Possible. Not Perfect.

A few weeks ago I had dinner with some old friends from high school.
We knew each other so well back then. Almost 20 years ago.
We grew up together. We grew apart together.

One of them said it first. Then the others agreed.
It was suppose to be nice. She meant it at a compliment.
It was her perception. Their perception.
Their conclusion of the story based on the what they had seen.
What I had told them. What I had shown them.
But mostly what I had not.

It came so easily out of her mouth. "You life is perfect" she said.
They agreed.
"Perfect family." "Perfect marriage." "Perfect house." "Perfect."
It was that word that I had spent a life time trying to convince people of.
That word that should have felt good. That should have felt right.
But instead it stung.

I heard it and it hurt. 
Like a slap. Like a cut.
Like a punch that knocks the wind out of you.
Like a lie. I should have stopped her right there.
I should have not let them leave that table until they understood.
I should have told them the truth.
I should have showed them.

I said "thank you" and I tried to down play it and I tried to change the subject.
But this is what I should have done.
What I should have said.

I am the product of divorce.
Of two lives that crashed together and left three little girls in the wreckage.
I've heard it all.
The yelling. The screaming. The fighting.
The tension. The angst. The constant crisis.
Broken. Never perfect.

I am the daughter of an addict.
Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. Gambling.
The hustle.
A criminal. A lair. A cheater.
I pretended as a little girl that I understood.
That I could rationalize knowing that we were better off without him.
That I could understand that even when we were with him, we were without him.
But all the rationale. All the reason. All the justification.
None of it hid the truth. The reality that he loved all of those things more than me.
The things that tormented him. His afflictions. His own personal demons.
He loved them all more than he loved me.
Shattered.
Never perfect.

I am loved by a man that, on most days, I can't completely love back.
Not because I don't want to. And not because I don't.
But because I can't understand why he does. And how he could.
How he could know me and still love me.
There is always a little piece of me that is waiting for the day.
The day when it all gets to be too much.
The day when hard become too hard.
The day when he takes the same path as my father.
Fearful.
Never perfect.

The list goes on.
All the things that I am.
Scared. Prideful. Stubborn.
All of these things.
The distrust. The shame. The anger. The broken. The shattered. The fear.
None of them perfect.
Not even close.

On my own, I'm nothing but a mess.
At best, nothing more than a list of my worst.
None of that perfect.
Not even close.

I wish I could go back to that night. I would make them hear this.
I would look each one of them in the eye.
And then I would tell them this.

It's all grace. 

It's all because of grace.
It's grace that takes all of these broken pieces and puts them back together again.
And even still, it's not perfect.

It's pieces of the broken that are taped and glued and pushed back into place.
It's not seamless.
The cracks and the shatters and the tears are still there.

Grace doesn't make the old perfect. It makes the new possible.
And even still, it's not perfect.

Never perfect. But possible.