At 44 years of age, my dad’s life came to an end. He was
diagnosed with cancer at 42—the age I just turned—and it ended his life at 44,
the age my husband turns today. I was 17 when my dad died; my brother was three
weeks from his 22nd birthday. While losing a parent is heartwrenching
at any age, I’ve always seen God’s hand of grace in the ages we kids were when
He took my dad home. At 44, my husband’s children are 13, 11, 8, and 5. He has
so much work to do! But my parents, though not by intention, had children at a
much younger age. My mom, just 40 when my dad died, was left not with babies or
young children, but with near-adults who had learned what we needed to learn
from our dad. I see God’s sovereignty and mercy all over that.
I also laugh when I think how much my perspective has
changed. When people spoke at the funeral of how short my dad’s life was, how
it was such a tragedy to die so young, I remember thinking, “Well, heck, he was
44. He lived a good, long life!” And now that I’m just around the bend from
that “good, long life,” it’s suddenly not quite as lengthy.
When my brother turned 44 a couple years ago, I remember
sort of holding my breath for the year. This was it: the dreaded age. Though
unspoken, I think we’d both been mindful of its inevitability and unwelcoming
of its arrival. But he breezed through it without incident, and I was able to
breathe comfortably once more. Except today Kevin turns 44. It’s back again.
How thankful I am for your good health, my wonderful
husband, and for the way you make the most of each minute you spend with our
children. But I will hold you a bit closer this year, so prepare yourself. Happy Birthday, you youngster!
