The Joys of Imperfection

I love to sing at the top of my lungs. I don’t normally reserve this practice for when I am alone either. Ok, so my co-workers appreciate restraint while I’m in the office. But my poor family will often be subjected to whatever I am diggin’ on the radio. And when I say radio I really mean my 6 disc changer that is almost always stocked with TobyMac. Isn’t that a commandment? Thou shalt always have TobyMac on your playlist? Maybe not.

I don’t care that my cd’s are already old-fashioned. I like them. I like having to physically manage my music collection. I like the colors, art and shine of the cd’s. I like to arrange them by artist, year, and my personal preference of the week. I like having them take over my car. And, this is nuts, I like the sound the changer makes when it’s looking for what I asked it to play.

I so shoulda been a DJ.

Once I find my jam I can kinda zone out. I forget about work. Homework. Housework. Making things work. I just lose myself in whatever and wherever the lyrics are taking me and I just sing. I sing off key. I sing the wrong lyrics. I sing imperfectly beautiful and perfectly inspired.

Imperfect

There is so much joy in the imperfection of singing just because you are inspired to do it. It reminds me of the lyrics in the old song, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.”

I sing because I’m happy. I sing because I am free!

There’s no time to worry about my imperfections when I delve into my freedom. It doesn’t matter that I won’t win a spot on American Idol when the object of my affections rejoices with every rugged note of praise I sing.

So I sing. I sing with my kids. I sing with my husband. I sing because I can’t help myself and it is my happy place. I’ll never be famous, on Broadway, or signing autographs.

But He knows who I am. And that is all that matters.

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