::From a journal of mine.::
I foolishly imagine that my perfections give me worth.
But no.
It is my imperfections. I would say to a friend that I love him in spite of his perfections, for he is a perfectionist.
The human version of wrestling down perfection is an ugly thing. What seems perfect in our lives — control, order, punctuality — is usually a clean version of entrapment and slavery.
It is his imperfections — impatience, stress, expressions of frustrations, humanness — that make me love my friend.
The idea that we are like jars of clay helps me understand the value of being imperfect. It is easy to understand why someone would pay top price for a perfect jar. Paying top price for a jar full of cracks and chips, however, makes little sense unless that jar is intrinsically worth so much more. Even in its imperfect, broken state, it brings a top price. It’s still allowed to be used to hold a priceless treasure.
I’m short-tempered, impatient, selfish, moody, and full of self-pity and, for some reason, that doesn’t affect my worth.
“I love you in spite of your perfections,” He would say.
