Well, I just turned 61 today, and what a wonderful day it has been! First, a heartfelt thank you to everyone who sent birthday greetings—calls, texts, posts, messages, emojis, and all the little ways you remembered me. I read every single one with a smile, and it reminded me just how lucky I am to have so many people who care, in ways big and small. Truly, you made my day.
My wife treated me to lunch at a new restaurant, and we took a sunshiny drive there—simple, but it made me feel seen and celebrated.
Digital Gestures of Care
Birthdays have a way of making you pause and think. When I was growing up, birthdays meant a cake, a few candles, maybe some songs, and people you cared about gathered around. A letter in the mail, a phone call—it was simple, but it carried weight. You felt seen. You felt loved.
Today, birthdays appear on Facebook, Instagram, or even in robo-emails. People you haven’t spoken to in years drop a quick “Happy Birthday!” or a heart emoji. I used to think such greetings were impersonal, but I’ve come full circle. Even a few words typed quietly are remarkable—small bridges connecting one life to another.
And I’m talking about love, my friends—not the neon-hot Hollywood-hyped type, but the kind that comes from choosing, the conscious decision to care for someone, however deep the relationship might be. Agape love. The medium might have changed, but the message remains: I see you. You are of value to me.
Love, Receiving and Giving
I’ll be honest—I’m not always good at receiving that love. Sometimes I want it on my terms, in certain ways, or not at all. And that’s a pretty poor way of looking at it. I’m not always easy to love either. I’ve also got a tendency to be stingy with my love, to only give it to those who “deserve it,” or to those who are “like me,” or to those who fit neatly into the pigeon-holes I’ve built.
But birthdays remind me that I can choose otherwise. A birthday is a gift you’re given year after year, Earth-lap after Earth-lap around the Sun—a never-ending stream of love that began with a spank as we entered the world screaming.
“As you enter this life
I pray you depart
With a wrinkled face
And a brand new heart”
I’ve got the wrinkled face down pat; I’ve just got to rely on Help renewing my heart. And the good news is this: I’ve been freed from my old ways, and I can choose otherwise.
Love in Real Life
Beyond social media, there are stories of effort that remind me what connection really looks like. Today, I received a call from a sweet nonagenarian who moved heaven and earth to find my number and wish me a happy birthday. She played a role in my first-grade, six-year-old formative years, and she reached across decades just to make contact. That call reminded me that connection is about effort, intention, and care.
As I write this, I just got off the phone with a family member who survived a brush with disaster on the highway today. That family member is doing fine and called to wish me a happy birthday and to assure me that all was well. Wow! After all that one has been through today, that I was in there somewhere is such a gift. That sort of put an exclamation point on my reverie, if you get my meaning.
Receiving birthday wishes from friends I’ve never met in person, only online, reminds me of how vast life’s reach can be. Even if we don’t share the same beliefs or backgrounds, we can still care for one another. We’ve connected enough to “stick,” something physical proximity alone cannot guarantee. Having lived through the passing of my father and watched my family circle shrink, reaching my six decades leaves me thinking about connection like an ember that glows despite the cold, in a world that often resists it.
Even with the noise of notifications and the occasional comparison—who got the most wishes, who threw the biggest party—the real gift of a birthday is deeper. A phone call, a written note, a quiet pause to notice the small, tender moments—these are the blessings no algorithm can track. Life is lived there, in those moments, not in the tally of digital hearts.
Quiet Grace
And if you notice the love in these gestures—the choice someone made to care, even in small ways—you catch a glimpse of something bigger. Grace can show up quietly, in unexpected ways. Those tiny taps on a device, those few words typed or spoken, carry warmth, connection, and hope. They remind us that love still moves through the world, even when it feels like walls and distance hold sway.
But I’ve preached at you long enough. It’s time to step back into my everyday stream of life. Today got me thinking—and here’s where it led me… and you.
That, I think, is the meditation a birthday can offer: to be thankful, present, and aware of the people—and the quiet grace—that make life worth celebrating.
That’s it for now. Thanks for showing up. It matters.
Veni, Vidi, Scripsi 