Perfectly Imperfect

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Potatoes.

That’s what I recently found inspiring.

It’s summer and I have an unusual obsession right now with produce at my local grocery store. It’s all so bright and pretty. I mean, have you noticed the beautiful fruit and veggies out on display in the fresh aisle? Usually on the end, or right when you walk into the store.

All shiny and perfectly positioned in the right places.

You’re looking at the upper class.

The most popular. The best looking. The most talented.

They are the produce celebrities. If they had instagram, they’d have the most followers.

But that’s not where my produce obsession lies. 

No, I found this bag of potatoes. Not in the spotlight at all. More like in the back row, almost next to the bread.

You see, a brilliant brilliant person realized that there was a lot of waste in the fruit and vegetable world. Obviously, not all the produce makes the cut to the top of the pile. There’s only so much room on the display. What about the sub par fruit? The potatoes with extra dimples? The apples not quite in the right shape? The pears with the knobs and bruises?

There must be a purpose for things not good enough for the spotlight. 

So this brilliant person, (Let’s call him Mr. President’s Choice) came up with a great marketing idea. Lets take all that produce, not good enough for the top but good enough and throw it together in a bag. We can sell that! We can find a purpose for things that don’t make the cut!

Perfectly Imperfect. 

Naturally Imperfect.

That’s where my obsession lies. 

A sad bag of misshapen potatoes.

Is it weird that I understand and identity with this? (I actually KNOW that it’s really weird.) I seek out those naturally imperfect produce bags. I buy them up. I laugh in the face of supermarket hierarchy and I go for the underdog. I’ve told bags of naturally imperfect potatoes that I love them just the way they are.

They complete me.

Imperfection is actually where it’s at.

Perfectly Imperfect is my new goal.

I’ve lived a pretty steady life of striving for perfection. I’m not a classic perfectionist by any means, just come over and check out the cupboards in our house. Yet, there’s a level that I had been striving for. Goals I had been trying to meet. The top of the pile that I was trying to climb. Then, some pretty big rejections came. In different forms, in various life circumstances. Rejection that cut deeper than anyone could understand.

All of a sudden my perfectly arranged pile starts to collapse. Something got pulled out from the bottom and everything started falling all around.

Rolling. Rolling. Rolling.

Alone from the pile, you slowly spin off into the corner.

Who wants things that are bruised and broken?

Is what you think in the dark corner.

Then, you remember.

He does.

Strong when I am weak. Picks me up when I fall down. Doesn’t call me to perfection, but loves me as I am. Heaping grace upon grace, breathing life into broken down places.

When the sting comes, rejection slaps and the tears fall there are arms that are wide open. A voice that whispers, I love you as you are.” A purpose that is greater than perfection and position.

The top of the pile doesn’t matter.

Broken, battered and bruised.

There’s still a place for you.

Keep going. 

Don’t give up. 

So I choose to be.

Awkwardly misshaped.

Extra lumps.

Weirdly formed.

Rolling away from the pile.

Stuck so far away in the back where it feels like no one will ever find me or see me, or believe in me or want me.

But I know.

There’s a purpose for me.

And maybe my imperfect life is all that I really need.

Where I’m called to be.

So, I’ll be happy where I am.

I’ll cheer on the perfect apples and pears.

And I’ll be content,

Perfectly Imperfect.

Is actually the perfect place for me.

 

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