birthday wishes

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are traveling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.

But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loitering—waiting, waiting for the station.

“When we reach the station, that will be it!” we cry. “When I’m 18.” “When I buy a new 450L Mercedes Benz!” “When I put the last kid through college.” “When I have paid off the mortgage!” “When I get a promotion.” “When I reach the age of retirement, I shall live happily ever after!”…

... Sooner or later, we must all realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.

“Relish the moment” is a good motto [. . . .] It isn’t the burdens of today that drive [people] mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are the twin thieves who rob us of today.

So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

--Robert J. Hastings

I’m not particularly fond of sentimental quotes, but I found this while looking for a card for my niece’s birthday. McKayla, who turns ten today, isn’t the one who needs to read this. She has a healthy fondness for the journey—the barefoot, ice-cream-filled, skipping through the flowers, dancing with her sisters journey.

When Kayla was about two years old, my mother drove her home from daycare one day. Kayla, a vigilant backseat driver, noted that her grandmother was speeding. “Slow down, Mary!” she bellowed from her car seat.

Happy birthday, Kayla. May you always relish the journey.

And slow down, Mary. The station will come soon enough.