I hesitate to say, “It’s my birthday” because, well, merely soliciting “Congrats!” responses seems rather pointless. And, being an essayist, I always feel like I should have a point. But then, even as I type this, I realize I do.
It’s the very question implicit in my embarrassment at writing this post: Should I celebrate my own birth? My knee-jerk response, despite the fact that I’m inherently self-absorbed (i.e. a writer), is, “No, too self-absorbed!” But upon reflection, it occurs to me that this may, in fact, be one of the few occasions when it’s actually appropriate for me to celebrate myself.
I mean, there are still so many things I’m trying to fix about myself (there, you see how self-absorbed I am?), especially the one Big Thing behind all the little things—what the theologians call my “sin nature.” And yet, despite all these things. I really am glad I was born.
Because I love existing. I love having constant opportunities to grow. I love being able to love–others, that is, even if I’m sometimes rather bad at it, and, yes, even myself. But most of all, I love existing, so that I can love my Creator.
Therefore, ahem, thank you God, for giving me all of these things to do and to love. And, today at least, thank you for that first thing that made my doing all these other things possible: Thank you for, you know,