What if every mistake was perfect?

What if every move you made was right?

What if every mistake you made was perfect?

I think of the jaw-clenching way I grew up in a culture entwined with orthodox version of religion. Every step measured, every thought judged. Before I was a teenager, I was pretty sure I was going to hell. Of course, as an adult, I can look back and see the hell I was already in just by trying to impress, trying to “do right”, and using every power in my being to hide all of my human desires and imperfections.

No matter the strain and squeeze, I could not stop my thoughts. I must be evil.

As a teenager, I overheard a friend of my mother’s gossiping that “there is something dark about him… that music he listens to… something in his eyes… there is something evil at work in him.”

Now, the three year old in me just wants to get back to playing with the full expression of his heart. But little by little by little, my heart had less and less room to play. The rules didn’t allow for that much creativity, being liked certainly didn’t allow for my crazy ideas. My questioning made authority angry. Acceptance was reinforced when I was good at sports, quiet in class or church. I was so excited to go to “Big Church” which meant I could sit quietly for an hour. Why did I want this so bad, because I wanted to sit next to my Mom. I wanted her approval, I didn’t do it for Jesus.

As I sent all of my mistakes and covetousness to hide in their prison cell. More and more energy was needed to guard my secrets from judgement. Eventually, the artist, the athlete, the writer, the musician, the dancer in me all had to quit their jobs to become prison guards. There was no parole date. I was the offender and the guard, the defendant, the judge, and the jury. An exhausting internal justice system that became manifest in the pains in my body, migraines, and horrible back pain. A slow motion capital punishment of myself, which was due because I was guilty.

What if those “evil” thoughts needed expression instead of repression? What if my mistakes were the Bob-Ross-happy-accidents that made me, which coincidentally was no accident at all?

(self-help note to Self: I am not an accident).

I think about the heavy price perfection and guilt carry. Even when I consciously know better, there are still unconscious jail cells waiting for the truth of their release.

What if I could coax them out of their cells like Bob Ross? What if the joys of life and all of my idiosyncrasies could dance on the same canvas? What if my dark clouds could be celebrated? Not just in contrast to the light, or that they have a silver lining, but that they are a part of the whole and within that whole, holy as a unique expression of the divine painting.

Can I feel the lightness of the brush whisping the canvas? Can the blade just glide knowing that a mountain will be made with ease? And when I make a happy accident, can it be a tree or a path with the effortlessness of a Creator?

All of me released and meeting in Holy Communion.

A celebration of life, as it is.