The storeowner replied "$50 each." 
The little boy reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37, can I have a look at them?"
The storeowner smiled and whistled. Out of a kennel came Lady, followed by her five balls of four-legged fur. One puppy limped and lagged considerably. "What's wrong with that little dog?" the boy asked.
The storeowner explained that the puppy was born without a hip socket, and the vet told him that the puppy would limp for the rest of its life. The little boy's face lit, "That's the puppy I want to buy!" 
The storeowner replied, "No, you don't. If you really want him, I'll give him to you." The little boy did not hide his annoyance. "I don't want you to give him to me. He's worth every penny. I would like to give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents every month until he's paid for." Taken aback, the storeowner minced no words, "Young man, this puppy is never going to be able to run, jump or play like other puppies!"

The boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg, to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a bulky metal brace. He looked up at the storeowner, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands."

In Brendan, (Frederick Buechner's novel about a sixteenth-century Irish saint), a servant recounts a conversation between Brendan and Gildas, a crippled and bitter old priest. 
"I am as crippled as the dark world," Gildas says.
"If it comes to that, which one of us isn't my dear?" Brendan replies.
Gildas with but one leg. Brendan sure he's misspent his whole life entirely. I who had left my wife to follow him and buried our only boy. The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us...
"To lend each other a hand when we're falling," Brendan said, "Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end."

We all see "crippled" parts of ourselves that sadden, discourage, infuriate, embarrass or even repulse us. We know they are there. Some are of our own making. Most are not. And we do our best to wish or will or pray them away. 

Our prayers are fueled by a world that sees imperfection as an indictment. And we pass judgment on our value, based upon that measurement: appearance, achievement and affluence. If only... If only... we tell ourselves. Maybe it's about our illusion of control. With all of our fixing and renovating, look what we have to show for ourselves! "You can have the life you DESERVE to live," an ad for a local plastic surgeon promises. I have nothing against whiter teeth or a tighter backside. However, I'm not so sure that will take care of what troubles me.

The problem is this: As long as I am bent on fixing, repairing and renovating in order to make myself more presentable or lovable or acceptable, I am postponing the ability to receive any gifts (from you or from God) in the present moment. One young volunteer, working at L'Arche, Jean Vanier's homes for seriously handicapped adults, wrote of the residents, "They never ask what degree do you have, what university did you attend. They only ask, 'Do you love me?' In the end, isn't that what matters?"

Indeed. Here's the truth: We have the ability to receive, to be loved, to know our value, only from a place of vulnerability. Because in our nakedness, our "crippledness," our brokenness and our vulnerability we have no power, no leverage, nothing to bargain with. Our identity is not dependent upon becoming somebody, impressing somebody, or removing all imperfection. We can be, literally, BE, at home in our own skin, damaged hip socket and all. 

I was raised in a church that used the scripture, "Be ye perfect as God is perfect," as a hammer meant to beat all the blemishes out of me. But here's the deal: Wholeness is not perfection. Wholeness is embodying--living into--this moment, be it happy or sad, full or empty, running or limping.

Granted, there are flawed and weak parts that could change. 
But we can't change anything until we can love it. 
We can't love anything until we can know it. 
We can't know anything until we can embrace it. 
And we touch wholeness at that place of vulnerability. 

In this place, we are human. In this place, we are sons and daughters of God. In this place, we hear God speak our name. The very image of God is imbedded in this fragile nature, in its very breakability. It is in that vulnerability where we find exquisite beauty -- compassion, tenderheartedness, mercy, forgiveness, gentleness, openness, kindness, empathy, listening, understanding and hospitality. The alternative? To protect ourselves from all manner of breakability (and "crippledness") and to seal off our hearts and souls with Teflon. It is true; there will be no pain or brokenness. And there will be no love.

Each New Year brings it's own push and pull, and a resolve to improve, or at the very least, give the impression that we are trying. Here in the PNW, we've been blessed with a few dry days--blessed because it has been preceded by 30 consecutive rain days. When the sun splits the cloud cover, the vistas are arresting. Snow covered Cascade and Olympic Mountain ranges, dazzling against the gunmetal grey water of the Puget Sound. As I write this, birds are at my feeder outside the window--our winter gang (the true snowbirds already sipping exotic drinks in their warmer environs) including black-capped chickadee, dark-eyed Junco, nuthatch and titmouse. They rummage and dart and chirrup, and are not in the least preoccupied with tomorrow, or even the New Year. I smile, and put down my pen.

Let someone love you just the way you are--as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. To believe that you must hide all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that someone else is incapable of loving what is less than perfect, is to believe that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room. Marc Hack