Today is my birthday.
Now, birthdays are curious things. When we are children, we count them with the enthusiasm of people expecting fireworks and cake to be permanent features of life. Somewhere around our twenties, we celebrate them with confidence. By middle age, we begin speaking of birthdays in the sort of hushed tones usually reserved for tax audits or dental appointments.
Eventually, one discovers that candles become less a decoration and more a legitimate fire hazard.
I have reached the age where the number itself matters considerably less than whether I can still remember where I left my glasses. Fortunately, I usually discover they are already perched on top of my head. This is one of the small miracles God continues to perform.
in my experience, growing older is much like owning a grandfather clock. It is stately, dependable, and full of character, but every so often it makes mysterious noises that nobody can explain. I find that comparison entirely reassuring.
Birthdays also have a way of becoming holy days.
Not because they are marked in the Church Calendar — although I would not object if someone suggested a Proper Preface for Birthday Cake — but because they invite us to stop and notice the grace that has accumulated over another year.
One cannot arrive at a birthday without travelling through a great many ordinary days. Thousands of breakfasts. Hundreds of sermons. Countless cups of coffee. A surprising number of misplaced car keys. More laughs than one remembers. A few tears one never quite forgets. All of them somehow woven together by the quiet faithfulness of God.
Every birthday is crowded with invisible guests.
I cannot help but think of my parents.
There was a time when they never missed this day. They were there at the beginning, after all, and for so many years they made birthdays feel wonderfully ordinary in the very best sense of the word. Today I miss their voices. I miss their laughter. I miss hearing them tell stories I had already heard a hundred times while pretending they were brand new.
Grief is an odd companion. It does not disappear. It simply learns better manners. It no longer dominates the room, but every now and then it gently taps you on the shoulder and reminds you how deeply you have been loved.
For that reminder, strangely enough, I have become grateful.
Then there is my sister and her family.
For years I did my very best to avoid birthday celebrations altogether. I have always believed that a quiet day with a good book, a comfortable chair, and perhaps an unreasonable quantity of pie was perfectly sufficient.
My sister, however, has never considered this an acceptable theological position.
She has consistently demonstrated that birthdays are meant to involve people, conversation, laughter, food, and enough affection to embarrass even the most reluctant recipient. She has been wonderfully persistent in reminding me that allowing others to celebrate you is sometimes every bit as important as celebrating them.
She was right.
Please don’t tell her I admitted that publicly.
Then there are dear friends.
One of life’s unexpected blessings is discovering that family grows larger than the people who happen to share your last name. Over the years, God has introduced remarkable people into my life — friends who have laughed with me, prayed with me, disagreed with me without disappearing, encouraged me, forgiven my occasional stubbornness, and gently reminded me not to take myself quite so seriously.
Good friends are one of God’s favourite ways of saying, “You don’t have to walk this road alone.”
As I look back over another year, I find myself far less interested in accomplishments than in companionship.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that success is measured less by what one has accumulated than by the people one would happily invite to sit around on the deck.
Of course, birthdays also encourage a little personal inventory.
I remain grateful beyond words for good health.
Having once travelled through some rather serious health challenges, I no longer assume that waking up feeling well is simply the normal state of affairs. It is grace.
To wake up eager for another day…
To enjoy walking…
To laugh easily…
To preach…
To cook…
To play a round of golf…
To delight in ordinary summer afternoons…
These are gifts.
None of them are guaranteed.
Every one of them is worth saying, “Thank you.”
Perhaps that is the real wisdom birthdays eventually teach us.
Not that we are getting older.
That part is painfully obvious whenever someone asks you to read the small print on a restaurant menu.
The real lesson is that life itself is astonishingly generous.
God keeps giving us another morning.
Another conversation.
Another opportunity to forgive.
Another chance to laugh.
Another sunset.
Another beginning.
I cannot honestly claim that I have grown wiser every year.
I have certainly grown older.
I have also grown slower at remembering names, somewhat louder in expressing opinions, considerably more appreciative of comfortable shoes, and increasingly convinced that naps deserve far greater theological attention than they have received.
But perhaps wisdom is not about knowing everything.
Perhaps wisdom is simply becoming more grateful.
One other thing has quietly marked this day for me over the past thirty-three years.
My birthday has also been the first day of my annual vacation.
That means August 1 has never simply been about getting another year older. It has also become the doorway into a season of rest. Every year, after Easter, Holy Week, Christmas, parish meetings, pastoral visits, sermons, weddings, funerals, and all the beautiful unpredictability of parish life, this day has gently whispered, “Now… breathe.”
Perhaps that is one more gift hidden inside a birthday.
It reminds us that God never intended life to be lived at full throttle all the time. Even Jesus stepped away from the crowds. Even creation pauses. Sabbath is not an interruption of life; it is part of the rhythm that allows life to flourish.
For thirty-three years, my birthday has been more than a celebration. It has been an invitation to rest, to play a little golf, to spend long afternoons with people I love, to linger over coffee, to read books that have been patiently waiting on the shelf, and to remember that before I am a priest, I am simply one of God’s beloved children.
So today I celebrate.
I celebrate another year I never could have planned.
I celebrate people I have loved and people who still love me.
I celebrate family, friends, parishioners, neighbours, and companions along the road.
Most of all, I celebrate the God whose goodness has quietly followed me through every chapter of my life—even the chapters I would never have chosen to write myself.
Another birthday.
Another lap around the sun.
Another reminder that grace has carried me farther than I ever imagined.
Thanks be to God.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe there is birthday cake requiring my immediate pastoral attention.
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A Birthday Prayer of Thanksgiving
Gracious and loving God,
Today I pause to give you thanks for another year of life.
Thank you for every joy that made me laugh, every challenge that helped me grow, every friendship that strengthened my heart, and every quiet moment in which your presence was nearer than I realized.
Thank you for the people who have loved me into the person I am today. I remember with gratitude those whose birthdays I once celebrated beside me, especially my parents, whose love still echoes through my life. Though I miss them deeply, I thank you that love is stronger than death and that precious memories remain your enduring gift.
Thank you for my sister and her family, whose generous love has so often reminded me that celebrations are meant to be shared. Thank you for dear friends who have walked beside me through seasons of laughter and sorrow, success and disappointment, always reflecting something of your own steadfast love.
Above all, thank you for the gift of health, for mornings that begin with hope, for work that still brings purpose, for the beauty of creation, for the privilege of serving your Church, and for the countless ordinary blessings that fill my days with quiet grace.
As I begin another year, grant me a grateful heart, a generous spirit, and a joyful sense of humour. Keep me curious enough to keep learning, humble enough to keep growing, and faithful enough to keep following wherever you lead.
May I never become so busy counting my years that I forget to count my blessings.
And when this next birthday arrives, may I look back once again with thanksgiving, knowing that your mercy has been new every morning and your faithfulness has never failed.
For all that has been,
for all that is,
and for all that is yet to come,
I give you thanks through Jesus Christ our Saviour.
Amen.