On a cold Saturday night, as January comes to a close, I sit in my chair with a blanket across my lap crocheting a new scarf. I'll still need it for another month or so. I've been crocheting for 25 years now and almost mindlessly, my hands move in the rhythm of yarn over, through, yarn up, through, through. Turn. Again. Occasionally I stop and examine my work. Ninety-nine percent is perfect, but here and there I notice a slip—a stitch that doesn't quite meet my standard. I don't know if anyone else would even notice it, but I see it and I know that it's there.
I'm afraid I do that when, as a mother, I look at my child. I don't see the 99%. I see the stitch that I wish I could go back and redo.
Lord, help me to see your handiwork in her life and not my mistakes. Amen.