And the truth of the matter is that I am not perfect; I never have been, nor will I be. And it is exhausting to try for perfection. Though, to try for kindness–to try for love–this is the kind of trying that turns right back around and fills you up. And you didn’t know it would happen like that, but you’re grateful anyway.

But it bothered me for a second, all this blaming. Maybe even a minute. And then I remembered that the truth is something that doesn’t shift and change. It doesn’t melt when the sun gets too hot and it doesn’t freeze and then float away on the arctic sea.

The truth tells the same story, over and over again–though it is not my job to always tell that story. Only if I want to, I suppose. But I’d rather live the kind of life that tells the same story over and over again. A good story.

Words are powerful, true, but they can be tricky and they often leave us to stand alone, wearing only our actions. And they hang on us like a lasting monument so dear, God, I pray it’s the kind of monument that I’d like to be wearing for a very long time.

So I think that I will not be bothered so much by the blame. I know what has happened; I know what has been done to me; I know the kind of story that I try for; and though it is not perfectly executed, it is still one that I am grateful to live.