Here’s to 56—May We Honor the Gift of Life

Every year on my birthday, I am given the chance to begin again.

This past week, our young houseguest—someone I am coming to know and love dearly, and who I am grateful will soon be part of our family—said, “Why not have the kids get you the big number balloons?”

I scoffed and laughed. “My number is big. Who wants to see 56?”

We joked and talked it out, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

The young man asked why not embrace it. I think that wise young man was right. 

Why not embrace it, whatever the number is. Life goes by in the blink of an eye.

Here I am.
Today I turn 56.

Last year it was 55 and we did have those big balloons. It sure didn’t feel right celebrating. It hasn’t for a few years.

Something about this year feels different—I find myself on the other side of a decade, now living in the second half of a century.

I’ve never been one to fear aging. Though if I’m honest, the last several years have marked me more than time alone ever could. The lines on my face and the weight I carry tell a story I didn’t expect to be living so soon.

And yet, a subtle gratitude is rising to the surface.

Because life—no matter the number—is a gift. Life is a gift. Celebrating a big number is a gift.

Birthdays have been harder these past several years. It’s not just being without Jon; I feel my parents’ absence, too. That absence is real, and the space they once filled doesn’t disappear—especially not on a day meant to celebrate life. It reminds us more of those who are no longer here, by death or choice.

But what has grown in that space is something deeper, a greater awareness that this life is not guaranteed.

As I reflect, I know we are all walking toward eternity, where age and youth, wrinkles and gravity will no longer matter.

And so I want to embrace this life I’ve been given. I don’t and won’t always get it right. I believe God forms us with details that all matter in who we are. I was born on the cusp of winter and spring. As one who loves to garden and be outside, this all matters to me as I sow seeds in the garden.

And in the church calendar, though I didn’t always know the gift, I have come to treasure that I was born on the Feast of St. Joseph—a day that celebrates a saint who was entrusted with a life he did not choose, and yet lived it with faithful love and a day the Church pauses to celebrate, even in the middle of Lent.

His quiet strength.
His obedience.
His trust in the will of God.

I look to him now more than ever.
Because I am living a life I never expected—and St. Joseph, too, was entrusted with a life he did not plan, but faithfully lived.

I never thought my parents would live forever, but I did think Jon would grow old with me.

I thought we would stand side by side at our children’s graduations and weddings, watch them build their lives, and welcome grandchildren into the world together. That life we dreamed of feels especially distant these days.

Here I am celebrating my third birthday without him.

And the truth is, even the last birthday we shared in 2023 hardly felt like a celebration at all. It came after a week in the hospital, followed by a respite trip to the beach (thanks to a generous and kind stranger) that was not meant to be a vacation but a trip for rest away from it all after so many years of cancer and caregiving.

It was heavy.
It was sacred.
It was heartbreaking.
It was staring reality of a life-limiting disease in the face.

And somewhere in that time, I knew we would not return to the beach together again...

And we would not celebrate another birthday together—his, the kids’ or mine.

Birthdays always mattered to us.
They still do. They just feel different now when we celebrate.

So this year, I am choosing to hold space for both.

For the ache.
And for the gift.

Maybe there will be balloons.
Maybe there won’t.

Even so, there was already a beautiful birthday dinner, flowers, cake, and even balloons this past weekend thanks to the kids and our spring break guest. I even bought a special gift for myself in honor of my birthday and a new year.

Today, As I started finishing and editing this, I have received more bouquets—both fruit and flowers—balloons, sweet treats, phone calls and messages, and even a singing voice message with “Happy Birthday” from faithful friends who have loved me well, not just on my birthday, but throughout the year and through the hardest moments. I am so grateful they sat with me in the fire and in the celebrations over these last few years.

And yes there are all of those flowers and treasures filling my table and heart today.

But most of all, there will be gratitude.
There will be remembering.
There will be an intentional yes to the life still in front of me.

Because while each birthday carries me further from the life we once lived, it also draws me deeper into the one God is still inviting me to live—closer to the Heart of the Father. And closer to the day I will be reunited with Jon and those I love and lost.

The simple fact is, it is a gift to be able to live this life.

Loss teaches you this. We get to choose how we want to live it. The line from my all time favorite movie, Shawshank Redemption, fits here: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” It’s how we lived while Jon was dying.

On this birthday, I am not starting over—I am continuing on. I am rebuilding.

I am moving forward after all that the fire—the refiner’s fire—has shaped in me, carrying what has been, trusting what will be, and choosing to love well right where I am.

And in honoring each new day, and each birthday, I am given the grace of another beginning—
Nunc Coepi.

Now, I begin—with hope and gratitude AND with sadness for those who are no longer here—another year of life for as long as God allows.

Here’s to embracing the days we’re given, while remembering all that has brought us to this day.

Here’s to 56.
It’s a big number and big life to live.

Now let’s go have some cake. Life goes by in a blink of an eye.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” — Jeremiah 1:5