To those with no birthday

Yesterday I woke up before my alarm, sleepy until I remembered it was a special day. Then I felt overwhelmed in God's presence, who waits for me, for each of His children to wake up each morning so He can shower us with love. "I'm glad you were born," He impressed upon my heart in the quietness of a brand new day, before anyone else knew I was awake.

Lying still, I pictured all my littlest birthdays, before I knew Him, while He waited years for me to be told His story and learn to trust Him on purpose, instead of instinctively. He was with me at Chuck E. Cheese in California and Chimpy's in Illinois, present the first time I tasted cake and the times I was old enough to blow out candles. When I ran around with my friends and the soles of our socks got all dirty at Discovery Zone. I didn't know Him, didn't care that He was there, but He loved me and waited patiently until I did.

"Today is my birthday," I thought, and suddenly realized countless children in America never experience even one birthday, not even the one that starts the clock, because their mothers deemed a day of death would be better.

A birthday is a special thing. On the best birthdays, you're reminded that it matters that you were born. That someone, or many someones, are glad you were. That their lives, the world itself, would be different without you. That you are worthy of celebration, of smiles, hugs, cards, gifts, of being looked at and wished well. And of course worthy of being alive. Of course. Shouldn't that go without saying?

One birthday when you're old enough, you understand that years ago, your own mother, probably terrified and excited, removed shoes and clothes and entrusted herself to people she may not have known well, letting them hold her soft bare feet aloft, as she was brave and strong for you. Your birthday her birth day. Whether she's been with you ever since or you had only tumbleweeds where you needed a mama's love, she will always be your mother. Her gift can't be returned to the store.

I wish everyone would rest assured of this: much as your mother and father may love you, you've an even more direct parent. In the kingdom of God, no one is grandfathered in. Your earthly parents couldn't design you, neither assembling nor predicting eye color, hair color, height, talent, intelligence, personality. God designed you and pulled you into the world using your parents' raw material. God as the agent, you were a sacred gift entrusted to them. You have never been the property of another person. If ever they treated you that way, they were wrong to. From the moment of your conception, your body began where your mother's ended; after all, you are half your father, too. You lived inside her, yet with borders.

Please know, if you don't already, that you're wanted through and through. You belong here. You can become whole, free, and perfectly loved, with or without the consent or knowledge of your parents, whether they're here or gone. They never defined you fully. I speak from a mixture of listening, experience, and hope. I speak because I once needed this assurance. I give it on God's authority.

To all the little ones waiting in a warm place, impossibly fragile, skin too thin to touch, whose very presence is wordless hope and trust, a held breath waiting to be broken: I see you. Please forgive me for being too afraid to do much about it for too much of my life. To those who will never be sung to, or wished a happy birthday, or gently kissed on the scalp, or even smiled at: we remember you though you're all but invisible and we will never stop praying and fighting for your birthdays.