About two weeks later, a birthmark showed up on his left cheek. And I felt like God put that birthmark there for me, as if to say, "This child is not perfect."
That was an important day for me, the day that I realized my son was not perfect. He was handsome and precious and cute and wonderful, but not flawless. My mind knew this, of course, but my heart was still holding on to the hope that my child, this child, would be perfect.
And God continues to show me how imperfect this child is: like the tantrum he threw immediately following our mom-and-son breakfast date this morning, or the nasty behavior last Thursday that made my blood boil.
And I am so thankful for these imperfections.
For if he was perfect, I would become proud. If he was perfect, I would begin to think more highly of him than I ought. If he was perfect, I would lose compassion for other moms. If he was perfect, I would not pray so often.
So I am thankful for the imperfections, because they help to teach me to focus on the One who is perfect and who promises to share perfection with us in eternity.
At the same time, they open the door for me to teach my little imperfect one that he is loved perfectly by his Father.
He is the Rock, his works are perfect,
and all his ways are just.
A faithful God who does no wrong,
upright and just is he.