I can’t help but come

And lap it up

With my eyes

And my soul.

Everyone else stays away,

Deterred by the constant damp,

Which means I have it

All to myself.

 

This forest like a sponge,

Holding in all that wet,

In heavy pockets of moss,

Like stuffing,

Lining logs and branches,

Trailing aimless up tree trunks

Sprouting newborn ferns,

Curling out slow and tender.

 

 

 

And the wet can enter me,

My hands, my face, my hair,

It washes my eyes

And slips smooth off my jacket.

And I love it so

That it soaks into my heart,

Till it’s full

Some days.

 

Other days come.

The other days when the gray goes on

And on,

And on,

And the wet creeps under my skin,

Soaks inside, cold,

And I’m weighed down,

down

With the wet.

 

 

 

And nothing inside wants to sing,

Nothing inside wants to see

The beauty round me,

The green as grace,

The wet as new birth.

 

 

So all I see is the endless grey,

The constant to-do lists,

The heavy impossibilities

Looming.

 

 

The forest soaks me in,

Me and all the pressure

I carry with me,

Dripping off me.

And I make myself sing,

I make myself see,

More than mud,

More than cold,

More than grey,

More than me.

 

In the crook of two trees

Melded together by Time,

I find my Center.

Amongst the cool,

Always wetness of it,

This sponge-like green,

This eternal rain-

Embrace.

 

I am held

By arms much stronger than mine.

Arms that can hold the weight of all I carry

So I can rest.

 

 

“I gotta keep singing,

I gotta keep praising Your name,

Cause you’re the One Whose keeping my heart beating.

I gotta keep singing,

I gotta keep praising Your name,

Cause that’s the only way that I find meaning.

 

 

Can I climb up in Your lap,

I don’t want to leave.

Jesus, sing over me,”

~Keep Singing ~ MercyMe

 

 

 

First Photo courtesy of Annie Kotowicz

 

 

You said this was my sacrifice

My offering

My hard thing

To let go

Give up

Walk away empty-handed

Like a missionary sacrifices

The comfort of their native culture

Like a martyr sacrifices

The respect of popular opinion

Not to mention a body untouched by physical pain

Like some sacrifice homes and families

Like some sacrifice money and time and dreams

This is my sacrifice

This giving up

This walking away

Sometimes feels like everyday

This trusting, leaning, hoping,

This coming, but not yet,

This praying, but not seeing

 

“This is my offering, dear Lord.

This is my offering, to you God.

And I will give you my life,

Cause it’s all I have to give,

Because you gave your life for me.”

~ Third Day ~

My sacrifice is to go without

Yet, in that “without” space

There is room

More room for You.

 

My sacrifice is to go without

To gain within.

 

I long to gain within.

 

You promised to those who sacrificed for You

You’d give them a hundred-fold return one day.

You make good on Your promises

I believe.

Jesus.

 

 

Going without to gain within.

 

Lord, let it be

And I will praise You.

 

It’s hard to be a three year old when you’re sick.

It’s hard to be with a three year old that is sick.

At least hard for me.

It wasn’t hard for Mom and Dad,

Who hadn’t been either self-absorbed or single in 30 plus years.

Sacrificing their needs for others was their normal.

Water off a ducks oily back for them.

For me, it was more like a waterfall pummeling the sitting duck,

repeatedly.

How did they do it?

I stood mostly aloof.

I watched.

Took mental notes.

Tried not to let the sickness attach itself to me,

Which meant avoiding the three year old.

That was not Mom’s tactic.

Her tactic was to bring him close.

Her tactic was to hold him,

All day if necessary;

Rock him as his head lay weary on her shoulder,

Rub his back as he watched cartoons from bleary eyes.

Comfort, comfort, comfort.

In the night he woke up coughing nonstop as if it was his last breath each time.

I was paralyzed in the neighbouring room.

What if he died?

My tactic was to give into fear and a bazillion “what ifs.”

I would have panicked had I been in charge. But hallelujah I wasn’t.

Dad’s tactic was different.

He just rigged up a croup tent with sheets and an electric frying pan heating water inside, filling it with steam; a backwoods humidifier.

Then he stayed up the rest of the night

To make sure the three year old slept

And didn’t burn himself on the makeshift humidifier.

He didn’t die after all.

  We knew he was starting to feel better the next day

when he began to be less listless and more him-ish.

Fighting with his brother. Insisting on noodles only for every meal.

Then it was nap time.

And he informed us he wasn’t intending to nap.

He was strong willed to start with,

But add into the equation that he wasn’t well,

And you had one obstinate,

Self-absorbed,

Three year old.

Gramma and Papa said he was going to nap.

Gramma went upstairs to get the books ready.

The three year old tried a new tactic.

“I want to go home.”

The trouble with being three is that despite your very firm ideas of what should and should not be happening to you, you have almost no control of your environment.

A bit like me.

Despite my very firm ideas of what should and should not be happening to me, I had almost no control of my environment, which happened to be being in a cabin in the woods,with two sick nephews, my parents and no vehicle.

I was ready to support the three-years old’s suggestion.

Call the parents. Get him home. He should be at home.

He was sick after all.

I watched.

Still aloof.

Wondering what the end result would be.

Would my selfless parents keep this up?

These sleepless nights and long days of taking care, taking care, taking care?

Personally, I was getting a bit more comfortable with it.

The kids didn’t cough in my face as much.

I really enjoyed playing endless games of

Old Maid and Go Fish with the six-year old.

But now the three-year old was putting his foot down.

I watched Dad.

He didn’t sympathize verbally with the three-year old.

He didn’t lay down the law with an authoritative tone.

He just picked him up.

Held him close.

Like Mom had done. All day yesterday.

And the three-year old didn’t fight Papa.

He just laid his weary head against Papa’s chest and let himself be held still.

Papa walked around for a bit,

No doubt to throw the child off the scent,

And then he subtly began the ascent to the bedroom.

And the three-year old napped

For a LONG time.

And arose almost a different being.

Rested.

Anyone who coughed half the night needed a three hour nap.

Poor thing.

I didn’t intend to get close,

To really take part in the caring of the sick three-year old.

And I suppose I could have kept avoiding it if he had avoided me.

But he didn’t.

I was making lunch.

Just heating up hamburger soup that Mom made days before.

But the smell must have got to him.

The smell of nourishment.

Maybe it was cause I was standing by the stove,

Like his mother no doubt often did.

Maybe it was the desire for food and the fact that I appeared to be the bountiful goddess who would produce it.

I don’t know what it was.

But despite all my aloofness,

He came to me

And shot up his little arms,

eyes imploring.

It was like an automatic elevator.

Like he pushed the button,

And I couldn’t help it.

Even though he was germy

And even though he was not the happiest camper,

I couldn’t help it.

I picked him up.

And he snuggled in close.

Like he’d done with Mom

And with Dad.

And he said in his squeaky, congested three-year old voice,

“Auntie, you make good food.”

And what was I to do with this?

Rest.

Stop striving.

Be.

Just there.

Holding, being held.

No fear.

Rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Happy Birthday to Auntie!”

sang the three-year old with gusto on our last day at the cabin together.

He then proceeded to blow all his germy spit over my cake.

But I didn’t care anymore.

Water off a duck’s back.

I held him in my lap because I knew birthdays were his favourite.

Didn’t matter whose it was.

He always got this dreamy look.

Like he was made for moments like this.

Moments like this.

Holding the sick three-year old,

Close.

(Written after the snow storm on Friday)

Someone spilled a salt shaker in heaven

And now it’s lining the sills

And drifting the lanes

And we are plunged into a snow globe world again.

 

Children walk home backward,

Pushing stubborn against a merciless wind

Clapping red hands over red ears,

Bravely surviving till home welcomes them.

 

Dark settles in up over our heads,

Tucking deep into the corners,

Whistling fearfully round the eaves,

The temperature drops, the roads become slick.

No one dares to venture out.

 

Except one.

One freed.

Freed from the rigid routine

Of domesticated life.

Freed from the sweltering heat

Of an indoor world.

 

He is spotted, bounding, effortlessly,

Over the frozen wasteland,

Fields and streets,

Snowflakes falling heavy,

Blurring our vision,

But not his.

He darts round a yielding car and just doesn’t stop.

Legs churning,

Squelched energy releasing,

More crowding up to take its place,

Blue eyes alight,

Complete in his element,

Running.

What he was made for.

The husky.

Triumphant.

No fear in this one.

No disdain for the storm.

Delight abounding.

Full tilt.

Free.

Triumphant liberty.

 

 

 

Papa-God made a promise to me years back.

And this was it.

“There will always be a pink dawn.”

Always.

Dawn comes, always.

Even when clouds cover,

It comes.

Even when night stretches dark and seemingly endless,

Dawn comes, always.

And the pink ones are my favourite.

Especially in the winter.

When the sun sleeps in late and then rises slow,

Blushing till it’s pink all round the edges,

As if embarrassed by her tardy appearance.

But she still rises.

Always.

Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love,

For I have put my trust in You.

Psalm 143:8

Unfailing love

See it,

In the pink dawn.

Faithfulness.

See it,

In the slow rise,

The blushing rim.

Always.

Always love.

Always faithful.

 

That’s how I rise.

With a promise

Holding on.

Hope.

In the dawn.

Because there will

always be a pink dawn.

There will always be

a reason to hope.

There will always be

Unfailing love.

There will always be

This Faithful Friend,

Constant as the sunrise,

Sure as this new day.

This always,

This is where I settle in.

This always.

This is where I am sure.

Sure He hasn’t forgotten.

Sure His mercies are new.

Sure his faithfulness rises

With me.

This day.

And always.

 

Beauty slows us.

 

They said they felt the hoar frost coming,

Felt it in their bones and sore jaws,

Felt it like a curse coming.

 

Hoar frost gets its name from the Old English word for aging.

Hoar frost, aging the world before our eyes,

White hair

Everywhere,

growing over night.

 

Old Man Winter,

Old Jack Frost,

Breathing, aging, spreading

White

Everywhere.

 

Beauty, like aging, slows us.

Did it slow you?

 

Maybe you slowed because of soreness,

Maybe you slowed because you had to scrape your windshield,

Maybe you slowed because of inconvenience.

 

But in your slowing did you see the beauty?

The beauty of the aging?

 

Every limb outlined with white,

Thick, crunchy, the sticking kind of white.

Every grass blade succumbed to the whitening,

Leaning over heavy, bowing in reverence.

 

Yet, nothing compared to the beauty

Of the evergreens.

They were not weighed down,

This aging, this hoar frosting was not too much for them,

They handled it gracefully,

A mere dusting,

Icing sugar,

Settling snug along the wide, needled arms,

Lots of room here,

Lots of weight to bear well,

Lots of strength to hold much,

And yet not be overcome,

They hold their green,

Amidst the white,

Evergreen.

 

 

The evergreens age well.

This hoar frosting,

It becomes them.

They make a Christmas card scene,

Out of everywhere you look.

They can handle it.

They are built for it.

They sweat through endless summers

and patiently drop cones year after year for this.

This time when they are what catches your gaze.

They are what stand out against all the white.

 

The ageless ones

Aging well.

 

Today,

Slow to see the beauty.

Slow to see the aging.

Slow to be ageless,

Slow to age well.

 

 

 

I can see my breath again.

Frost enshrined moisture

Suspended and then dispersed,

White against the black,

Star-pricked heavens.

 

It is a comfort

To see my breath again

Because it’s not mine at all.

It’s Yours.

 

You breathed this air-breath,

This life-breath

Into humanity in the beginning.

Today this God-life-breath

Is passed on and on and on.

From a baby’s first gulp,

To a grandmas last rattly gasp.

This life- air.

This life-breath.

 

I can see my breath again.

It is a comfort

A knowing,

A sureness

That the God I can’t see

The God who made me,

His breath is in my lungs,

His life resides in me.

God, in me.

 

The frost bitten cloud

Shows me visibly

what normally escapes in and out of me secretly.

I can see the life-breath.

The God-breath in me.

 

He is here.

Closer than my breath,

Nearer than these bursts of warm meeting cold

Clouding round us as we rush about our lives,

Annoyed with the cold,

Oblivious to this blessing,

This seeing,

This life-breath

On display

Saying,

“I make my home in you.

I give you each breath as a gift.

Each breath a gift.

See it.

See me.

Know me.

Close.

Breathe.”