Of flaws
... those moments when one imperfect person sees the flaw in another and says, "You are the same as me!"
I’m not sure when the freckle arrived on my left hand. I don’t recall seeing it when I was a young child, but one day, there it was.
Not one of those cute freckles that sprinkle across the bridge of your nose on a summer’s day. No, this was one single dark, intense spot of melanin glaring up at me from my otherwise lily-white skin.
I was horrified as only a pre-teen girl can be horrified.
None of my friends had such a thing on their beautiful hands. Now, not only did I have to bear the burden of being the pale person that everyone used to compare their tans to, but I also had to have a permanent FLAW that looked like I’d dripped chocolate on my hand.
A hand I used a LOT when talking.
I tried to exfoliate it away - rubbing my hand almost raw.
I tried to bleach it away with lemon juice.
I even tried to pray it away, earnestly promising God all manner of things if He would just PLEASE put my hand back to normal.
When none of this worked, I did the only logical thing. I hid my hand.
Like a movie star hiding a pregnancy, I found creative ways to keep my dirty little secret by tucking my offending left hand away in pockets, pulling long sleeves down over it, sitting on it, and when all else failed, covering it with my other hand, which thankfully had not yet betrayed me.
For years, my poor left hand did not see the light of day. At least when other people were around. I truly fretted about the moment a boy would try to hold that hand and how he would drop it in disgust.
I know some of you are probably thinking, “If that’s the worst problem you had to deal with, you had quite an easy life. Buck up, sister!”
I assure you, the freckle was NOT the worst problem in my life, but for some reason, it seemed to carry the weight of all the others. That one small spot radiated all my shame, insecurity, loneliness, heartache, and fear into the world like a beacon on a hill.
More than once, I cried into the heavens, “Why was I chosen to bear such a burden??” (I might have been accused of being dramatic a few times in my life)
*****
Then, thankfully, I grew up.
Some time in my late teens, I stopped noticing the freckle. Or maybe I had actual problems to worry about.
Either way, the trauma lifted.
My hand emerged back into the world, and I even let a few boys hold it.
I went to college, got married, worked a lot, and started adopting children.
The freckle was completely forgotten.
Until one quiet afternoon when magic touched that small spot.
I was rocking my four-year-old daughter. She’d entered our home about six months earlier - a little spitfire of non-stop hyper energy with a nervous system traumatized by neglect and abuse. As part of her attachment therapy, I rocked her every day to recreate the sweet bonding moments she’d missed in her formative years.
Although she usually fought me for a few minutes, eventually she would settle, and her small body would begin to relax. I loved these moments because usually she was raging around the house like a tiny bull in a china shop, and this mama was TIRED.
That afternoon, I hummed a tune while she nestled quietly against me.
Lulled by the rhythm of the rocker and her little brown hand tracing lazily up and down my arm, I was startled when she jolted upright, her eyes wide.
“MOM!!” (She shouted everything in those days!)
“What’s wrong?” I began scanning for the large spider I feared was lurking in the chair.
“LOOK!” She was bouncing up and down now.
“YOU’RE THE SAME COLOR AS ME!”“
Her chubby finger poked my hand excitedly, landing right beside my forgotten freckle. A freckle which was EXACTLY the same color as her rich, chocolatey skin tone.
I felt suspended outside of the scene for a moment while a whirl of voices, memories, and angst raced through my mind. Hot. Cold. Tears. Whys. Shaky. Joy. Calm. Destiny.
It was as if sorrow and joy had swirled their colors through a hundred lifetimes to paint that tiny spot on my hand for this exact precious moment.
Why was I chosen to bear such a burden?
In the same way that my freckle had once embodied all my problems, it now whispered the sweetest of answers to my pre-teen self:
“Because many years from now, on an ordinary afternoon, a small girl who has already been battered by the world will see your freckle as another reason to let you into her heart.”
I wrapped my arms around her and through my tears, said, “Isn’t that so cool?”
And never had a freckle been so loved.
“We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.”
― Robert Fulghum, True Love
We all have things we hide from the world in hopes that no one will notice. Health struggles, fractured relationships, weird phobias, embarrassing failures, or maybe just the way our thighs jiggle when we walk.
Our flaws carry a thousand messages that tell us we’re weird and unlovely. That if others really saw us, they’d turn away in disgust.
And yet, isn’t this how we fall in love?
Think about all of your closest relationships. Haven’t they all been born in some moment where you connected over something you secretly wish were different?
“You have indigestion too?”
“You’re afraid of heights too?”
“You’re divorced twice too?”
“You can’t stand loud chewing too?”
“You’re estranged from your child too?”
“You’re on disability too?”
“You have dyslexia too?”
“You’re in a 12-step program too?”
“You have social anxiety too?”
“You lost your mom as a child too?”
I’ve come to believe that our flaws, our “burdens to bear,” are the most beautiful part of our design. Not because they’re easy or fun or sexy, but because each one carries a fragile strand of knowing from which the strongest bonds are woven.
Perhaps we are given flaws precisely to help us find our people in this big world. To offer us those simple moments when one imperfect person sees the flaw in another and says, “You are the same as me!”
I’m not sure when the freckle disappeared on my left hand. I don’t recall seeing it fading away, but one day, it was gone.
I stood looking at my hand, once again lily white, and felt a twinge of sadness.
My daughter and I had woven those early, fragile strands of bonding into a strong, adult relationship, finding many other beautiful ways that we’re the same. The tiny freckle flaw had done its work and was no longer needed.
Now, a new age spot has appeared on my right hand.
While I don’t yet see it as beautiful, I won’t be hiding this flaw.
It’s as if sorrow and joy have swirled their colors through a hundred lifetimes to paint this tiny spot on my hand. Perhaps so that on a future ordinary afternoon, someone will see it and think, “She’s the same color as me,” and feel a little less alone in their journey.
I won’t tell you to love your lumps and bumps and spots and quirks because I know how hard that is.
I WILL tell you to love the ways your flaws make you real and soft and “the same” as some of the dearest people in your life.
And that, my friend, is true magic.