No one would confuse my sisters’ and my art hanging on the refrigerator in our childhood kitchen as masterpieces worthy of exhibit at the National Gallery or even the occasional yard sale. Yet to my mother, as to any, those works of ‘art’ are priceless treasures because my mother’s love for us and our love for her. This also characterizes our Lord’s love for us, but can our own expectation of perfection get in the way?