Nothing's Ever Perfect
But things can be just right.
These thoughts originally appeared on my blog, roadstainedfeet.wordpress.com. As we approach Christmas and the complicated emotions it often brings, I wanted to share them here.
This closing line from the PBS miniseries of Little Women can’t be found anywhere in the book, but it perfectly defines contentment.
At the end of the miniseries, the March family enjoys a picnic outside of Jo’s school. Life looks different from their predictions when we first joined them on their journeys. Although each surviving sister has experienced a taste of success, they are all pursuing a quiet existence as they raise their families. Jo runs a school. There’s some dark clouds on this family gathering, like the poor health of Amy’s daughter and Beth’s conspicuous absence, but each sister is grinning broadly.
Practical Meg says, “Nothing’s ever perfect,” and Jo replies thoughtfully, “No, but things can be just right.”
Curled up on the sofa together, my husband and I appreciated those simple words. If we two idealists had a family motto, it might look something like that.
Nothing’s ever perfect. People die, friendships wither, and hearts break. Making it all perfect would require me to time travel, resurrect a few people, and thwart some other people’s free will to keep them from hurting themselves and others. Oh, and my kitchen would be bigger, and I’d be taller.
Things can be just right. I can’t right every wrong and populate my life with the people I love – that’s what heaven’s for – but I can see and be thankful for my good life. Things can go wrong and still be “just right.” The car needs new brakes, or the house is a mess, or we had a few weeks of sickness. None of that’s perfect, but with the love and friendship around me, I know it’s all just right.
Sometimes things aren’t just right. Losing a loved one is not just right. Extreme pain and hardship are not just right. Injustice, hatred, and cruelty are not just right. For many people in the world right now, including some of my loved ones, things are far too far from “just right.”
I don’t know what tomorrow may bring. Perhaps I’ll lose my best blessings. Perhaps I won’t.
What amazes me is the way that some people keep on keeping on. When they emerge from heart-wreck, they might not be ready for a smile, but they have a determined glint in their eye, fueled by hope and pluck. They assess the things that remain – and sometimes it’s just the love of their savior and the breath in their lungs – and they defy despair.
It’s like the March sisters. I can’t imagine losing one of my siblings. Everything balks at the mere suggestion. Amy, Jo, and Meg lost Beth when she was twenty-three. The sister who had always loved them with the most tenderness and the least judgment was gone.
Their grief changed them, but eventually they found a way within their new life to be joy-filled and loving. Their hair would turn gray, their children would grow up, and gradually they would lose even each other, but they found a way for things to be just right.
This is a great mystery, and so now it hangs on my kitchen wall, where I can ponder the strange mixture of sadness and contentment in an un-embittered heart.