Western culture loves perfection. Anything that’s imperfect is rejected or at least offered at a steep discount. When someone asks about a newborn baby, you might hear the cliche, “He has all his fingers and toes.”
In our culture of mass production, we judge quality by how perfectly the widgets pressed out of industrial machinery match each other. It doesn’t matter how boring or soulless or poorly designed a thing is. It’s a quality item if it matches its specifications.
I grew up steeped in that culture of perfection, but the more of life that I experience, the more I’ve found beauty in a kind of imperfection that comes only from brokenness.

Watching a friend’s happy family makes me feel pangs of jealousy
Odd interest in UK’s royal family suggests remnant of need for ruler
I’ve jumped off a career cliff and now I have six months to find net
In the old Ginger or Mary Ann debate, I wanted a third choice
Do we really need so much ‘stuff’? Do we own it? Or does it own us?
Smart people will flee big cities before death, disease take over
Banning access to guns won’t prevent the evil in human hearts