When I turned 50 more years ago than I like to think about, I began to detest birthdays. Attaining the half-century mark was certainly preferable to the grim alternative, but truthfully, I was not deeply stirred by such consolation. The thought of having a birthday from year to year simply lost its luster.

We wish Mama a happy 89th today.  If it's not a happy birthday for her, it sure is for us.

We wish Mama a happy 89th today. If it’s not a happy birthday for her, it sure is for us.

So we came to Mama’s 89th birthday (today) as we gathered to celebrate it over the weekend. She may feel the same way-only-worse as I do about the mounting years, but as I reflect, perspective means everything: I don’t like my own birthday very much, but I sure am happy that Mama had a birthday we can celebrate with her; and I am confident she feels the same way today, personally loathing the yoke of advancing age and the ordinary physical affliction that attends it, but she must find some encouragement, knowing that her family and loved ones find her enduring life an occasion to celebrate.

So let’s me frame this perspective as an encouragement for (hopefully many) years to come: May birthdays in advancing years be “happy” celebrations, if not for me strictly, for my loved ones and friends who really are glad I’m still hanging around.

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