In two days, I’ll be 45. And I wish I could say I took birthdays on the chin and grew old gracefully. But no. I gripe and moan. I make it incredibly hard for my wife, who just wants to make it a special day. But I am determined each year, around my birthday to make “The Grinch” my spirit animal. “Away with presents and joyous gatherings,” I sneer. All I can say is that God gave this woman the patience of a Saint.
But you know what? Can I tell you a secret? I was tired of being this way. The problem is, I needed to figure out why birthdays had me in a funk. I mean, I love my life. I have a beautiful family. A lovely home. And every year I get with my people is a gift. So, why was I depressed? To figure this out, I did what many of us do when we need answers. I googled it. And good news! Apparently, I am one of many birthday curmudgeons the world over. (What is a curmudgeon, you may ask? A curmudgeon is a bad-tempered person, especially an old one.) No comment. Some are afraid of getting older, some feel they are behind in life, and others have trauma around past birthdays. The more I mulled it over, I discovered that, for me, it’s the first. I didn’t want to get older, despite all of the kind things people have said to me in the last couple of weeks. Things like: “You have great skin for your age.” Or “You don’t act like you’re 45.” Both comments, I do not know how to begin to process. HAHA
I remember getting into the car on my last day of High School. The weather was balmy, you know the kind. When a warm breeze is blowing. Change was coming. I could feel it. Friends had offered to pick me up. I looked over and saw my mom sobbing away. And being your typical self-involved 18-year-old, I assumed it was because her youngest was finally done with school. “Sheesh, my mom’s so emotional today,” I announced to the car. And they all looked around awkwardly, not sure how to reply. Anyway… I took out my notes for my final exam and tried to cram in the last bit of information I could, rather than deal with the awkwardness, and the exam went well. My mom picked me up after school. I could see she’d been crying again, and we drove home in silence. I put my hand on her shoulder and asked if she was OK. But a few blocks from our home, she pulled over the car and started wailing. Through pained sobs, she got out that my Dad had passed in the night. My parents had gotten divorced years before, and I hadn’t seen my dad all that often after he left, but I remember sitting in the car, feeling nothing, then everything, all the while thinking: “Parents aren’t meant to die, he was only 56…” And just like that, I was fatherless.
So, what does this have to do with getting older?
Have you ever had one of those perfect days? You know the ones. Everyone gets up in a good mood. We all choose to love each other well. We are patient with one another, and we are all our best selves. A million high fives, hugs and kisses. Your kids are adorable. Your wife looks as beautiful as the day you met her. And you find yourself thinking: God, I am blessed beyond measure. Yesterday was one of those days. Those days, that if you grew up like me, reminded you that you have something to lose. I look at my beautiful family. My incredible wife and our crazy little girl, and all I can think is, I don’t know how much time I have left with you. But the problem with this kind of thinking is that something I have no control over robs today of its’ joy. Who knows what tomorrow will bring for any of us? I may have 11 more years, or 5, or maybe even another 45. But I am resolute to pack so much love into the days I have left that it will feel like a lifetime’s worth to those God has given me to love.
Have I done everything that the world says I should have done with my 45 years? No. Who has? I chose a Church ministry path, which means that from the world’s perspective, I am about ten years behind everyone else in terms of buying a home, financial security, career. My wife and I battled through infertility and I only became a father, through adoption, at the age of 42. So, if I have to measure my life by what the world says I should be, I have wasted my 45.
But I look at the life of Jesus. He didn’t amass riches. He didn’t have a home to call His own. He never wore a crown in this life, except for a crown of thorns. But He loved well. And that’s a legacy I can get behind.
I’ve been to funeral after funeral where workplaces have stood up to speak about the person’s contribution. And while I know this is their way of getting closure, these eulogies always sound hollow because no life should be distilled down to Excel sheets and more dollars on the budget. The worth of the days we have been given is answered by those people sitting in the front row. When I look at the family and friends of the person who passed, I can see the answer to the question: “Did they love well?”
So I guess my question as I march fearlessly into 45, dear Reader, is this: “What are you measuring your life by?” Because I, for one, am done letting the enemy decide that for me.
I hold my precious little girl, I place her little hand in mine, and often, I dream about her future and tell her who God has made her to be. The things she will do. The places she will go. The man she will marry. The ripples of Grace that will flow out of her life into every space she enters. How much more has the Father dreamed over us? I imagine Him carefully forming us, speaking life: “This one, this one right here, they will love extravagantly. People will leave their presence and know they have been touched by Grace.” “Oh, this little one. Well, she will heal the broken-hearted. She will nurse the wounded and help them to stand tall again.” “And this one, this one will bring light to even the darkest of places.”
May you live in this truth today: God has dreamed YOU into being. He has dreamed over YOUR life, and knows the number of your days. That. Is. Enough.
I am choosing love. Would you join me?
‘Til next time.
