I will not define myself by my flaws.

Why do we define ourselves by the very thing we like least about ourselves?

Victim.  The shy one.  Divorced. The girl with the scar on her left cheek.

Like some dangerous self-fulfilling prophecy that keeps us low before anyone has a chance to push us back down.

We do it with our homes.

The house with the broken shutter.  Right next to the dumpster.  The one whose lawn is unruly and whose trees need to be trimmed.

With ourselves.

The bad haircut.  The out of date clothes.  The acne scars.

Like we’re asking people to see what’s awful about us.

I dare you to like me.

I dare you to think my life is acceptable.

It’s like the saddest announcement I know:

I’m not good enough.  I thought you should know.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t want to raise daughters and sons who do this.

I don’t want to make excuses for the way I think you might perceive me before I even know who you are.

Yes, I live in the house with the lawn filled with turned over bikes and wilting herbs and a blue bucket that seems it will never make its way back to its original owner’s home.

It’s also the house teeming with laughter and the hopefulness that comes with young forgetful bike riders.

Yes, my hair is messy and my clothes are frequently stained with paint or markers and my hands are wrinkling beyond my years it seems.

But those same hands are weighed down with rings from my momma and my husband and my grandfather and they speak of heritage and commitment and loves and lives lived and passed.

 We are always so much more than our worst traits.

So much more  than our bad habits and our weakest moments.

So much more than a red letter on our chest or a black record of our crimes.

And it’s not a blind searching for the sunny side or a foolhardy ignorance of sin.

It’s grace

and forgiveness

and mercy.

Extended

inwardly.