A dear friend of mine said to me recently that she struggles sometimes to express herself to those close to her because she wants to make sure each sentence is formed perfectly before she says it. She agonizes over an imperfectly constructed sentence, worrying that it will not convey her full meaning, or somehow not do justice to the person to whom she is speaking. She focuses on her choice of wording because, in her mind, it is the best she can do to love those close to her perfectly.

I didn’t think of a response to this when my friend and I were speaking, but the concept of perfect love stuck with me long after that conversation had ended. And now, I realize that there is a lot I wish I had said to my friend in that moment. Because, after thinking about it over the past couple of days, I have realized that perfect love is the last thing I want.

I can’t live up to a love that is given to me as perfection. A love that is flawless, clean, and perfectly pitched at all times. It’s a standard that would be impossible for me to attain, a pedestal that I am too short to reach. How can I match a perfect, pure love – the Platonic Form of love – with my own ragged, messy version?

No. I want imperfect love in my life. I want love that sometimes stumbles and sidesteps, but always gets back on track. I want love that misreads me but tries. Love that doesn’t know my coffee order but but surprises me with something anyway. Love that is represented in a sweater I would never have bought for myself, given as a birthday gift. A book tucked into my purse at the end of a visit, one that it would never have occurred to me to read. A poem I have never heard of before emailed to me, with a quick note that it brought me to mind. An awkward expression of affection sent in a brief text to my phone.

My world – like everyone’s, I imagine – is so imperfect. I have spent a lifetime learning to understand my own imperfections and those around me. I have spent weeks, months, and years forgiving myself for my lack of perfection and slowly getting closer to seeing my imperfections an ongoing state of grace. My love, therefore, is a product of my time spent in this world. It is just as imperfect. My love is cracked, chipped, and scratched. My love is an old vinyl record that can skip and scratch when played, not an ephemeral audio file with perfect sound mixing and acoustics.

My love, with all of its fault lines, cannot hope to match the smooth placidity that I imagine perfect love to be. My love can be rough and tumble, reflecting my own mistakes and errors in judgement. It contains all of the unintentional hurts I have caused, all of the late nights worrying about the way I said something earlier that day, all of the times I could have done better but didn’t. It also contains all of my effort – my striving to be as authentic as possible, to be fully present with the people I am with.

My love is messy and sometimes difficult. But it’s the only love I have to give. With that as my gift, I don’t want a perfect love in return. I can’t relate to a perfect love and I don’t think that a perfect love would relate to me. Give me the imperfect love from those who find me worthy of it – the love that incorporates tears and pain and gratitude and acceptance. Give me that love, that has been twisted and gnarled like an old tree, ancient but still growing, with roots spread deep, deep, beneath the surface.

I want to tell my dear friend that nobody’s love or words are perfect. I will take her imperfections any day, since they are an affirmation of my own. I want to tell her that her words, however halting, hesitant, or roughly phrased, are welcome. Because when her words come, they come with her love.