Perfection

Things are never perfect on a Sunday morning
when you're a progressive, queer, big city girl
pastoring in a small town, midwestern church.

But the stars aligned and this morning was perfect.

Worship was perfect. Literally perfect: wouldn't change a thing. Perfect.

Then I came home
and watched in the window
just watched for twenty minutes
as my spouse shoveled the drive way
and my daughter, in her hat, mittens, down coat and boots
frolicked in the snow beside him, completely immersed in the joy
and magic of Michigan winter.

Never in my 32 years of living
have both my personal and professional worlds
felt perfect at the same time. And I imagine this moment is just as fleeting
as the other moments of torture, insight, depression and hope.
But for right now
it feels pretty good
to name, claim and live
into perfection.