“I don’t know how I ever got laid,” Louis CK told me in the stillness of my car once I revved up the engine and his voice carried through the speakers.  Click.  Off went the radio, not over offense at the comedian’s remarks, but because…well, it was too early for them.  The to-work commute is prayer time.  Louis and his colorful remarks have to wait until lunch. As I pushed in the knob that would divert me from the crass to the sacred, I marveled again at my innate dual nature.  Or what some might less graciously call hypocrisy.  Louis and his F-bombs are welcome to populate my airwaves because of the absence of a carseat and the presence of my flaws.  Does this make me more or less of a person of integrity?  I love Jesus and dirty jokes. Am I being contradictory, or keeping it real?

This moment of reflection (with CK’s assistance) came after a night of elections in which the Right prevailed more as a function of rebellion than preference.  Since the roots of both my hair and politics run red, I was in a celebratory mood over the results–I have this crazy idea that more government is never the answer–but my truer sense of victory was for divided government.  Holding one branch’s choices accountable to the checks of another branch.  Though when it comes down to it, all the branches have a fair amount of rot in them, so I won’t be counting on any to support my full weight.

Through my job I’ve met a congressman and a senator from Georgia in the past month, and both of them were honorable enough men with whom I happen to agree on most issues.  But knowing that their human nature makes them as insufficient as I am is what lets me know that our right to vote, privilege that it is, really comes down to a choice between various forms of imperfect.  And this principle does not characterize just politics.

Most of my day is spent deciding which form of imperfect I will embrace for that moment.  The girl who believes in social justice but typically votes Republican (ed. note: it comes down to the delivery system).  The girl who knows the Golden Rule is right but still flicks people off on the highway.  The girl who cares about character but obsesses over crumbs.

And then I remember that break in time and geography, when I moved north and looked up, and realized that Right and Wrong will always be my weak spot and source of contradiction but were settled long ago on a tree stained with someone else’s blood.  A settlement that cost more than I will ever be able to pay but never asked me to write a check.  Or measure up.  Which is both why I want to and know I never will.  So while I get that they matter, I’m moving on from Right and Wrong as being the ultimate answer, the ultimate choice.

Nope, the answer is much more complicated than that.  Life is a little more one-off than being about just those two, because it lies in a story.  And just like the safe choice rarely has a story to go with it, transformation never comes without a road attached. And at the beginning of every road lies a choice.  Less often about right vs. wrong than safety vs. faith.  When I think about all the options that have been laid out before me in my life, I don’t remember most the ones that were about Louis CK or politicians.  I remember the ones that were between Birmingham and New York, activity and stillness, immediacy and waiting.  The certainty of now vs. the possibility of yet.  It’s a cliche that we are the sum total of our choices, but it’s also true.  I’m thankful for a grace that made me free and brave enough to make many road-less-traveled choices and add those up to where I am now; a grace that allows choices to be beyond right and wrong but not redemption.