It’s a simple thing to say, and I’m going to say it. It is not terribly theological or deep or profound…
Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. Let’s say it this way: It’s the first anniversary of his fiftieth birthday. Or the first year in his second half-century. And it is hugely important because he almost died this year.
I expected that my husband, six months younger than me, would last at least as long as I do. I cannot take that for granted anymore. Every day with him is another blessing from God, over and above the years we had together. Every day I remember that.
We’ve always kept birthdays very low-key, no real celebration, maybe just a prayer together. This year, I felt I had to do more.
It became a wonderful, luxury (for us, anyway) celebration and meal. Okay, no gifts, because I have no money for that, but a real commemoration of the day when his mother, now gone, said, “He is a gift from God.” (Which she really did.)
I am blessed to have him; I was always blessed to have him.