birthday existentialism.

For some time now, birthdays have been bittersweet to me. Maybe that's just a sign of getting old.

On the one hand, I love a birthday party. This year, my friends gathered in The Basement for a day of football (major) and to celebrate my 23rd birthday (minor). I passed out orange and blue shakers-- only about half the crowd participated, the others mumbled something about crimson-- and we watched ESPN from the time Alabama kicked until the last second of the Auburn game. We ate... and ate... and ate some more: chocolate chip cake, chips, brownies, cheese sticks, potato skins... And, during a time out of course, I blew out my lone candle... twice. Because 23 candles would be a tight fit. At one point in the night, I was lifted up in my chair, like a scene out of a Jewish wedding.

On the other hand, I hate the finality of it. As a child, I can remember my dad saying things like, "Lindsey, you turn ten tomorrow. You'll never be nine again. Are you sure you're ready?" At the time, I was more than ready. Forget nine. Nine is for losers; it's all about the double digits! At 15, I thought the same thing. See ya later, Fifteen. Eat my Honda Accord dust. And the last day of my seventeenth year, I could've cared less. Adios, seventeen. You're totally high school to me now. The day I turned nineteen though... that was weird. Nothing good comes with 19, nothing but age. At twenty-one, birthday were alright again. That milestone age is quite glamorous in a college town.

So here I am, twenty-three. Never again will I be twenty-two. Seems obvious enough, but it's somehow still a bit biting.

Twenty-three years old. Closer to twenty-five than twenty, and yet so much further away from clarity than I was the year before. Last year on my birthday, I had it all planned out. Life was far from perfect, but it was stable. Consistently mediocre. My days were routine: internship, work out, dinner, sleep. In my relationship, I laughed more than I cried, and that seemed good enough. In my spiritual life, I attended church as regularly as most, said my prayers each night before bed, and even picked up a devotional book from time to time. Not perfect... but consistently mediocre.

The entirety of my twenty-second year was one of the roughest of my life. I left my home in Auburn. I started grad school on a campus I've never liked. My one-time best friend became my ex in what seemed like a matter of seconds. And my life-- my consistent, stable, mediocre, safe life-- changed for good.

Or at least I hope it's for good.

Weren't expecting that curveball, hm? See, while I'm glad to see 22 go (but not exactly happy to see 23 arrive), in a lot of way... in the most important ways... it was the best year that ever happened to me. Honestly, it's bizarre to even read that as I type it out. There were days in February when I didn't want to get out of bed, but here I am. There were days still in March when I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to eat. I'd love to say it ended there, but it didn't. For months, I was broken.

But when you're broken, every day you manage to navigate through becomes a success. Every day you force a smile and accidentally laugh becomes an exceptional day. And somehow, your once mediocre life becomes an exceptional life. Because when you're broken, you realize how fabulous your friends are, how outrageously supportive your family is, and how unfathomably big your God is.

Sure, there was heartache and betrayal. There were lonely days and a lot of tears. But more than that, there was love. Unconditional love and grace like I've never known. And it was worth the trade. I know more about love now than I did when I was drowning in it. My need for Christ is more like my need for oxygen than it is my need to check Sunday School off my to-do list. This year on my birthday, I didn't have a plan for myself like I did last year. This year, I had no expectations of the year ahead might hold. And maybe that's a good thing... after all, last year's expectations didn't turn out so hot.

So, yes. I'm glad to see 22 go. Twenty-two, it's been real and it's been fun... but it ain't been real fun. 23, I don't like the looks of you... being all buddy-buddy with 25 and all. But I'm willing to give it a shot.

**Last night in class, we talked about existentialism. It's bizarre how that panned out... on my 23rd birthday, we discussed Death and all his friends as a class, life being what you make of it, and so on. So these deep thoughts are brought to you by my impeccably timed adventures in grad school.

Happy birthday to me. :)