Having a birthday on the days in between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is like LMNOP. People have a tendency to blend it all together or forget its significance entirely.
The reality show, “A Baby Story” debuted January 1st, 1998 and chronicled the emotions and experiences of new, excited parents from the last few weeks of pregnancy to the first few weeks of life. In addition to the celebratory pastels and Pampers cakes, baby presents and both parents’ presence– it sought to entertain and educate the viewer about the beautiful, miracle of childbirth. As we grow up, all the world over people generally enjoy celebrating and being acknowledged on our own special holiday, birthdays.
The story of my birth wasn’t nearly as pretty. Every year without fail, my mom has called me on my birthday. She’s sang Happy Birthday, complete with the Stevie Wonder remix. She’s told the tale of how at just 19 years old, she bore the brunt and braved the heat of my grandmother’s anger over her young, unwed pregnancy, while simultaneously bringing me into the world on that bitterly cold, dangerous December day. She was all alone, except for the policeman who drove on the curb for traction, just barely getting us to the hospital in time. My cries were heard in the squad car and legend has it that she was so sad during the preceding nine months that she herself cried daily. “And I think that’s why you’re so sensitive and emotional today” she often quips. Memories of the first time she felt me move, if ever shared were overshadowed by the day when, on her way home from work, she stayed on the train…all the way to Cleveland. She moved, away from my grandmother and in with my aunt, staying there until my arrival. Meeting me at least eased the pain of pregnancy and melted the familial ice. Mom and grandma agreed that life is a gift from the Heavenly Father, if not my earthly one.
For me as a child growing up, my father, or the idea of having one, was realistic fiction. There was always the possibility that it could happen, that I could have one, that he might come and see me. In the meantime, mom took on the character of dad and she worked hard to always provide a safe, loving setting. The main idea was always what my father did to her and failed to do for me. I couldn’t help but feel like the plot of her life would have somehow turned out better if she hadn’t had me. It was never said, but laying her hopes and dreams to rest implied a life not really lived. She traded hers for mine. And so I’ve spent my life trying to make my mom’s sacrifice worth it and my dad’s absence not. I’ve lived to make my mom happy and my dad sorry. I’ve been filling and feeling a void all at the same time. This makes for a very exhausting existence. Have you ever doubted your worth or questioned your life’s purpose?
Satan is a writer of fiction, the father of lies. He does everything he can to twist the truth and distort God’s narrative. The Enemy’s job is to steal, kill and destroy the purpose for our lives and he is employee of the month, every month. Yesterday I talked about the importance of remembering God’s plan and His blessings. Today and everyday, God also remembers us, “For he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust” (Psalm 103:14). He literally thinks about us! What an incredibly mind-blowing, heartwarming present. Greater still, is the gift of His Son who willingly traded His life for ours (John 3:16).
While it’s nice when we’re thought of by friends and family, no one can hold a candle to God’s love. On today, my birthday, I appreciate those who remembered. But I am mostly grateful that God has kept me and that He is still writing my story.
