there are no bad apples

In our refrigerator is a drawer that only ever houses a bag of apples, usually McIntosh, sometimes Cortland, but always grown in New York. Every evening when Jeff packs his lunch, he reaches into the bag inside the drawer and pulls out an apple to put into his lunch bag. If he happens to pull an apple from the bag with even the slightest bruise, he places it in the drawer outside of the bag and reaches for another apple. Only the best apples make Jeff's lunch while the rejects sit idly, waiting for someone to cut off their bad spots and enjoy them despite their flaws.

This morning I decided I would have an apple for breakfast. When I opened the drawer in the refrigerator this is what I saw: A drawer full of bruised apples amidst a clear plastic bag containing only a few apples--some unmarred by bruises or softspots, others maybe flawed yet undetected by Jeff's critical eye. My point is that there were far more imperfect stragglers than there were pristine red orbs suitable for Jeff's lunch. In a way, I felt sorry for the lonely bruised apples. In a way, I identified with them.

We strive for perfection. We all want the best, to do well, to be successful, to create perfect masterpieces, but I wonder--at what cost? Do we make others into bruised apples cast aside as we endeavor toward perfection?

Lately, I have been feeling like a bad apple.