Yesterday was my birthday. I LOVE my birthday. But for the first time in 42 years it occurred to me that birthdays are really pretty arbitrary. I mean, if I had anything to do with the events of December 1, 1971, I don’t remember it. It was, however, a significant day for my mom–now she DID something.
But really, it just happens to be the day God decided to heave me into the world. And he’s been trying to steer me right ever since–with varying degrees of cooperation on my part.
Now, I’m all for a day when I get presents and cake. You know, just because I exist, but it occurs to me that maybe my birthday is something more than a ME day. It’s the day I should be grateful to my parents for, you know, making me. The day I can appreciate that God had something in mind when he knit me together in my mother’s womb. The day I can be glad I have people in my life who are glad I was born–my husband, my family, friends . . .
The more I think about it, the more I think my birthday really isn’t so much about me. Because the best parts of my birthday are the parts that involve other people. My husband saying “happy birthday” with a chilly kiss on our morning dog walk. The cake at church with my name on it. The phone calls from my family. The happy birthday wishes from friends on Facebook. The lunch out tomorrow courtesy of co-workers.
And I didn’t do anything to deserve any of it. It’s just because I was born. So this birthday I’m not so much celebrating me. I’m celebrating all the people God has placed in my life. All the people God has blessed me with. Thanks for loving me.