There’s that process of perfection. I always imagine a grandfather whittling away wood. What seems like idleness turns into a bird or an elephant. Hand-carved and individual. I read somewhere about a (fictional) woodcarver and his daughter who would just listen and know what the wood was meant to be. This amazes me. To know the finished product and all of the intricate details.
He starts off by cutting out chunks. CHUNKS! gashes in the heart. Things cut out forever. Doors you’ll never go through. Pretty soon you are a chunky blob, still so unsure of your true nature. But you must go on with a trusting heart because He knows.
And he starts carving. Slow and deliberate, like taking off a band-aid. Although painful, the point is for healing. A careful stroke here, and one over there. You can start to imagine the finished product. Beautiful chaos.
But then maybe He takes a break from carving and puts you on a shelf. Not forgotten, just working on another- a match. Musing on the perfect set. This is tough. Being left to wait. Still loved. Still cherished. But unfinished. Lacking.
And then the day He picks you up again and puts the finishing touches on. He’s done, but not finished. He places you on the mantel. In exactly the right spot. Next to exactly the right piece. Then He starts on the rest of the set. Maybe just picking the wood, or it’s just the twinkling in His eye.
And as you wait your paint fades. So He will scrub it off and paint a fresh coat. It’s better then before. Much much better. And then comes the time when He is completely finished with the set. There is perfection. He admires you, and loves you.
He whittles and polishes so that you may be perfect. Fully complete.