(no subject)
there is nothing perfect about me. nothing at all. every once in awhile that gets me down a little. lately i have been reading and thinking and sighing and reading some more. i cracked open the ragamuffin gospel last night and started underlining furiously in thin pink lines because there are words in there that remind me that my imperfections are not faults as i would have them definited. not in the least. i am Loved for my imperfections by Someone who sees parts of me that i hide, for shame, even from myself. i have been graciously granted the gift of Love no matter what my heart holds, no matter what my soul looks like. oh and how i am Loved! i am Loved for being created. i am Loved for breathing. i am Loved for sighing when i spy a handsome man. i am Loved for poking my fat in disgust and then eating a full bowl of ice cream. i am Loved for singing off-key in the shower. i am Loved for writing bad poetry. i am Loved for daydreaming when i should be working. i am Loved for asking too many questions. i am Loved for always wanting to stand out. i am Loved for giggling after i burp. i am Loved for blushing frequently. i am Loved for feeling rebellious after letting a cuss word slip. i am Loved for stumbling. i am Loved for falling flat on my face. i am Loved for sometimes not giving up, even when i know i should. i am Loved for being human, for being female, for being a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a friend, a hopeless romantic, a homesick teenager, a lonely girl. i am Loved for being, imperfectly, me. and that that (oh!) that is something.