Happy 80th!!

Happy 80th Birthday, Mom! I hope you don’t mind me sharing this information with the general public. Which, realistically, is a very minuscule fraction of the public, anyway. I mean, let’s say this turns out to be a really popular post, and lots of my reader friends are interested in knowing about you and your birthday… and let’s say one or two of those people share the post with their friends… then, it is possible that somewhere around 250 of the public’s folks will be privy to this somewhat personal information. But. That’s on good day. There’s also a chance here in mid-July that most people are pretty wrapped up in their summer vacations and seasonal recreations, and they’re taking a break from the World Wide Web (as well they should) and they’ll never even see this post pop up on their social media feed. In which case, the number of readers will likely hover around 50. (Which is often the number of folks who read my most Holy Spirit inspired posts, something that always intrigues me. But that’s a subject for another time.) 

So. Tomorrow is your birthday, and we’ve got a few low-key surprises in store. “We”—meaning Dad and your offspring. “Low-key”—meaning think small and you won’t be disappointed. (I’m sure there’ll be a few social media posts along the way for you readers who are curious.) The point being, there will be celebrating in your honor. Because you are someone who deserves honoring. 

Eight full decades. That’s how long you’ve been on this planet. And I wonder if that seems to you like a long time or a little? Maybe both. Age is funny. Speaking from personal experience, and also conversations I’ve had with you, time seems to move faster and faster the older you get. And just because you’re a couple of decades removed from one thing or another doesn’t mean it feels all that distant. I once heard someone say, we’re all the ages we’ve ever been, all at once. And that makes sense. This is why I can be talking to a teenager, whose story triggers a memory of my own, and I then feel compelled to share this memory in full detail, but noticing the look on the face of the fourteen-year-old I realize they don’t see my antidote as relevant at all. Whatever. In that moment I am entirely present to the adolescent me, regardless of the years between. I’m guessing that’s true for you, too. Lately, as you’ve been remembering your own stories, I’ve been amazed at the lifetime of detail we can store in our minds. 

Your life has not been easy. Especially your first three decades. I remember a few years ago, learning about trauma, and acknowledging how much of it you’ve lived through. I was also struck by the absence of trauma in my own life. We don’t choose trauma. Mostly it’s something that happens to us, without our permission. The losses you faced in your teens and twenties are unfathomable to those who’ve never been there. I’ve tried to imagine, and while my heart certainly aches in the knowing, I will never be able to say I understand. What I do know is that my own life has been one continuous miracle in comparison. My life has been stable and abundant… whole and holy. And I have you to thank for that. 

You were somewhere in the middle of the hard years when you chose God, and He chose you. You tell the story of how you’d always wanted to know Him. Even though yours wasn’t a church-going family, you always said yes to invitations from friends. And when you were old enough to choose for your own family, you chose God—again, and again, and again. 

I grew up knowing and loving Jesus. When I tell my own story I usually start by saying, “I can’t remember a time I didn’t know about God, and I was always drawn to Him.” I knew about God because of my mom. My earliest memories are of you reading me Bible stories, and taking me to Vacation Bible School, and curling my hair for Children’s Choir. I remembering sitting in the pew next to you and reciting liturgy like a grown-up, and singing hymns at the top of my little lungs. And you, Mom, were the one who saw my passion for these two things…Jesus and music…and made sure I always had plenty of both. Goodness. Our family was never wealthy, but we were certainly rich in music lessons and Bible Camps. The two things that mattered. My childhood was lavish with the things I loved. 

Today I will admit to being a young 56, just like you are a young 80… and again, I have you to thank. Starting my first couple of decades out on health foods has paid off in the long run. All those alfalfa-sprout sandwiches and the home-cultured yogurt drenched in honey. And the carob chips. (Which reminds me. This might be as good a chance as any for a small confession. When I think back to my childhood sins, this one comes immediately to mind. On occasion I did sneak small handfuls of those little carob morsels out of the fridge where you kept them.) (Okay, one more. Also, when you and Dad went on your Friday night dates, and I was in charge, and we’d watch The Dukes of Hazard with permission, we’d sometimes eat an extra bowl of Cheetos. And sometimes we’d watch The Love Boat. But maybe you already knew all that.) Anyway. I am very, very grateful for the myriad ways you invested in healthy eating for our family. The hours (and hours) you spend in your massive gardens. More hours spent in preserving food. Your commitment to co-op shopping. The vitamins. The juice fasts. (Okay, not those. I’m afraid I’ve never willingly consumed a glass of carrot or beet juice as an autonomous adult.) You get the picture. Thank you for starting me out with such amazing habits. They have set the course for my life. 

There are lots of other things I might mention. The garage sales where I received most of my wardrobe, and the occasional trips to Mankato or Burnsville for something new. The hardcover school books we collected together. The waterbed. lol. I’ve thought about that a few times recently. How buying my own child a waterbed would have been such a hard NO, but I was so very proud of mine. It made me feel like a princess. 

And maybe my favorite thing of all (second to knowing Jesus) was something you didn’t even mean to give me. Which is a deep love of God’s creation. Knowing the Father through nature. Seeing His hand in every plant, every singing bird, every sunset. Feeling His pleasure in dirt, trees, and seasons. Caring for the earth and its creatures. The older I get the more I see our similarities in this. Mom, you taught me how to nurture and flourish as a bearer of the image of my Creating God. And for this I am eternally thankful. 

I am most blessed. 

I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday!