A few days ago I turned 37. While I don’t cry on my birthday, a cloud of sadness hovers over the “special” day each year. It’s like the smoke from recent wildfires that make their way from Canada to the East Coast. It’s nothing I’ve done, but when I wake up it’s just there. But unlike the wildfires, I didn’t always know where this birthday depression came from.
Like the smoke-filled air, on my birthday I wake up to social media posts and birthday texts; they’re just there. And not every year, but most years, I’ll get a text from a close friend who says, “I know you don’t like it, but happy birthday!” I always say thanks, even though I’ve somewhat despised the day for a good part of my life.
The last times I even remember celebrating my birthday were on my 21st at an Orioles game. I also celebrated by going to a bowling alley for my 10th. For whatever reason, I haven’t been fond of the day that’s meant to celebrate me. My original reasons were that I hated the idea of death and getting closer to it each day. Yet, as I’ve grown in my faith, the idea of death has become more comfortable. The physical experience still frightens me a bit, but knowing what comes after brings me great relief. I’m looking forward to being with Jesus.
But if I’ve accepted death, why do I still get sad? Why do I wake in a depressed state? Is it because I’m not as athletic? Maybe. Is it because I’m not as skinny as I once was? Maybe. But this year, I think I’ve identified the culprit. It looms in the air as I try to fight the birthday blues. It has to do with reflection.
I was created as a reflective thinker who internalizes much and shares little. (I know! I have a blog, but I promise my blog is just the tip of the thought and emotional iceberg.) I spend a great deal of time thinking. I reflect on my failures and what I could have done differently. I think about the people I’ve let down along the way. Many of these people love me and are happy to call me husband, dad, son, and friend still today. But my failures have become the backdrop against which I interpret everything about my life.
I think about raising my kids, and then I think of all the times I’ve failed a student. How can I ever raise my own? Or I look at going to seminary, but I’m struggling to finish a once-a-month theological course. I want to lead my family, and yet all I can think about is years of leadership failures.
So what do I do? What keeps me from spiraling out of control?
It’s only the return of Jesus.
Jesus’s return points to a hope—one where the past no longer lingers—where the backdrop of regret is replaced with grace.
Benjamin Vrbicek, in his book The Restoration of All Things, recounts a sermon by D.A. Carson in which Carson spoke of his friend becoming old and decrepit. When asked about the cure for an aging body, his friend replied, “Nothing a good resurrection can’t fix.”
Or I think of C.S. Lewis and the Pevensie children after their death, in a new world. Nobody looks back at the battles lost or victories over evil in the old Narnia. None of them even seem upset as they watch it get washed away. They just keep climbing farther in and farther up toward the great country of the untamed but good Lion, Aslan.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I will keep making mistakes in this world and regretting them, but onward and upward. Because one day I will stand before God the Father. He will not see me apart from His Son. He will see me clothed in the righteousness of His Son, whose works are beyond all measure and human comprehension. On that day I will no longer look at my failures or my achievements. Instead, I will look into the loving eyes of Jesus as He says, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
My birthday blues aren’t gone.
Yet, Jesus reminds me that the backdrop of my life isn’t regret but the finished work of the blood stained cross.
My life isn’t measured by wins and losses. It is measured by the continued sanctification of my heart.
My life is grounded in the return of Christ.
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