Perfection.
I've always wanted to be perfect. That is a terrible confession I now publicly make. I don't want to make mistakes, especially in things that I can't bear a heartbreak about. That is why I've been running most of my life. Running from risks. Running from love.
Religion came along as a perfect guise. You see, I thought there is a way to avoid risks; a road to perfection without having to risk getting hurt along the way. I thought I can be safe forever.
Am I doubting my Shield and my Sun? Far from it.
But last night, I witnessed something significant. A picture of perfection in my mind crumbled. Admittedly, at first, I wanted to curse anything that led me to believe that perfection is possible. I wanted to curl up and hide deeper into my shell thinking that I'm darned for life for holding out for something that is not going to happen.
I didn't even want to look closer. I thought it might damage me for good if I come to see the ruins of what once was my idea of perfection. But I was wrong. I saw something even more beautiful.
I saw grace.
In the midst of imperfection, I saw the beauty of grace.
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