The measure of a person

In a post not too long ago, I railed about all the people getting on my nerves. I made fun of Vapid Bloggers, people who spend too much time going on about surface concerns: their outfits or their workout regimens, or the so-called important people they saw at the club or the party. Granted, I dream of Manolo Blahniks and name drop like mad. I do worry about my weight and my health but not to the sacrifice of my greater concern: living a life of integrity.

What does Body Mass Index tell me? It tells me I’m too heavy for my height. But it doesn’t tell me how many young people care more about themselves because I believed in them. It doesn’t tell me how many more families pray together because I encouraged them to do so. It isn’t the number of rosaries or prayers said in my name. It isn’t all the hopes and dreams my parents have for me, the love my friends feel for me, or the genuine joy I feel every morning when I get to work.

I don’t have a perfect body. I don’t have the greatest discipline when it comes to working out. But I can feel good about my heart and soul. I have waited my whole life to do that. It shines,this new sense of freedom. Every day,people tell me I’m radiant, that I exude strength and centeredness. No BMI score got me there.

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