The ballerina doll was a mistake. She was a birthday gift when I was 9 years old, but I could not relate to her. She had skin the color of ivory soap and hair that fell in succulent blonde curls to her shoulders. Her feet were permanently stuck in a ballet pose, and she wore a pink tutu and white tights. As for me, I was sure that if I donned a tutu, the whole world would have died on the spot from laughing.  

The poor doll could not be featured in our games of “make believe” because she was too delicate, too thin-skinned and too perky. We could not trust her out on the open plain, riding one of our imaginary horses when we pretended we were cowboys. Her tutu would surely go up in flames at our campfire. 

Of course, I said none of this to my aunt, who thought I was thrilled with the gift. Instead, I thanked her politely and then found a nice corner in my closet for the doll. I had always been more of a stuffed-animal gal myself, since glamorous dolls had a way of making me feel inferior. As for realistic, rubber baby dolls you could feed with a tiny bottle, this seemed like a lot of work with little payback.  

I was much happier hauling around my well-loved Pluto dog, Poppa, even if his fur was coming off and his eyes were gone. The dog fit in just fine on the open plain, and I was confident he could hold his own in a fist fight. His neck had big black stitches, where my mom had reattached it to his body after a skirmish with my sister had resulted in serious injuries. My mom eventually embroidered him with new eyes as well. 

When I was child, I thought stuffed animals were alive, which is why I would cry my eyes out if anything untoward happened to my dog. Sometimes my sister took advantage of this fact, when she wanted to get even with me for some wrongdoing.  

All she had to do was threaten to hurt the dog, and I would beg her forgiveness and admit my errors. The dog had a way of comforting me, no matter what was going wrong. His presence reminded me that despite the slings and arrows of everyday life, deep down everything was fine.  

Children’s toys can impart lifelong lessons. The ballerina hinted at a different world to which I would never belong. The dog with his patches and scars revealed you don’t have to be perfect to be loved. In fact, you can be coming apart at the seams and still be someone’s favorite.  

I loved that dog so much, and my aunt predicted I would carry him down the aisle on my wedding day. She wasn’t too far from the mark, since he was tucked away in my hope chest, and accompanied my husband and myself to our first home. He is still with me.   

Now that I am old, he is a reminder that you can have plenty taken away from you and still march onward. You can have poor eyesight and hearing and creaky knees like me. You can go through numerous operations and be stitched back together with a needle and thread.  

The good news is we are infinitely more than the sum of our parts. Made in God’s image, we possess an immortal soul of inestimable value. When our soul is in a state of grace, no amount of scars and stitches, bumps and bruises can matter. After all, as the psalmist assures us, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”