Nothing changes when one turns 24, except of course, you, who has likely changed very much since 23.
Last year I insisted on celebrating my birthday at an Irish pub. I wanted everyone to plan something spectacular for me, but really didn’t trust anyone (the people I love) to plan anything I’d like enough. So I found the place and set the time and blew my own kazoo.
This year I counted up the beautiful stack of cards, the lunch dates and red ales, and nearly lost my guts with thankfulness. I didn’t wonder if they’d plan something, or worry that anyone would come. Until it was upon me, I almost didn’t think of it at all.
Birthdays are as much, I think, for celebrating each other as for reflecting back. This past year and all the years before it collided to create me. To teach, stretch and sharpen me. To irk me, sooth me, and make me, hopefully, less selfish. To push me down, to pick me up, to help me understand. To give me sight, candor and endurance.
To make me thankful. And this birthday, I am thankful to be thankful. Thankful to realize the work of God in my heart and to rejoice. Thankful for dear friends, precious family, and all the love we share.
For crowns and roses and custard pie.