What is the perfect Christian woman like?

Last winter, I thought there was an answer to that question. I looked at the many talented Multnomah women, and somehow I subconsciously combined all their best qualities into an imaginary goddess I thought I should be.

Let me describe her for you: She spent at least an hour in prayer every morning. When she prayed aloud, she spoke poetry, and she always knew the appropriate Scripture verses. She never prayed for herself. She never sinned. She never doubted.

My super-woman could play the piano--any number out of the hymnal, never missing a sharp or a flat. She could sing soprano and could harmonize any tune.

My super-woman was beautiful, too. She never wore make-up; she didn't need it. She had long, shiny hair that had never been permed or hair-sprayed. She was blessed with a wonderful figure. She always dressed modestly, but her clothes were flattering anyway.

She was a perfect conversationalist. She always had the right words to say to comfort, to cheer, to welcome. She was a charming hostess, a blue-ribbon baker, a gourmet cook.

She was always creative, always cheerful, and never forgot a birthday or a name. She could sew, knit, arrange flowers, and make a room homey with $5 or less.

I was not her. In fact, I was vastly inferior to her.

This is where I come to a confession: My feeling of inferiority was part of the reason I began The Afgan.

Both my sisters (fine Christian women) were crocheting afgans at the time. They were having such a good time, and their blankets were delicate and beautiful. They volunteered to teach me to crochet.

I said, "yes." I always wanted my own afgan. How could I pass up this opportunity to become more womanly by making one myself? I caught on quickly and was soon passing time with my sisters crocheting a burgundy afgan for my dorm bed. I could feel myself maturing with every stitch. I loved it. Faster and faster I went, wanting to finish this thing, the prize of my womanhood.

Then disaster struck.

One day when I laid out my blanket to admire it, I realized my blanket was crooked. My stitches had been inconsistent in size, and I also kept adding more in every row. The pattern of the stitches didn't match up, and the edges were hideously distorted.

My blanket was growing. Mutating.

I had failed. "What can I do?" I wailed to my family.

My mom, seeing that I was unhappy with my blanket, suggested I unravel it and start over. She said it didn't look that bad to her, but added "I'd hate for you to finish it and then not like it."

I was very disappointed. To unravel all those hours of work seemed such a tragic waste. But it seemed best.

Then my younger sister gave me some encouragement I will never forget. She looked at it and said, "Julie, when you get it all done, it will get used and stretched out anyway. Who's going to notice the mistakes? My afgan's not perfect either. Who cares?"

The only one who cared was me, because of my pride.

A crooked afgan is just as warm as a straight one, I thought to myself, after shedding a few foolish tears. And as my dad gently hugged me and let me lean on him for comfort, I realized that perfection should never be my goal. Love should be my goal.

I can still admire women with special skills that I don't have. I can still learn new skills. But as I continue to work on my imperfect afgan, just for the fun of it, I am reminded to faithfully serve God and others with whatever skills and resources I do have.