I turned 38 on Tuesday. 38 years old. It makes my head spin. My morning began in the most beautiful way, for after sleeping in I stumbled out of bed to be greeted by my husband carrying a tray (you know we have a million hanging around the house) filled with cheesy scrambled eggs, sausage, bagel, and of course hot, hot, strong coffee. The little ones were in tow, singing a boisterous "Happy Birthday," cards in hand. For nearly forty minutes, I curled up in bed, eating, drinking, and staring out the window at the white snow blanketing the trees and ground, our bedroom fan twirling on high to block out any noise, like whining or fighting, which never happens in this house. Though my sweet husband called this "the poor man's birthday gift," I cannot think of anything more perfect, more desirable, than the gift he gave.
I was a surprise baby. My mother (and she will hate that I am publicly putting this out there) was 43 when I made my entrance; my father 46. As I spoke to my father last Tuesday evening, he related that he had trouble sleeping the night before and lay awake thinking about that moment 38 years earlier when in the wee hours of December 28, 1972, I was born. He communicated this via the phone because while my crew, my mother, and my sister and her family in from New Jersey, were crowded into my dining room opening Christmas and birthday presents and eating cake, he was lying in a hospital bed nearly an hour away alone. It was my first birthday he was physically absent from.
Suffice it to say, my family has been treading in uncharted territory over the last month. A week before Thanksgiving, my father was told that the pain he had been experiencing in his lower abdomen was the result of a rather large, "rare" tumor cemented to his bladder. In early December, my father, mother, and I endured a grueling, eight-hour day in Iowa City at the University Hospital to determine what should be done about this nemesis, finally arranging for surgery in early January. And then the Sunday before Christmas as our family was returning from my father-in-law's, my father, weakened by loss of blood, fell and was hospitalized. In a week and a half's time, he has been in two hospitals, here close to his home and then again in Iowa City. Yesterday Jared, my nephew Joey, and my brother-in-law John retrieved my dad from Iowa City and brought him to a rehabilitation center closer to my parents' home where he will be staying until his surgery and probably for some time thereafter.
A more profound, reflective person might be able to articulate his or her feelings about what 38 years on this earth means. As for me, I have three sleeping children, a six-year-old whom I can hear laughing outside with his friend across the street, a chicken boiling on the stove, and frosting to make and smother on a chocolate cake for a gathering this evening with one of my oldest friends and her mother. What I will say is that I, to steal from the title of C.S. Lewis' autobiography, over the course of these 38 years have been continuously surprised by joy- the unexpected joys of people, living and dead, placed in my life, as well as paths and opportunities bestowed upon me, and I am deeply grateful for God's grace in my life. My life has not turned out how I expected as a young angst ridden twenty something. Even my sorrows, which have been few, have not left me bitter and resentful but rather have further enriched me with God's love. I am presently optimistically happy and anticipate what God has for me and my family in the future. And I, to quote from one of my favorite Whitman poems, "lament not," for "I am content."
A blessed and peaceful New Year to you all. Know how deeply I love you and how much each of you mean to me. And please, if you think of it, remember my father, Ray, and my family in your prayers.
