Serious About Perfection

I held my arms to either side, holding my breath in hopes it would assuage the building tremors in my legs. Balancing my weight on my left hip, I raised my right foot directly in front of my left, the pleats of my brown plaid dress swaying in unison with my nervousness. I steadied my right foot on an elevated board that had the seeming width and strength of a waxy piece of dental floss. My foot slipped off the side, bringing my entire person with a soft thud to the tiled floor. Embarrassment flushed my face. I stepped back onto the board, apologizing for my misstep. Words of encouragement followed, gently bordering my state of anxiety; I glanced in the direction of the sound, warm eyes and a smile meeting my gaze. I tried again to make my feet perform in the way my mind was commanding, one foot resting on the board as the other glided through the air, settling momentarily before repeating the unwieldy motion. Grace attended for only a moment as my awkwardness overpowered any attempt at success. No matter how many times I mounted, I fell. Yet I continued to try again, hoping this time would be the time my feet would align in proper succession. But that time never came. After being released from my efforts, I realized in that moment that I was never going to get it right; my teacher saw that perfection had eluded me. My classmates witnessed it too. I was labeled a failure. And Miss Jones had the clipboard to prove it.

Later that evening, I stood curiously in the main hall of my house, peeking through the garage door to see what project was occupying my father's time. He said not a word but focused on his work, the saw blade effortlessly ripping through 2 x 4s, creating a sea of sawdust and splintered chips around him. The scent of pine warmed my nose. I watched him fashion together wooden supports of adjusting heights and then stabilize them beneath the weight of an uncut board. It suddenly became apparent that my dad was making a balance beam and he was making it for me.

After he was satisfied with his efforts, he called me to where he was standing. He could not understand what power had vexed me that afternoon, for most things I put my mind to came so easily-reading, writing, arithmetic. How could I not stay suspended six inches from the ground? How could I slip when the board was dry? Was I not trying, not giving my all? Was I unfocused, undisciplined, oblivious of expectation? Although he was openly perplexed by my battle with athleticism, he committed to teach me how to walk the beam. And in an authoritative yet loving declaration, I was going to walk it until I was perfect.

I wanted to please him so I did as he asked. I practiced every day. I learned to control my balance one inch off the ground, then raised the bar to two and then three. Eventually, I walked it with ease and my sisters learned to walk it too. A confidence grew within me as I worked hard and mastered my task. But the question remains, “Did I ever get it perfect?”

Thirty-one years later, I do not remember what grade I received on that “high-rise” retest. I can't recall if my toes were pointed just right or if my dips and extensions were formed with precision. I can only remember that perfection was the goal and I did everything I could to achieve it.

The quest for perfection has both inspired and haunted me every day of my life. While my pursuits for excellence have motivated me to obtain an education and became the woman I am today, they also remind me that I have a long way to go.

The desire to be perfect is not a new one-I have always wanted to be perfect in school, perfect in relationships, perfect in life. But why would I want to spend my time chasing an ideal of perfectionism? Who set the ideal in the first place? And why would I permit myself to live with the pressure? What could possibly be my purpose? Is it to accumulate gold stars aside my name or to be recognized, admired and adored? Is it to boost my self-worth or what I am willing to risk in order to secure it?

I once thought that achieving personal perfection was my mission in life. And that each time I obtained it, somehow my trials would seem a little easier. Like checking items off a grocery list, I could showcase my running advertisement to the Lord when he asked for an accounting of my time on earth. I imagined He would be pleased with all that I accomplished and grant me entrance into His gates. But after sore trials and failed attempts at mastering a perceived ideal, I realized that someone would always be more perfect than me, (because there will always be women who bake better brownies, maintain more favorable waistlines, and manicure more attractive yards). But it was through these clumsy missteps that I came to understand the pathways to perfection are not a mission to achieve, accomplish or be more than others but a call to help them find success in the pursuit of their own missions. If I allowed myself to focus my efforts inwardly only to better myself, I would miss the opportunity to direct my focus outwardly, and lose sight of those I was meant to help along the way.

I truly believe that we are commanded to be perfect in all things not so we will make ourselves crazy in this life but so we might understand our capacity for greatness in the next. But the reality is that our perception of perfection is oftentimes an illusion, created and distorted by mortal minds. Consider if the definition of perfection was not a numerical calculation of our financial success, social standing, intelligence, procreative power or appearance, but a desire to love others without condition or qualification, and a formula to devote ourselves to a life of discipline, learning and gratitude.

My father was not molding me to become the best gymnast in Miss Jones’ kindergarten class; he was not orchestrating my popularity or trying to get me teased a little less...he was simply forging a foundation of greatness in hopes I would experience life with unbridled affection without becoming the object of my own affection. He desired to instill in me the courage to develop a new skill, the discipline within to master it, and the wisdom to be thankful for it.

I guess my father understood what Johann von Goethe described best, “If you treat an individual as he is he will stay as he is, but if you treat him as if he were what he could be and might be, he will become what he ought to be.”

Thanks to the loving guidance of a father, I have learned that following the pathway to perfection in this life will lead to the path I want to follow in the next.