The Year of Imperfect

     I have always loved to draw. I don't often take time for it anymore, but it's still there— the niggling in my mind when I see a poetic scene, the itching in my fingers, the pleased smile the feel of a clean piece of sketch paper brings to my face. 
    When I was young, I filled notebook after notebook with my drawings. I asked for plain white paper and cardstock at Christmas time. Because, you see, when you have a blank page in front of you the possibilities are endless. 
    I loved my drawings. Or maybe I'm just a pack rat. Either way, when my mom insisted on throwing out some of my reams of paper, I was devastated. I knew the drawings weren't perfect, but they were my stepping stones to the future where my drawings would be perfect, and with that in mind, I didn't even care so much that they weren't flawless.
    Somewhere along the way, though, the imperfections started to stand out more plainly. The stark reality of the pathetic smallness of my own efforts become overwhelmingly huge. Suddenly perfection seems to be a goal that must be reached sooner rather than later, and a sense of panic set in. Looking around, it became clear that others had succeeded beyond my own greatest dreams. There was nothing to do but admit that I must be a failure.  My goal was no longer to draw the best picture I could, but instead to cover up my imperfections.
    Covering up imperfections means that if you have decided you are bad at drawing, you quit. Shove the paper to the bottom of the dresser drawer, toss out the old notebooks full of failed tries, put the shading pencils in with the the everyday pencils, and try to forget the dreams you used to cherish.
    Covering up imperfections means that you try to hide the parts of you that make you insecure. For much of the world around us, it means wearing makeup and dressing in the latest fashion, but there are many other ways to hide, too. Sometimes hiding means that we fail to speak to a visitor because we are sure  that we are no good at small talk. Maybe we find it hard to volunteer a song or a thought at church because there are others who could do it so much better. There are some of us who hide from hospitality because we believe our house or our cooking isn't up to par.
    Covering up imperfections means defending yourself when you feel your area of sensitivity is being attacked. It means feeling that you are never enough; that you are stuck in some crazy charade and are terrified of being found out. Soon, hiding becomes bondage, a prison where you try to contain all the parts of yourself that you do not like.
    But we are not meant to hide. We are not meant to be imprisoned. We are meant to be free.
    Today we have a blank page before us. The blank page is challenging us all. Will we continue to hide our imperfections, or will we dare to pick up our pencils and make the first mark? 
    Of ourselves we are not able to be perfect. God knows it even better than you and I. But He has promised to "Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is wellpleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ; to whom be glory." (Hebrews 13:21) As long as we use our feeble, faltering selves for Him, He will turn our imperfection into His glorious perfection. 
    I am convinced that there is more blessing in doing my imperfect best than in not doing anything at all. God may find it difficult to use me if, instead of accepting my imperfections, I spend all my time striving to become perfect.
    Please don't misunderstand. I'm not talking about failing to improve yourself. That certainly has a place. I'm talking about giving yourself room and not expecting more from yourself than God does. 
    And more than that, I'm talking about giving room to others. When we can accept that we will only be perfect through our submission to the will of God, we are able to give more room to others' imperfections as well. 
    And so 2022 stretches ahead of us. I want to make this the year of "imperfect." The year of accepting how I have been created. The year of no longer trying to hide parts of me that I wish were different, but using what little I have for God. I want to make this the year of giving room to myself— giving room for my thoughts, my emotions, my ideas, whether they are perfect or not. I want this year to be the year of giving room to others— giving room for their thoughts, their emotions, their ideas. I want this to be a year of understanding that differences of opinion are not a bad thing. Misunderstandings happen. So do feelings. I want to give room not only for my imperfections, but the imperfections in the world around us: the grumpy cashier at Wal-Mart, the barista that doesn't make my drink correctly, the guy that cuts in front of me on the interstate.
    And to you, I extend an invitation. I'm not sure what picture will be drawn on the blank page of this year, I don't know everything that accepting my imperfections will mean for me, or what it will mean for you, but pick up your pencil. If you're ready, I'd like to draw together. And somewhere along the way, you'll fix some of my mistakes and perhaps I'll help fix some of yours.
    And maybe we will find, twelve months down the road, that perfection lies in being imperfect after all.
    Happy New Year to each of you!