They were to measure according to their abilities, albeit within the constraints of human imperfections
More than 40 years ago there lived a little girl who was a perfectionist. In first grade, while learning how to write, she’d get frustrated at her messy penmanship and destroy the papers, wishing for perfect script like her teacher’s.
In fifth grade, the little girl learned how to sew. While she enjoyed planning the colors and designs of each outfit, by the time the project was completed, she’d push it to the back of the closet because it didn’t come out professional enough.
In high school, this preference for perfection followed her year by year. It was a millstone around her neck, passing judgment on all her accomplishments and rendering them wanting.
As a young mother, she was determined to work so her husband could learn, take care of her kids with complete devotion, and also keep a sparkling clean house. Anything less than was simply unacceptable.
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