I will turn seventy years of age on my next birthday. Over the years, the winds of time and change have dramatically altered my life.  There are many memories, some of which are significant accomplishments, while others are radical disappointments, reminders of missed opportunities. Life as lived is a mixed bag, a hodgepodge of what we could call a blend of negative and positive experiences.

I am, by nature, a perfectionist, a trait that I am working to refine in my senior years. In some aspects, my perfectionistic tendencies have served me well, prompting me to attend to details where necessary. Yet, being a perfectionist has its downside. I tend to focus more on my shortcomings and mistakes than on the times I have succeeded or even excelled. It is easy to focus on perceived failures to the point of regret and sorrow. Ruminating on mistakes can exact a massive toll on both emotional and physical health. It is easier to forgive and release others than it is to do the same for myself.

There is nothing noble about holding oneself to an exacting standard. Freedom comes with the recognition that I have made God too small. Perfection only exists in God, and I am a work in progress. In my attempts to fix my brokenness, I have not trusted the only One who is able.

I am learning to love the little girl inside me, the one who knew how to live even when she was a bit naughty. She is worthy. She is me.