Finally made the move to the big “D”.
No, Texas friends, not Dallas. Denver.
Good ole’ Craig made a list, we checked it twice, we were found to be quite nice…so my two best friends and I landed a three-bedroom townhouse in the Highlands.
Once all the boxes were out of the U-Haul and piled up in my room, I immediately took action. I cannot stand when things are disorganized so within the last week I found a place for all of my belongings. But, in the midst of hanging things on my walls, I learned a.) I do not own a tape measure and b.) how little I care about measuring anything to a prefect degree.
Skillfully placed at the right spot by judgement of my very own eyes, my antlers, mirror, family photograph, curtains, etc. hung from what I thought the perfect locations. Until my roommate (the perfectionist one of the bunch) came in to inspect my curtains…she gave me an eye for an eye, dug up a tape measure and I turned out blind (apparently, blindness has become a common theme in my life).
This whole ordeal got me thinking, as most moments in my life do.
Am I the one who is really blind? What is the whole idea of perfection after all?
Being blind isn’t as bad as we might think, and imperfections are beautiful things. As I painted in vivid colors and irregular shapes today, I realized how much I have grown this year.
For years, I was haunted by anxiety, desperately fighting to conform myself to some ideal, perfect version of myself. Whether body image, sports, college degree, boyfriends etc. I thought in the choices I made, I had to measure everything not as I wanted them, but as the “perfect version of Jennie” needed them to be. In believing myself to be humble, I forget about my greatest passions and ambitions and tried to be what I thought I should be.
But, all the while, I was losing who I was created to be. I was fighting against the freedom to embrace the so-called imperfections and discover the Truth behind seeking what came so naturally to me.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound….I once was blind, but now I see….twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved.
Just in the nick of time, grace handed me a paintbrush and turns out wild, imperfect brushstrokes do, in fact, liberate myself and other people from fears. For the first time in my life, I have found purpose in something I cannot take credit for, something I have not earned, something I have not gained by performance. After years of fighting, I opened my hands and loosely received a truly perfect gift, and now I see…