I was flying east and had a rare chance to read a novel – uninterrupted. Deep in the story, I had a flash of insight. The page number had nothing to do with the action in the story I had just read on that page. There was no connection. And then I realized – just as with the story and the page number – the number on the scale has nothing to do with who I am – with the qualities that make up “me” – with the love I express, or the wisdom I try to live by – and too, the number of years I’ve been on the planet have nothing to do with who I am either, or the numbers on the clock have no control over who I’m being at the moment. They’re all just numbers – disconnected from the truth about us.
The number could be a reference point, I suppose, just as the page number in the book can be – oh, yeah, he meets the girl who helps him crack the code in chapter 23 on page 257 – or – oh, yeah, I learned a lot about discipline in the 37th year – or – oh, yeah, I finally got the hang of not being too critical during that time when the scale said 130 – or – I express tenderness at bed time with my kids – but the numbers are really just reference points. The numbers can’t dictate anything about us or tell us who we are in Truth.