“She had a kind of holiness about her that came from her belief that she had a direct line to God, which she used regularly. ”

I never thought I would be 67. Not in a morbid way like I might not make it; just didn’t think much about aging, you know, the particulars about the process. But this birthday, not a milestone celebration like when the decades tick over, has nevertheless found me reflecting on all of it. The signs are clearer now, the deeply veined hands, the morning achiness, the lines framing my face, the knees, yes, the knees!

My mother would tell me the story of my birth often and, in the telling, remind me that I was special. Not that all of her pregnancies and all of her babies weren’t unique and noteworthy. She had that gift, the one where knowing and raising so many didn’t diminish her capacity to love but expanded it. But me, well, I was, as she said, very special. My many siblings would probably agree with this particular fact (though their definition of “special” might not be as complimentary).

It was already hot in Cleveland on the cusp of the summer solstice 1952 when I was born. The birth was unremarkable except for the fact that it happened at all. My mother had lost three pregnancies before my brother Matthew was born 13 months before me. Each of the miscarriages followed the same relentless script. First trimester fine, second trimester spotting, cramping, hospitalization, and then the inevitable. The hope that Matt’s birth would begin a new unfolding of successful births ended when, 4 months into her term with me, the old realities returned, bleeding, cramping, hospitalization. They told her they would keep her comfortable while the inevitable proceeded, they told her there was no hope, they told her it just wasn’t meant to be, they told her it was God’s will.

My mother was tiny and lovely and fierce and feisty and full of Grace. She had a kind of holiness about her that came from her belief that she had a direct line to God, which she used regularly. She listened – mostly. But not this time. This time she dug her heels in and she spoke. She said, directly and firmly, “No, not this time, not this baby. This baby will be born because I say so, and I am this baby’s mother.” And she got up and she went home and 5 months later she returned to make good on her declaration - delivering me into my life. This, she told me, is why I was so special.

Now, though I never said it to her, I have always thought the power of that story was that it showed how very special she was, not how special I might be. But now, thinking about it as I enter my 68th year, maybe what she saw as special in me was a belief that in some mysterious and profound way we had joined forces in that moment of determination and resolve when she informed God of her intentions.

Now, I have her hands, marked by age, and I hope I can cultivate her heart and her spirit as I grow older. On this birthday I am deeply grateful for that day she talked back to God, and that she told me this story again and again and for the gift of her seeing me as someone special.