I don’t really do birthdays.

I’m fine with your birthday. And I like a good slice of supermarket sheet cake like any grown man. But count me out on July 14th. I don’t want any of it! I’m not interested in anyone making a fuss about the day I was thrust into the world. Thankfully, in the last few years it’s been increasingly easier to let my birthday fall under the radar because serendipitously our family has been out of the country on that day. So with the hustle and bustle of currency exchange and driving on the wrong side of the road, my birthday becomes a footnote—just the way I like it.

This year I began to question my motives. Why am I such a grouch over this one day? Why do I turn into a Class A jerk if someone hands me a thoughtful gift? Just two weeks ago we were in Haiti on my birthday. I sternly informed my family and those we were traveling with that birthday parties are for toddlers and I had no interest in turning our trip into something silly. They all rolled their eyes and promised not to say a word. And true to their character, they didn’t. My wife did sneak in a Happy Birthday and a kiss when no one was watching, but she gets a pass.

This little bit of self-discovery has been painful. Dragging our frailties into the light of Jesus, His perfect love and saturating grace is what we need, but boy, does it hurt! I have argued with God over these little revelations, and yet He has been increasingly gentle in helping me get free. This is where I have landed thus far. I don’t like birthdays because of:

Disappointment . . . in myself. Every new year reminds me what I haven’t done; where I have missed the mark; not taken a chance; failed in trusting Jesus for something risky; chosen not to obey in the small areas. Birthday parties, like pity parties, are not allowed. I don’t let myself dwell too long on where I have screwed up. But this one day, my birthday, forces me to look to where I have been before, and I don’t often like what I see.

Pride. Pride is the backbone of manipulation. Pride shouts, “Look at me! I’m amazing!” So it’s ironic that I shout at people to not look at me. Don’t make a big deal of me on this day. But secretly, deep down, even in places I’m not aware of, I know how to manipulate people. If you want to make sure someone takes notice of you, shout at the top of your lungs, “Don’t look at me!” My fractured little heart wants everyone to make a big deal about me. I want to be the center of attention. But I can’t trust my heart. Perhaps this is why Solomon gave us instruction to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart,” (Proverbs 3:5) instead of calling us to trust in our hearts.

I’m scared of growing old. On my birthday I am more aware of my mortality than ever before. And I don’t like it. I feel like a package of meat that has an expiration date stamped on it—but I can’t quite make it out. How long do I have before I begin to stink up the place? For clarity, I’m not afraid to die. I long to meet Jesus face to face. But I am afraid of losing my mind or getting stuck in a wheelchair or losing any semblance of who I used to be. I wonder why I am like this. Then I re-read the last paragraph. Oh yeah–pride. I see many wonderful saints growing old gracefully and full of gospel passion. And I see many more growing old content to fill their time with TV and shell collecting.

Birthdays scare me. But mostly birthdays scare me awake. I am afraid to live without purpose. I fear failure, but I fear not trying even more. I tremble thinking my last days will be about comfort and convenience. So I fight this one day of the year with the only tool that has any power.

Grace.

It silences the whispers of regret and pride and fear. And God reminds me that each day (birthday or not) is a gift—like a well-wrapped, well-timed present.

So next year, the 44th anniversary of my life on this planet, I welcome all the birthday shenanigans. Not because I need them, but because I can appreciate what they are. Bring on the sheet cake, a table full of gifts, a house full of friends, but mostly, the never ending grace to move me to another year.