Measure Twice, Learn Once
Life lessons, siding panels, and the quiet power of someone who lets you learn the hard way.
I have so many Tom stories, I thought I would share another one.
It has always bugged me how Tom could look at something and know it wasn’t level.
I’m not talking about when something is obviously crooked. I’m talking about microscopic slants that only a level or a wizard could detect.
Tom isn’t a wizard.
But I’m not ruling it out.
My stepdad has taught me a lot of things over the years, how to fix stuff, how to stay calm, and how to keep your cool when someone else’s work starts falling apart in your hands. One particular lesson came when I helped Tom with hanging siding on a house.
There are a lot of steps to hanging siding, but none more important than the starter strip—that thin metal rail that goes at the very bottom of the wall. If that thing’s not level, every row after it will be off. And you won’t realize it until the very end, when the corners don’t match up and you’re left standing there wondering how geometry betrayed you.
I had measured. I had used that level several times. OK, a few times.
At least I thought I had.
But Tom came by more than once to double-check.
“That bottom row level?”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“That’s not the same as sure.”
I installed a whole wall. I’m talking like over ten feet. Felt good about it, too. Until I got to the corner AND the siding didn’t meet up at all. I stared at it, hoping magic would happen. Hoping the siding would shift or bend or morph to fit.
It didn’t.
Tom walked by, glanced at the corner, and said,
“It’s not even, is it?”
I admitted it wasn’t.
“How we gonna fix it?”
I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to say it.
I just started taking everything off.
Tom didn’t fuss.
Didn’t scold me.
Didn’t give me a lecture.
He just walked off.
He came back when I was done. Looked it over, nodded, and said,
“Good job, Maury D.”
He also told my mama what I’d done. But added that I fixed it, and fixed it fast.
That’s Tom.
He teaches without fanfare.
Doesn’t hand you the answer. He lets you live it.
It’s not just about siding. It’s about life. Parenting. Character.
I could’ve left that corner. Could’ve said “good enough.”
But “good enough” wasn’t good enough for Tom.
And now, it’s not good enough for me.
The person who paid us would’ve noticed.
I would’ve noticed.
And that’s not how you do business. Or life.
I later replaced siding on my own house with no issues because I remembered that corner. I remembered the quiet way Tom taught me to do it right the first time. A good beginning usually means a great ending.
And if not the first time, to go back and do it right.
That’s what I hope to pass on to my own kids.
They hear me tell the story of Thomas Edison when they mess up. Another Tom, ironically. Edison said he didn’t make mistakes; he just found ways that didn’t work. I like that. It puts a positive spin on failure.
But when it comes to hanging siding—or doing life—I always circle back to our Tom.
Measure twice.
Learn once.
Because someone is always watching—
especially when you fix your own mess.
Start Straight, End Strong
When it comes to my faith, I’ve learned the same truth: you have to measure twice—your motives, your priorities, your heart—and build on something that won’t shift beneath you.
For years, I treated Bible reading like another item on a daily to-do list. Check the box, skim the chapter, move on. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that God doesn’t want me to finish the reading—He wants me to hear it. These days, I spend more time listening for what He’s saying, even if I’m tired or running behind. Even when I miss a day, I don’t stop talking to Him. My life feels “off” when I drift too far from that foundation.
And just like siding, when the starter strip’s off, the whole wall will be too.
I once wanted a job so badly I practically asked God to bless the plan I had already drawn up. But God doesn’t rubber stamp our blueprints—He writes His own. That job didn’t work out. But His plan still happened. And yep… it was better than mine. It usually is.
Grace is like that. Quiet. Steady. Stronger than our missteps. I’ve sinned more than I can count—but every time, when I turn back, there’s peace waiting for me. Not a lecture. Just grace.
It’s tempting to live like “good enough” is enough with our faith. Believe just enough to stay out of trouble. But God wants more than fire insurance for our souls—He wants a relationship that changes how we build everything: our marriages, our parenting, our integrity, our whole lives.
That’s why I start and end my days talking to Jesus now. He’s not just an add-on. He’s the cornerstone. The one the storms can’t shake. The level that never lies. The starter strip that makes everything else line up.
I want my kids to see that. I want them to see me reading Scripture. Taking notes during sermons. Loving people who don’t always love back. Living like Jesus makes a difference—because He does.
When I stood there next to that crooked siding, Tom gave me a chance to do it right. He didn’t yell. He didn’t walk away. He waited. And when I had fixed the mess, he came back and said, “Good job, Maury D.”
God’s the same way.
He sees our mess. Gives us a chance to fix it. Fills us with grace when we do. And one day, when the tools are down and the job is done, I hope to hear Him say it too:
“Good job, Maury D.”
Check the level:
What’s one area of your life that looks straight from a distance—but deep down, you know it needs to be rebuilt with God at the foundation?