Nobody’s perfect. Life is full of imperfection, cohesive with each and every day, yet we long for perfection. Many of us yearn and seek and wallow in the quest for that which is just beyond our grasp. It is, you know. Nobody nor nothing is perfect and yet, I kept forgetting until I was introduced to the boy named Amos.
From the very beginning, perfect wasn’t a term that would have graced his sweet fuzzy head . No, he had a couple imperfections at birth, nothing serious we thought, but it was nevertheless, imperfection encountered. Two months later, as I waited for him to smile, I worried. And when the smile finally came a month later, I glimpsed true perfection.
That baby is now three years old, tow headed and bespectacled, with special needs that defy the best guessers. No, Amos’ perfection is in the eye of the beholder and not surprisingly, I am the beholder most smitten with this boy whose life has added so much to my own. He’s not perfect, far from it quite truthfully, and I’m not the only one who notices that he stumbles when he walks, can’t say a b or d sound, and moves about the world still as a young toddler.
Perfection is all these imperfect things. Perfection is the acceptance of a real live little fellow with an impish smile, a drunken stagger, and a gleeful squeal upon greeting his mama. Perfection is that mother acknowledging that she is, right here in this moment, a witness to perfection. Perfect is for the meek and mild, those who spend their lives scouting and find out much too late that what they sought never existed.
Amos’ perfection, his imperfection, saved me from myself. Perfect? Never. Lacking? Perhaps. Perfection? Oh, yes. The enchanting beauty of his very soul has charmed my iron resolve into melted bees wax. The now beckons more loudly than ever before and my furtive seeking? Perhaps it has been abandoned for the joy in the wonderfulness of today’s imperfection. Or perhaps, perfection after all.