The Missing Measurment

Last September, I woke with an eagerness and a plan.

It was time to get this midsection under control that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

I opened the sewing box that had belonged to my mother-in-law, Maggie, and pulled out the neatly tucked red tape measure. I grabbed a journal to record my progress and began to measure.

Bust: 42”

Waist: 37.5”

Hips: 48”

Then came the dreaded scale.

188 pounds.

Whew…I had some work to do.

My supplements were lined up and ready to go—gut health, vitality, fish oil, CoQ10, and Vitamin D. I was committed. I even recorded a Facebook Live, sharing my measurements publicly. I had a plan.

Then life happened.

My oldest sister broke both of her legs and was taken to the hospital. All my siblings met at the hospital and soon learned her cancer had returned, and she was too frail to undergo surgery. She passed within a week on October 2.

A few weeks later we held her memorial.

I started a new job.

The holidays came and went.

Our six children were navigating major milestones of their own.

Before I knew it, January had arrived.

Time to begin again.

I didn’t bother taking new measurements. The scale hadn’t changed anyway.

Then in May, after returning from our future daughter-in-law’s graduation from medical school, and wrapping up one daughters’ end of school activities, another one returning from college for the summer, I realized I hadn’t used that little red tape measure since September.

So I opened Maggie’s sewing box once again.

Bust: 39.5”

Waist: 34.25”

Hips: 46”

The scale read 182 pounds.

Six pounds.

Honestly, I was a little disappointed.

Then I did the math.

I had lost 7¾ inches.

As I carefully rolled the tape measure back into Maggie’s sewing box, I paused.

Maggie was gone now, too.

And I began thinking about all the ways we measure our lives.

We measure our age.

We measure our weight.

Our inches.

The number of steps we take.

The amount of water we drink.

Our income.

Even the number of followers and “likes” we receive on social media.

We seem to have an endless need to measure something, hoping it will tell us we’re making progress or that we’ve somehow become successful.

But I’ve never found a tape measure that can measure resilience.

Or forgiveness.

Or the quiet confidence that comes from beginning again.

I’ve never stepped on a scale that could tell me how much wiser grief has made me.

Or how much patience I’ve gained by starting over…again.

Maybe those are the measurements that matter most.

So if I could measure only one thing this year, would I choose inches?

Or would I choose the missing measurement…

Growth