A number of years ago, we bought a small boat, used, from friends of ours. It’s far from fancy—in fact, it’s pretty grungy; most of its bells and whistles are now obsolete, and at least half of its gauges—including the speedometer—are broken. Every year since we’ve owned our boat, usually during the first outing of the summer, we hatch plans for detailing, fixing and even naming her, but somehow we never do. And yet somehow, every summer, the boat still floats, the engine still churns, and away we go, leaving Bainbridge, framed by the mighty Olympics, in our wake.
This evening Stephen and I climbed aboard our little boat for the first time since last August. We made our way across the sound to Elliot Bay so that we could fill her tank with gas and there, sending off a million glistening, refracted rays of summer sunshine, lay the Seattle skyline. Nothing ugly, burning or dangerous visible from the open water—just the familiar sights and shapes of the city we’ve come to love so deeply, with Mt. Rainier in all of its snow-capped glory anchored off to the right.
I’ve mentioned this truth before and consider it often, especially in recent days: that broken things can still be very, very good. Most things, and for sure all people, exist in some state of disrepair, but are beautiful and deserving of love in spite of, or even because of, their imperfection.
Tonight, I’m grateful for our reliable boat, and for her long-haired captain as he sings at the top of his lungs, barely audible though, over the loud, determined chug of the old motor with its seaweed dangling down and trailing through the frothy water. And I’m grateful for fresh perspective on the city of Seattle, now struggling, churning, broken, yes—but so beautiful nonetheless, basking and radiant in the early evening light.
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