I have come to a disturbing realization this afternoon. Brace yourselves: I believe that my baby is the single most beautiful little person ever created. She has the softest cheeks, the sweetest most joy-filled gummy smile, the brightest blue eyes, etcetera, etc.
You laugh. But I am completely 100% serious, which is the terrifying bit.
An outsider can see how insane this sounds, how insane it actually IS. How logically speaking, of the billions of humans to ever enter this crazy world in all their infantile cuteness, there has most likely been, and will most likely be again, at least one baby who may be considered cuter than my Babygirl by the public at large. Those that are really intellectual may even present to me the argument that beauty is a culturally defined concept, one that has been restructured over and over again by various communities over the course of time, and thus beauty is scientifically, methodically, and actually in the eye of the beholder (note how I made that sound very important, official, and accurate.)
I hear this, I really do. But I just don’t care. They’re wrong. I believe with the entirety of my being that my little baby is quite actually perfectly beautiful. No, the most perfectly beautiful. That’s right - more perfectly beautiful than your baby.
I know that last bit was offensive, but you know what’s more offensive: I mean it! So what to make of it?
Have I hopped the crazy-train to that blind uncritical sort of love that mother’s of axe murderers seem to profess on every other episode of CSI? Am I on the fast track to becoming one of those whacko moms whose kid is obviously the most wretched child that ever walked, but who insists that her baby-angel is just a tender spirit who is totally misunderstood? Maybe. Only time will tell.
Or could it be that she is perfectly beautiful to me and me alone, that I could use every superlative out there to describe her little forming self because she is mine.
And because she is mine, it doesn’t matter that I’m technically wrong.
It doesn’t matter that her only expression of physical affection is to look at me like I’m a boob sandwich, because she’s mine.
It doesn’t matter that she’s incredibly un-ladylike, giggling and smiling when she poops or toots, usually in my lap, because she’s mine.
It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know any words yet and can’t express herself via an intricate vocabulary (although man does the girl try!), because she’s mine.
She is imperfect.
She is in progress.
She is a little tiny sinner.
BUT she is mine.
And so I claim her perfection to be truth. I cover her places of lacking and her failures with the truth of my love for her. It doesn’t matter who she is in reality, because WHOSE she is, is also a reality.
And I can’t help but see my Abba in all of it. In this blind sort of love that sounds really dangerous, so incredibly uncouth. I mean you can’t just go around sayings things are what they are not?! That’s just crazy!! But He is SO like that! And praise God that that’s exactly what He does. That’s exactly how big His love is. It is indiscriminate. It looks like madness. It says to the adulterer, and the rebel, and the thief, “you are clean, you are perfect, you are loved- Because you are Mine.”
See: 1 Cor 1:26-31, Rom 7:14-8:1, Rom 8: 14-17, did I say Rom 8:1 (heck, just all of Romans 7 & 8!!)