I am a compulsive perfectionist. Not in the cute way that some people “complain” that they are a perfectionist while they live in their perfectly clean homes with their perfectly clean children and nothing is ever out of place and they could be the poster family for Martha Stewart Living.
No. I am stricken. Stricken with a desire, no, a NEED for perfection.
I stack my plates in order red-yellow-red-yellow-red-yellow, and my spoons in the drawer from smallest to largest. Pencils on the left, pens on the right. Sandals on the top rack, sneakers on the bottom. Red hangers for me, green hangers for him. Towels folded THIS way, t-shirts folded THAT way.
My house is usually cluttered because when I start to clean I end up organizing things in the most meticulous ridiculous ways. My mantra is a chorus of "It would be better to do it like THIS." I rewrite my lists in order of item category while helplessly wondering why things never seem to get DONE and why my family seems unable or unwilling to get things done MY WAY.
They are unwilling because when I ask them for help they know I will rearrange the dishwasher and refold the clothes and reorganize their Legos and show them all the pieces of lint they missed with the vacuum. They are unable because when they try to do things my way, what seems so obviously RIGHT to me seems like such a waste of time to them, and they despair that nothing they do will ever be GOOD ENOUGH for me.
This writing, this personal journey so publicly displayed, is my way of trying to overlook the imperfections I see in everything. My way of discovering the joy in small moments and not requiring perfection because I can never BE perfect and neither can they. And neither can you.
So I turn my beam-filled eyes to Heaven and beg the Lord to forgive my constant criticism. I beg for the gift of overlooking imperfections the way He overlooked mine when He sent His Son to Die for me.
