Another year. Another birthday. Last year was a significant one. The Big Five-O. Actually, it was my best birthday yet.

I haven’t always enjoyed my birthdays. I’d always felt bad – even guilty – for friends and family trying to celebrate me. Trying to find a gift that I wouldn’t want to return and a card with a sentiment that reflected my personality. Or planning a memorable, enjoyable event or some sort. So much pressure, right?

If I was lying on a psychiatrist’s couch right now relaying earliest memories of birthdays, it would certainly all go back to my fifth birthday party. The one that started it all that never really happened. The one where my mom invited five of my neighborhood friends but only bought the five-pack of party hats so guess who didn’t get one? The one when it came time for gifts, my mom gave them all back to my guests. The one with the black and white photo of me crying at the small wooden table surrounded by five little girls in party hats. In retrospect, I feel bad for my mom in all of this since at the time our family had few friends, no money, was living in graduate student housing, spoke very little English, and culturally speaking had no clue about American birthday protocol.

It did take years for me to realize why I always felt like it was wrong to be celebrated and the center of attention.

My poor husband. On my thirtieth birthday, he tried to plan a surprise dinner with both sides of the family. He was successful in that I was definitely surprised. I showed up at the restaurant with a toddler and infant in tow as well as me wearing sweats covered in baby formula/spit up/poop, no make-up, no shower, and hair pulled up in a pony tail. Neither child had napped and were grumpy the entire evening.

By my fortieth, Dave was probably fed up with me whining about my birthday. Whining because I didn’t want to do anything to celebrate.

Since I started running in my forties, birthdays have evolved – or rather – revolved around races. I think it was 2013 when I first told friends I was running the Rocky Ridge ultra half marathon on my birthday that year and most of the responses were like “Really?” “Why?” “How is that fun?”

I kicked up the birthday “fun” several notches in 2014 when I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in D.C. on my birthday thanks to leap year.

The Big Five-O last year was the first birthday I think I truly let go and embraced my special day as that – a day to celebrate me. Sounds rather self-indulgent and egotistical when I say it that way. However, over the years – and through much prayer on Dave’s part – I’ve learned that God intended it that way. Not the self-indulgent, egotistical part. The celebrate me part. It’s really an opportunity to celebrate the life He created and continues to faithfully bless and protect year after year. And an opportunity for friends and family to celebrate with me.

I mean I think I’ve known this intellectually for years, but it took turning fifty to let it truly sink in.

I started writing this post two days ago. Yesterday was my 51st birthday. It fell on a Thursday, so no races. Not a significant one like Sweet 16, 18, 21, or the decade markers. But in true runner’s fashion, I had to go on a birthday run. Of course, I headed out to my Happy Place at the Lafayette Reservoir. It was on the warm side but gorgeous nonetheless. I invited one person to my birthday run. Just Jesus.

I was so excited to get the party started that I forgot to start my Garmin until mile one. I wanted to do something crazy and run four Upper Rim Trail loops – something I’d never done before. I’d done three loops a few times but never four. That would be 20 miles of hills, so of course I wanted my Garmin to commemorate the day. I’d have to back track later on to make up for starting my watch late. It’s okay – nothing was gonna ruin my plans! Birthday tunes in the form of my favorite rockin’ worship songs kicked off the celebration. A few miles later, I was so immersed in running, singing, praying…and crying. As I reflected on the past year, it brought me to tears recounting God’s faithfulness. On one of the hill climbs, Jesus and I had the best birthday cake in the form of Psalm 34:8.

“Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good; Blessed is the man who trusts in Him!” NKJV

And since it’s my birthday run, this version of the same verse:

“Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see— how good God is. Blessed are you who RUN to him.” MSG

And then the Holy Spirit brought people to mind to pray for in hopes that they, too, could TASTE and SEE how good it is to “run” with Him. And this also brought me to tears…like my heart actually hurt (partially from the steep climb) longing for loved ones to know God the way I know Him.

After that, the spotlight changed. It was no longer MY birthday party. It was Jesus’. I spent the rest of the run showering Him with gifts of praise. No Hallmark cards. Just little ol’ me lifting up my hands, joined with majestic oaks, beautiful wispy clouds, much needed breezes, and a glistening reservoir all worshiping our Creator.

Around mile ten, I was thinking “Hey, it’s not as hot today as I thought it would be.” I spoke too soon. I had brought plenty of party food – GU gels and a Clif bar – and had indulged heavily in the beverage of choice – cool, sweet water from the drinking fountains. But my legs were feeling heavy. “NOOOOO, I’m only half way through this party!” Determined, I started my third loop up the Rim Trail. Those same hills I had charged up a few hours ago seemed much steeper now. I had to slow way down.

What’s the deal here?! I had just run three loops on this same trail last Friday – no problem! I managed to forget that it was probably thirty degrees cooler that day. As I trudged along, I heard Jesus reminding me that this was His party. And that He planned it for my own good. And since this was Day One of my 51st year, that I should pace myself.

So Jesus and I finished three solid loops and fifteen hilly, warm miles together yesterday. I feel pretty good today. No hangover, no regrettable party behavior. I think this year is off to a good start.