The calendar pages flutter in the breeze reminding me that summer is behind us. Autumn has arrived and with it comes my birthday week. My heart vacillates somewhere between trepidation and excitement.  Deep in my soul I know that every day is a gift- before my feet hit the floor I breathe in and out. I thank God for a new day and do my best to recognize that it is His breath in my lungs. But, I would be less than honest to not share a bit of the trepidation…

For women like us, it starts with our morning routine. I do some stretches in bed under the sheets to wake up those joints. After matcha, breakfast, and time in my Bible, I head upstairs. Then it begins. I smile and greet the collection of jars: anti-aging eye cream carefully designed to hide fine lines and puffiness, oil and moisturizer for those hard- to-hide wrinkles, and to round things out some light anti-aging foundation designed to plump up one’s skin and conceal any inconsistencies in skin tone.

For women like us, I imagine a different marketing strategy.  Some pro-laughter eye cream beautifully formulated to highlight the number of times JOY has made its way to my eyes. Perhaps some oil and moisturizer to announce to the world how many sleepless nights were spent rocking a newborn baby. And… to round things out some light pro-aging foundation, designed to let my husband see my skin as a testament to the decades of love we’ve shared.

For women like us, I would like to have a cup of tea with the creators of the commercials who encourage us to ditch our original hair color, lose another 5 pounds, slather on as much cream as possible in the battle against cellulite, and try- really strive- to look at least 10 years younger than the number on our driver’s license.

What would I say to them? I would remind them that my hair, my weight, and yes- my cellulite- will never define me. They will never know how many times I’ve laughed so hard I cried and may or may not have peed my pants. They can never estimate the worth of those 5 pounds as they cushioned my hip when I held a fussy baby there. And they will never understand the grab bag of emotions that my skin wears today: the graduations, the weddings, the births, the deaths, and the scars that surgery leaves in its wake.

For women like us, I want to remember that our birthday weeks are a celebration of our stories.  That before we were even babies, God was dreaming of us. He was thinking: “And now I am going to write the story of Pam, Kate, Denise, Beth, Joy, Margaret, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.”  And He was smiling- knowing exactly how He would weave every moment of Joy, Sorrow, Fear, and Excitement into those stories. He was covering our hearts, our spirits with such a warm blanket of Love and Acceptance that if we ever realize the depth of that Love- we will be completely awestruck.

For women like us, I envision our Heavenly Father exhaling, grinning, and exclaiming, “TA-DA!” as He fashioned our hair, our skin, our eyes, our souls.

For women like us, I blow out my candle and make a wish. I wish for another calendar year, another chance for Life to write the passage of Time on my face and body.   For women like us, I want to try- really strive- to remember that when it is time to go Home, I want to look like I spent my years. For women like us, I want to put fresh flowers on the kitchen table “just because,” light those new candles, and use that beautiful china on a random Wednesday night.

For women like us…