should be the song I sing this morning to you, my 13 year old son. Pulling out the family celebrations plate for your birthday specially ordered breakfast should be the order of the morning. Of course, right after I drink some coffee, please.
Putting the finishing touches on your cake should be on my to-do list this morning. Making sure that your presents are completely wrapped and ready to be opened at your party should be on my mind. Preparing the food that you and your teenage buddies are going to scarf down at amazing speed should cause me to run out and buy just enough more.
Musing with your dad over where the years have gone should occur in the bathroom, because it's the only place we can talk and get a word in edgewise with your brothers. Answering the phone from grandparents, aunts and uncles who are calling to wish you Happy Thirteenth should tie up the phone for an hour, at least.
A silent counting of the few years I have left with you before you go off to college should cause swiftly swept away tears, before you notice them and grimace, "Aaah, mom, cut it out." Keeping your brothers from bothering you too much today should be a particular gift from me to you, although I know they would adore you. Watching your dad grab you by the back of the neck for a manly hug and handshake as even he realizes that the distance between his eyes and yours is steadily decreasing, should be a visual memory of today.
Instead, I'll spend some silent time alone remembering my last view of you--still, perfect and completely healed in a place I can only view with eyes of faith. Instead, I 'll spend some time holding your dad's hand a little too tightly while silent tears are squeezed out before the day even starts. Instead, I'll spend some time hugging your brothers who only know you through my words, a little more tightly and for a little longer, until they grimace and say, "Aaah, mom, cut it out." Instead, I'll spend some time looking at my favorite picture of you, where your smile and your eyes belie the disease that took your life.
Instead, I'll thank God that He both gave and took away, in His sovereignty granting me grace to know and adore Him more. Instead, I'll trust that the best birthday here cannot possibly be compared with the splendor of His presence. Instead, I'll cling by faith to a future day when every tear is wiped away. Instead, I'll praise the name of the Lord Jesus Christ who has conquered death, granting the enemy no victory at all.
Instead, I'll whisper Happy Birthday, son--I do so love you.