I walked around the Christmas tree lot, hoping to find the perfect tree. I stopped in front of one but decided it was too short. The adjacent one was too tall and looked like it had been cut back in July. On the next row, the trees were too expensive. After an hour, I finally decided I wouldn’t find the perfect tree, so we chose one with a bald spot, knowing we’d put that side against the wall.

When we got home, I realized the tree had the right amount of open space for some of the bigger ornaments. The grandchildren were excited to help us decorate, and as I unpacked the ornaments, I couldn’t help but tell the story behind each one. There was the year the boys and I made salt dough ornaments, and there was Santa painted brown and red accompanied by a purple reindeer and a blue Christmas tree. In the same box were the ornaments my sons made in school, including the required macaroni star and Popsicle stick manger.

The last thing to put on the tree was the angel topper, one we’ve had since our sons were young. In a house filled with boys, I wanted something feminine and pretty on top of the tree. I couldn’t find one that looked frilly enough, so I decided to make our angel myself. I spent two weeks looking for just the right ceramic head and then sewing and gluing lace, satin and tulle together for a frilly gown.

Now looking at the angel with a critical eye, I noticed the arms are too long and the tulle could’ve been a lot thicker to make the dress really stand out. But that angel’s been our tree topper for over two decades, and, flaws and all, she’s on top of the tree.

The grandchildren and I stepped back after the last of the ornaments were hung on the branches, and I took a critical look at the tree. There were small white lights on the top third of the tree and multi-colored lights on the bottom two thirds of the tree. The light hanger – me – got distracted when the dog started running around the open boxes and tripping over light strands all over the floor.  Most of the ornaments were hung on the bottom branches because that’s as high as a 2-year old, 4-year-old, 5-year-old and 9-year-old can reach. The angel was a wee bit crooked and the silver icicles were hung in bunches.

With my hands on my hips, I told the young ‘uns they’d done a great job.

Not perfect, I thought, but absolutely beautiful.

I’m always waiting for something to be perfect – the perfect time to start that exercise program, or the perfect time to start eating healthy. I regularly second guess myself as I struggle with trying to write the perfect column or create the perfect wreath arrangement. And then it rains and I rationalize that the time wasn’t perfect to start that walking program. There’s that fabulous dessert the waiter waved in front of my face, and I tell myself it’s not the perfect time to start that diet.

There’s no such thing as a perfect column, and every arrangement I’ve ever made could always use an expert’s touch to make it look gorgeous.

The only thing that’s perfect in my life is the fact that it’s not perfect.

It’s the flaws that make life interesting – the crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of laughing, the writing on the bedroom wall is my grandson creating a masterpiece, and the hole in the side of our Christmas tree is the perfect spot to hang the Louisiana ornament my mother gave us years ago that always reminds me of home.

Sometimes, we find perfect in an imperfect world.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.