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.

I can’t tell truth about my father unless I dig for truth about me
Nightmarish dreams mean dead can continue to play mind games
Life choices: What’s important enough to spend your life doing?
We can’t trade away gun rights and believe it’ll give kids perfect safety
When love finally dies, it’s like a fever breaks and the pain is gone
Another Obama-favored solar firm crashes — after $535 million loan
Goodbye, Amelia (2000-2013)
Murdered family cat in Arkansas is latest victim of partisan political hate