On Sunday I tripped over a shoe, landed on a rug that slid out from under me, and slammed into a closet door before hitting the floor. I was still nursing the black bruise on the most tender part of my arm when I dropped the salt shaker and it shattered. Monday I closed my thumb in a different closet door. On Tuesday I did that thing where you run into a stranger on the street and then awkwardly shuffle dance back and forth with the person as you try to figure out how to get around each other.

Once I dropped an iPad in the toilet. Come to think of it, that was the same bathroom where my laptop got that big dent in the corner. My phone has seen the toilet as well. I should really stop putting electronics in my pocket. 

I forget to plug my brain in. Or rather, my brain refuses to be plugged in. It’s not that there isn’t activity running in the background, but the quadrant of cells in my brain responsible for careful consideration before motor neurons fire is obnoxiously lazy. I imagine those cells reclining in an after dinner lounge, smoke rings from their cigars floating up to the ceiling, jazz record turned up, as they ignore alerts from other brain cells that they are needed. 

To be frank, it’s annoying. If I recounted to you all the things I have broken, the number of Kindles I have lost, you probably wouldn’t believe me. On the good days, I’m able to laugh. On the bad ones, I wallow in self-accusations of ineptness. Ah-ha! My inner critic exclaims. You turned your back on the boiling sauce pan yet again! 

There are definitely times when I envy the people around me who seem to glide through dinner preparation and morning commutes without eyebrow-raising blunders. Once, just once, I want to remember to put the car key back on the shelf without Tommy having to ask, “Which bag is the key in?” 

Some of you may be mistaken that these are endearing qualities. That my husband thinks it’s “cute” when I grab the wrong brand of his shampoo for the sixth time in a year or pick up a 500 pack of the wrong type of trash bag. We’re coming up on 10 years since he asked me to high school prom, and in that time, my quirks have ceased to be “amusing” if only because of their sheer abundance.

In these past 10 years, I have not grown less clumsy or forgetful, nor have I miraculously gained the ability to wash dishes and talk on the phone at the same time. Furthermore, despite finally mastering the appropriate way to fold towels, I have still not graduated to Tommy’s socks. But, in the last 10 years, I have been more loved, more wanted, and more cherished, than I could have ever imagined.

Of course, we’d all agree that Tommy’s love is not contingent on me remembering to put salt in the pie crust or to separate whites and darks. (Thank goodness). But sadly, the happiness of too many of our relationships is dependent on the other person being exactly what we think they should be. That our ability to be in the same room together is skewered by a spilled glass of water or crumbs on the couch.

Tommy loves me just for being me. If the key to his Dodge Charger perpetually returns to the bottom of my backpack like a bird returning to her nest, he will still love me. 

But you know the greatest part about being loved just the way you are? It makes you want to be better. Being loved completely gives you the courage to try a different way. Because even if (and when) you fail, you’re not falling onto a concrete slab of shattered expectations. You’re falling into a pool of grace. Your socks will still get uncomfortably squishy, but there are no bruises.  

For me, being “better” won’t be as easy as striding into my smoking lounge and demanding the employees get back to work. It takes intentionality. Patience. Forethought. It will require me to slow down, think, then turn on the burner. But I’m willing to try. I’m willing to risk it.

As I write this post, I’m sitting outside Panera Bread on an unseasonably warm February day. The sun is warm against my hands. The birds seem to think it’s spring. I find it fitting that as I write these words I’m going to have to stop and finish at home because I mistakenly grabbed Tommy’s laptop on the way out the door and the battery is about to die. 

My inner critic wants to triumph. Heh heh, you fool. But instead, I’ll just put the protective case back on my laptop. Now I can avoid dents and mistaken swaps. See, I’m learning. We can all be learning. 

So if there’s anything I would say to you if you were here with me, it would be this: Let yourself be loved as you are, but still fight to change for the better because the one who loves you is worth it. That goes for both God and fellow humans.

I’m home now. I walked in to see that Tommy had thrown Snoop’s ball straight through our back window. I’m trying to hide my pleasure. I’m not the only dingbat who lives here. 🙂

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