Perfect Imperfections 

I’m rolling up the sleeves. 

This isn’t what defines me. Christ defines me. In him I’m made new. One day, I will have a new body and a new mind. 

The scars on my arms, my thighs, and my wrist are not one persons right to comment. 

I became so insecure when I was at work. I set down an entree and the lady said to me, “Don’t you know how to cover yourself up?” I caught a quick glance at what she was looking at and from that moment on I refused to roll up my sleeves. Now I’m working and it’s burning up outside and inside the restaurant. 

My sin is no different than hers. Had I not become speechless, she would have heard a mouthful. Granted, I probably wouldn’t have a job now, but that’s beside the point. 

The point of this is my scars are still an insecurity. They’re imperfections of my ever so imperfect life. It’s not what the definition of my life is. The definition of my life is grace; it’s Christ. 

The sleeves are coming up and those who disagree, well, that’s their personal issue. 


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