My wife recently turned 78, and, as expected, reminded me of her birthday over and over during the previous month, as I wanted her to. I did not object—at my age, I need her reminders. I am barely aware of my own birthday but see nothing about it to celebrate.
A birthday celebration for a child is always a celebration of the future ahead (Now you’re 12! Soon, you’ll be in high school!), but as we age, the celebration somehow changes to a celebration of our past life. (Wow, you reached your 80s! Did you vote for Lincoln? Our future potential is discretely ignored.)
Heaven would not be heaven if we had to spend eternity at our age and condition when we died. Old and feeble for eternity? Never! Surely we could chose what we wanted. For me, it would be 12-years old, without hesitation. And heaven would look a lot like East Lansdowne on a hot summer evening.
But, back to the subject. It dawned on me, it would make more sense for my wife to celebrate the day before her birthday as her last day of being 77. An appreciative goodbye to the year. Soon, 77 will seem young to her . . . and far off.
A Goodbye Day would be worth celebrating. I will suggest it for next year, but I don’t expect it to fly.