It was January 1980 and I was due to be born in February. My dad was fighting in the bush war when the contractions began and they had no way of contacting him. I was not expected for weeks and in those days, even if the men were around, they didn’t really get involved with birth like they do nowadays. Amazingly, like the sight of land when you are lost at sea, my father came walking through the gate when they least expected him to and he was there beside my mom when I was born. He tells me I have been talking since the moment my face was exposed to the outside world; he knows, he was there when I used my lungs and squawked for the very first time. We could see it as an absolute coincidence that he arrived home just in time to witness the birth of his child or we could dare to believe that our lives are being woven in a particularly complicated and beautiful way – everything working out for our good.
When the waters broke my aunt rushed to get a towel and decided that since all the cousins were boys up till now, she should specifically choose a pink towel. When they realised I was, indeed, a girl the student midwife threw her hat up into the air in a burst of unprofessional jubilation. When we say “Happy Birthday” every year on the same day, I believe we are not simply wishing that this particular day is a happy one, but we are declaring that the day of our birth is happy. Was happy. Will, forever, be happy. Yes, there may have been pain and swear words on that day, there may even have been a sorrowful sense of “this wasn’t supposed to be.” Maybe there were complications, tears and concern. Maybe nobody threw their hat into the air to welcome you in, but you are no mistake. Before the foundation of the world, He knew you. Before you were born, He set you apart. (Jeremiah 1 verse 5)
I was not around for the birth of one of my children. I am not sure exactly what unfolded on that day. We can deduce that all was not simple or going to plan and that there was probably very little celebration in the camp. A long way away, joined by an invisible thread stronger than an umbilical cord, I was waiting for him, longing for him, praying for him. When we finally found one another, I let that soft, unfamiliar little head rest against my bare chest and I grieved for lost time and rejoiced that we were together at last, forced to be content with the fact that some things are always going to be a mystery. He has a nap time routine that he insists on. We need the bottle full of milk (not too hot, not too cold) and the white muslin with the blue stars. We need the rocking chair and the fan must be on. When the milk is finished and the belly is full and the eyes are heavy we sing. And do you know what he wants to sing? Happy Birthday. Somehow he knows that there is power in the song, and every day he declares over his own life that the day of his birth was happy. And that is how he falls asleep with perfect lips smiling and not a care in the world.
The little children lead us. It is good news that you were born. Words are powerful, they create and destroy. Sing the song everyday if you need to, until your heart believes the truth.
John 17 vs 17 “Sanctify them by the truth; Your word is truth.”
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