IMPERFECT

Written almost 140 years apart, two short stories capture mankind’s elusive search for physical perfection in an imperfect world.

Physical perfection is something society places great value on. There are multi-billion-dollar industries devoted to health, fitness, weight loss, anti-aging, cosmetic surgery, skin, makeup, hair; the list goes on and on. We continually seek perfection in an imperfect world.

A world that focuses on our physical beings to the exclusion of all else.

Our imperfect bodies can be injured; they have defects, they will sicken, age, and one day die.

It’s our souls that set us apart from the rest of creation.

We’re souls that have been given shape and form.

But not just any shape and form.

We’re created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27).

And because we are, our worth doesn’t depend on our age, ability, physical condition, or on any man-made measurement. Our worth comes from God.

So what happens when we focus on the physical to the exclusion of our souls?

Oddly enough, two short stories written almost 140 years apart capture the dangers and pitfalls of this age-old pursuit.

And while one ends in tragedy and the other in revelation, the lesson is the same.

The Birthmark

Nathaniel Hawthorne published The Birthmark in 1848. It was written during the Industrial Revolution of the 19th century, when scientific discovery was reaching its zenith.

Aylmer, a man devoted to science, leaves his laboratory long enough to take a very beautiful young wife. His love for his wife is rivaled by his love for science. Those two loves become so intertwined in his mind that he fails to see the approaching danger until it’s too late.

Image of a Victorian lady wearing a white gown and large white hat with a tiny birthmark on her cheek with quote from the story describing her birthmark.

So nearly perfect.

One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke. “Georgiana,” said he, “has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?”

Georgiana is troubled by her husband’s question, for until that moment she had always been told that the small birthmark was charming.

“Ah, upon another face perhaps it might,” replied her husband; “but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection.”

Hawthorne’s use of the word “shock” here is especially poignant, since that is the emotion we most commonly feel when faced with deformities and physical imperfections. We try not to stare, but in the end the defect is often all we see.

Georgiana is hurt by her husband’s words and questions his love for her. Her question is necessary: Can he truly love something that shocks him?

Over time, Aylmer answers that question for her. Not in words but through his actions. Georgiana becomes increasingly aware that her husband’s focus is not on her, but rather on the birthmark on her cheek.

“With the morning light, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife’s face and recognized the sign of imperfection. When they sat together in the evening near the fire, he would look at the mark.” Soon, Georgiana “began to fear his gaze upon her” and agreed to having him remove the mark through scientific means.

The price for perfection.

Hawthorne describes Georgiana’s trust in Aylmer’s scientific prowess, but also her apprehension. She’s aware of the disturbing dream her husband had the previous night regarding her birthmark and asks him about it, for she heard him cry out, ‘It is in her heart now; we must have it out!’

“Reflect, my husband,” she tells him, “for by all means I would have you recall that dream.”

Alymer assures her that he’s given the matter his “deepest thought,” and that he’s certain he “can render her imperfect cheek as faultless as its fellow.”

So starved is she for her husband’s regard that Georgiana agrees to try whatever Aylmer prescribes.

Alymer sets to work developing a tonic to remove the blight upon his wife. He tests it on plants, and by the final attempt, he’s certain “the chemical process went perfectly.” He gives it to Georgiana, who drinks it trustingly.

Sitting by his wife’s bed and taking notes on the changes occurring, Aylmer is once again so focused on the now-fading birthmark that he doesn’t see his wife’s imminent death. “My poor Aylmer,” Georgiana says, “You have aimed so high. With such a high and pure feeling, you have rejected the best the Earth could offer. I am dying, dearest.”

Aylmer’s focus on his wife’s meaningless imperfection cost him her life and, along with it, his own chance for happiness: “In trying to improve his lovely wife, he failed to realize she had been perfect all along.”

Cathedral

Raymond Carver published Cathedral in 1981. The story is written in first-person narrative through Carver’s eyes.

In the beginning of the story, Carver describes the relationship his wife has with Roger, a blind gentleman she’d met some years before their marriage. Roger had recently lost his wife to cancer and was coming for a visit.

“A blind man in my house was not something I looked forward to,” Carver wrote, admitting that his ideas on blindness mostly came from the movies.

What’s a cathedral?

As the story progresses, Roger and Carver find themselves sharing drinks and smokes in front of the television. A documentary about cathedrals is playing. Having the benefit of sight, Carver feels compelled to provide Roger with a synopsis of what’s being shown on the screen. While Roger can hear perfectly, Carver is acutely aware that he can’t see and so “waits as long as he can before feeling he has to say something.”

Roger begins asking questions about some of the details Carver is describing. For example, at one point, Carver mentions the cathedral’s paintings, and Roger asks, “Are those fresco paintings, bub?” To which Carver replies, “That’s a good question,” but he doesn’t know. It then occurs to him that Roger may not even know what a cathedral is, having never actually seen one.

So Carver asks him. Roger answers with the detailed facts he’s gleaned from listening to the television. Facts, it’s apparent, Carver himself hasn’t picked up on.

Let’s draw one.

Roger asks Carver to describe the cathedral. As Carver begins describing the cathedral, he realizes it’s more difficult than he imagined. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he finally says, “But I can’t tell you what a cathedral looks like. It just isn’t in me.”

Roger then suggests getting “a pen and some heavy paper” so they can draw one.

As they begin drawing the cathedral, Carver’s perception of “blindness” begins to change.

At first, Roger’s hand rests over Carver’s as Carver draws a box, then adds windows and arches. Then Roger asks Carver to close his eyes as they continue to draw, Roger’s hand gliding with Carver’s over the paper. “His fingers rode my fingers as my hand went over the paper. It was like nothing else in my life up to now.”

When Roger announces that they’re done and that Carver can open his eyes, Carver hesitates. “My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.”

“It’s really something,” Carver says.

And it was. Carver now understood that even though he’s blind, Rogers sees the world with a clarity Carver never has.

The Imperfect Lesson

While the endings of The Birthmark and Cathedral are drastically different, the lesson is similar.

Aylmer and Carver both discover that what they perceive as imperfect is actually what makes Roger and Georgiana who they are, and in reality, perfect just as they exist.

When focusing only on the “imperfections” before them, neither man is able to appreciate these imperfectly perfect human beings.

Both learned a profound lesson.

For one, the wisdom comes too late. For the other, the lesson comes from the blind man himself.

Alymer couldn’t see past the imperfect mark on his wife’s cheek. In trying to remove it, he destroys her.

As the last crimson tint of the birthmark — that sole token of human imperfection — faded from her cheek, the parting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward flight.

Carver realized that his “sight” had improved markedly when his eyes were closed.

“Bub, it’s all right,” the blind man said. “It’s fine with me. Whatever you want to watch is okay. I’m always learning something. Learning never ends. It won’t hurt me to learn something tonight. I got ears.”

Our imperfections are not mistakes.

They’re not accidents.

They’re part of God’s design and opportunities for His grace to shine through us.