I’ve had a thing for exactness for most of my life. It developed before I was even two years old. My mom caught me lining up Q-tips end-to-end in the crevice of the border around our coffee table. With that stunning feat under my belt, it was not surprising that I did well in math classes and math competitions in school. Nor was it a stretch when I majored in accounting while in college. But processing life by the numbers at my age . . . it’s a bit odd.
Take for instance the fact that I know how many times the cross-walk signs blink “Don’t Walk.” Or that I often count people at events. Or that last week when Bar Exam results came out, I went straight to the statistics page (after checking the names of the few people I know who took it).
With this weird counting trait, I began to feel a little like Rain Man (or make that Rain Woman). I questioned whether I needed some sort of help. After all, most of my friends do not have near the affinity for numbers that I do.
Then, it hit me: If I am made in God’s image, and He knows the very number of hairs on my head at all times (Matt. 10:30 & Luke 12:7), then maybe, just maybe, I’m okay. Maybe only God and I get a kick out of counting. But, I’m okay with that.