Friday, April 06, 2007


My first born child, my eldest son, was born on April 6th. He wasn't born on Good Friday, he was born on a Saturday and no where near the Paschal holidays. Some years he does get to celebrate his birthday on Easter... a double helping of chocolate bunnies and jelly eggs. But Good Friday? It just seems wrong.

For one thing, I have to go deeper now into the mystery and the agony of this day. Saying "Happy Birthday" today seems out of place. Can you be happy when the Son of God is out in the scorching sun dying in pain?

In our community we often postpone a Saint's Day if it conflicts with a special Sunday or other holiday... we transfer the propers for that saint to the next available day. Maybe that's what I should do with my son's birthday. On the other hand, he is important to me. I love him to the sky (as his wife often says). Transferring the propers for a dead saint is not the same as ignoring the anniversary of your own living flesh and blood. He turns thirty-nine this year... last year before all the over-the-hill jokes set in. Next year he'll officially be old, although he's mentioned that with the medications he takes and the series of botched hernia surgeries, he already feels like he qualifies. (I certainly qualify.)

Jesus would have known what to do about this complication. He might have celebrated first, and then performed whatever rites were required for the observance of his religion's high holy day. His message always stressed relationship over rhetoric. So... taking the lead of the one I am privileged to follow... Happy Birthday dear David! I love you to the sky.

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