Sorry for not posting on Thursday. It was a very busy week. But I'm here now, for a more or less sip-ish post.
I'm sitting at home currently, coffee cup in hand, right in the center of my house. And I'm looking around with fresh eyes this morning, trying to see past the familiarity. I like what I see. There is a cornerof a wall to my right that has been so scuffed, the support beneath the paint and wood is visible. There is a leak under the sink with a bucket and lots of trust beneath it. There is a scratch on the floor, adding plenty of character to the hardwood. That says nothing of the broken drawers.
These things (including the broken candle on the kitchen table) have never detracted from my view of my home. They make me smile, maybe - I think - because they remind me of myself. Our house is so meticulous in some things, and yet broken in all of these beautiful little ways. None of them impair it, lessen its value, make it less hospitable - they just serve one purpose: to remind all who venture here that human beings are alive within these walls. As cheesy as it is, I wholeheartedly hold with those who speak of the differences between houses and homes.
But I think we, as people, are like that, too. I know plenty of men, women, boys, and girls who are not present in themselves. There is no peace with that which is cracked or scuffed or out of order. They live in a state of constant self-condemnation and self-improvement, which, in and of itself, is not bad. But their refusal to see the ridiculous, clowning kind of perfection in their own flaws makes them, somehow, incomplete.
To be perfect is an icy road my friends. Here's to leaky faucets and broken candles.
Join me for a cup.