Happy Parent's Day

A birthday is a weird thing: it's meant to be special but, at the same time, can be very generic.

Cliches abound. The birthday cake. The birthday gifts. The dinner with family or friends. The pampering that goes with the day like a massage session, a trip out of town, or a stay-at-home leave free from work and stress. The many greetings that are superficial and the few which are heartwarmingly sincere.

All these are modes to celebrate. But it begs the question: what are we celebrating exactly? Are we celebrating the fact of having lived another year, an accomplishment that only 98% of the world's population can say they've achieved or will achieve in 2014? Are we celebrating the presumed growth and maturity that comes with aging? Are we celebrating it to remind people that we are God's gift to the world?

First, let's think about the most popular birthday: Christmas. Rightfully, we celebrate it because it marks the arrival of Jesus Christ. It marks that historic moment when God dismembered Himself, became powerless and vulnerable, and transformed into a crying baby. 

But this is not the only reason we celebrate Christmas. That's because, in the days leading to December 25, we also commemorate and celebrate the story behind Christmas. The readings point to the family history of the Savior, the shepherds in the field, the wise men (this reading is after December 25 though, if I'm not mistaken), and even the barn animals who are witnesses to a medical miracle: the first and perhaps only human baby who is a product of parthenogenesis and a virgin who gave birth without a midwife or a doctor in sight (and in a completely unsanitary setting if you don't know that yet). 

More importantly, we remember Mary who, with a meek yes, became the Mother of God. We remember also Joseph who got wind of God's plan only in a dream and, even so, still chose to believe it.

In short, when we celebrate Christmas, we actually celebrate both the birth and the story. 

This is important because when we apply this insight to our own birthdays, we become aware that our celebrations are incomplete: we don't usually remember the story behind our births let alone celebrate it.

But when we begin to give a second thought to the story, something opens up. In my case, I begin imagining a young woman who was probably cursing at the universe while she was pushing me out of her womb (This boggles me: after millions of years of evolution, why is childbirth still painful?). I also imagine a man almost my age right now, thinking to himself, "How am I supposed to raise two kids with my (choose adjective) salary?!" Finally, I imagine a young couple who got stupid, fell in love, and created me.

The story matters and it's important that we celebrate and remember it for two reasons.

First, because by doing so, we break down the edifice of narcissism and self-worship characteristic of this hyper-commercialized event. 

And second, when we do so, we start realizing that our birthdays are not really about us. Birthdays are ultimately about our parents: about the mother who gave birth and the father who held her hand afterwards.

In sum, a birthday is never just a celebration of life; it's a celebration of the people who made that life possible in the first place.

So to the two persons responsible for my birth: Happy Parent's Day.