Six years ago, we turned our rarely-used tiny living and dining rooms into one big den. My dad and I worked together to make a built-in cabinet and bookshelves. We measured the room into oblivion and went to a lumberyard to pick out the boards. My dad wanted me to pick clear wood, free of knots and “scars” as he called them. I couldn’t. I liked the interesting knots and scars. He reluctantly agreed to let a few slip into the mix, figuring we could work around them.
As we got busy ripping the boards, we disagreed about which boards should compose the top and most visible parts of the cabinet. I liked the imperfections. They added interest and color and life to the piece. He saw them as blemishes, ugly warts that would take away from the beauty. It occurred to me that I could rename them and perhaps persuade him from shunning the boards I preferred. I began to call the imperfections “beauty marks”.
By the time we were finished, he learned that arguing the superiority of clear wood was lost on me. I only saw beauty and he wasn’t about to convince me otherwise. He admitted, once the piece was installed, that it was particularly beautiful, blemishes and all. I made the above sign to hang in his shop as a reminder.
Perfection is nowhere to be found in this world. We strive for it, we think we find it occasionally, but it’s doesn’t exist. We won’t see it until we get to heaven. Clear wood may be stronger, more desirable, easier to work with, but imperfection is beautiful, interesting and unique. We all have blemishes—visible and invisible scars from the wounds of living life. It’s time we see them as beauty marks—the evidence of lessons learned and trials endured. Evidence of the faithfulness of God.