I took a walk bright and early yesterday, as it was the first day of school for one son, and I was up anyway. I have to admit that my intentions of walking more regularly this summer did not manifest as I had hoped. I simply didn't take the time to get myself out the door first thing in the morning, which is when I need to go or it just doesn't happen.
As I felt the familiar rhythm of my feet on the pavement, my mind began to settle, and what usually happens began to happen: I remember stuff I need to do. So, there I was, at 6:30 in the morning, on a beautiful late summer day, coming up with an acronym so I could remember all the stuff I needed to do when I got back home. It wasn't very relaxing--more anxiety producing, because I began to worry I would forget all the stuff I was remembering.
As it was dawning on me that I was likely undoing any benefit from the walk by increasing my anxiety, I turned the corner, literally. Then, as I was blinded by the angle of the bright sun, I noticed that the pavement seemed to be glittering, much like Edward does in the Twilight movie when he reveals his grotesque beauty to Bella (it took Stephanie Meyer to enlighten us that vampires don't necessarily burn up in the Pacific Northwest sunlight--they just glitter). Anyway, at that moment, I turned the corner figuratively as well, realizing that I really could enjoy my walk, and it was the relaxed mind that remembered better than the anxious one.
Today, on the radio, I heard a new song by Francesca Battistelli, and some of the lyrics grabbed me:
I got a couple dents in my fender
Got a couple rips in my jeans
Try to fit the pieces together
But perfection is my enemy
And on my own I'm so clumsy
But on Your shoulders I can see
I'm free to be me
Now, this cute young thing is all of about 20, but still, I loved the message. It's ok that I'm not perfect--in fact, God wants me to be me. And the dents in my fenders and rips in my jeans just mean I've been engaging in life.
It's like when my dear grandmother had cataract surgery a few years ago. I called to see how she was doing. "OK," she sighed. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Well," she said, "now that I've had the surgery, I can see how many wrinkles I have!" "Grandma," I said sincerely and with as much love as I could infuse in my voice, "you've earned every one of those beautiful wrinkles. They are your wisdom lines."
Now, I am growing my own wisdom lines, and they come with a few dents and rips and aches in other areas. I like to think this means I am living my life well, and using it up. I can't take it with me, so I might as well give what I've got while I'm here, and enjoy as many moments as I can. I'm pretty sure God would want that. I just need to keep the faith that temporary blindness can make way for clear vision.