I have been thinking about how nobody’s perfect. Yeah, I know: that’s not exactly a deep statement. It’s something we all learn by age three. Mommy didn’t do this right, Daddy did that wrong—nobody’s perfect. As an adult, I have had to relearn this. I’m thick-skulled, you see. I must have thought that after a certain point it didn’t apply to me.

But no, people still aren’t perfect. I still find myself disappointed by them, though. Does that mean I’m too optimistic? Does it make me too hopeful? Does it make me gullible?

The cynic who lives in my head—and pipes up ALL the time—says yes to all of those questions. The still, small voice, though, reminds me that I am not perfect either. What if the people I most need to encourage me lost all hope, lost all optimism, lost all vulnerability? I’d be alone in the world.

I wonder, sometimes, how God can love the murderer, the rapist, the child abuser. I reflect that if God can do that, then the least I can do is try to get along in my little corner of the world. I can try to make my playground peaceful (even if it has a tendency to chaos).

Getting along in my playground, though, requires graces I don’t naturally have. I’m not naturally good at being nice, at keeping my mouth shut, at being tactful. I’m just not. So everyday, I have to ask God to help me, and I have to trust that He IS perfect, though I fail often. I have to imagine, somehow, that perfection is possible, even with the failed examples before me.