Florida Catholic | God Cares

love birthdays: mine, my friends, my acquaintances. I just love to celebrate life. So it’s no surprise that when we moved across town, I kept track of our former neighbors’ birthdays and sent celebratory cards to them each year.

Amy was one such neighbor and friend. Although we didn’t get together often, I always mailed her a birthday card. Always, that is, except for this one particular year.

That time, Amy’s birthday fell on a Sunday. All week long I kept thinking that rather than just mail her a card, I ought to stop by and personally wish her a happy birthday.

But I didn’t really have time for that.

Sending wishes in the mail would be so much easier, I reasoned. Our children were young, and after shuttling them to cheerleading practices, horseback riding lessons and gymnastics meets, Sunday was a day of rest. Besides, my husband was out of town on business. Dragging the kids with me could be a three-ring circus. It would be simpler just to send a card.

But something nagged me to deliver the birthday wishes personally.

All week long, I didn’t mail anything. On Saturday, when I grocery shopped, I bought a bouquet of red carnations, just in case. But after Mass on Sunday, storm clouds gathered. The kids baked cookies. I could have easily stayed home all day.

However, the unrelenting thought persisted.

Finally, late in the afternoon, I instructed our oldest daughter to take charge of her siblings. I grabbed the flowers and hopped into my car.

The drive to our former neighborhood is short, but the whole way I questioned the validity of my trip. Surely Amy had plans for her birthday. She had closer friends than me. Besides, her family would certainly be gathered for a celebration. I felt almost foolish to arrive, unannounced, knocking on her door.

But I did.

Amy was thrilled to receive the birthday flowers. She and her husband welcomed me in. The day was gloomy, and inside, the mood was somber. Their kids weren’t home. There was no birthday cake, festivities, dinner plans, or visitors. Something was missing, but I didn’t ask, and she offered no explanation. We chatted for a while before I had to leave.

When I did, Amy escorted me to the door. As she pushed it open, she looked me in the eye. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

I nodded. Of course, it was fun.

As I headed to my car, she thanked me again. Lowering her voice, she added, “You’ll never know what it meant for you to come by today.”

Her words caught my attention. I didn’t ask why she said that or what she meant by it, but her comment astonished me.

No, I didn’t know what it meant for me to visit her that day. But for some unknown reason, I was prompted to go. I didn’t know why it meant so much to her, but I didn’t have to.

God knew. And that’s all that matters.

Debra Tomaselli is a freelance writer in Altamonte Springs.

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