Wednesday, November 16, 2011


As I paint my kitchen cabinets, I chuckle. I could never make money doing this sort of thing because I mess up and then like it. It's character.

Chipped paint.
Worn hard wood floors.
Dingy fabrics.
Dusty books.
Obvious brush strokes.
Real. Usable. Personable.

I love imperfection. If that is what you call it. Perhaps it's actually perfection.

My body also has character. Scars, laugh lines (or mad lines), worn hands, evidence of childbearing. Clothing might accentuate individual beauty, but cannot take the place of it. Everyone has something beautiful to bless the world with. Living artwork.

Grey hairs.
Colorful eyes.
Dirty smiles.
Proper salutations.
Gut wrenching sobs.
Priceless expressions.
Real. Usable. Personable.

Have you ever envied wrinkles? I have.

But there is something to be seen that cannot be seen with a glance of the eye. Something that could never be faked. It is only produced when pushed, beaten, broken, swept away, restored, failed, renewed, chipped, scraped, pulled, tattered, stained, and washed. That is the most beautiful character of all. It can make the ugliest specimen breathtaking.

Real. Usable. Personable.

I hope my children grow up to be characters. I mean that.

How do you make characters? I'm pretty sure the best way is to fill them with God-inspired expectation. Big dreams, big responsibilities, big results and cheer lead to the very end. Life will then do the rest.

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