Yesterday was my birthday.  Ta-da.  Everybody has one.  Some of us have had more than everybody else.  In my family, everyone calls and sings "Happy Birthday to You" on the phone.  I love to hear my grandchildren and great-grandchildren's voices singing to me.  So sweet.

My son Scott was the only one of my children that forgot. (And he never forgets.)  He said it was God's fault--that was a new excuse!  He said it was because the redbud trees aren't blooming.

When my mother had me, it was snowing when she went into the hospital.  It was not an easy delivery.  Back then they didn't have the knowledge or instruments needed to correct the problem.  

After twenty or so hours, the doctor came to the waiting room and told my dad (and uncle Cleo who was waiting with him) that he had to choose.  He couldn't save us both.  Of course, my dad chose my mom, and he and Cleo began to pray.  Back then, it wasn't unusual for women to die in childbirth, and my mom was weak from being in labor for so long.

When the doctor began the procedure, I turned.  And was born.  Cleo and Dad said that when they went outside, the snow was gone and the redbuds were blooming.  So every year, when the redbuds start to bloom, I get Happy Birthday calls.  Whether it's the right day, or not.

So, this year the redbuds are late.  Who knows why?  Scott is blaming his forgetfulness on God.  I think I would be afraid to do that!!  However, he tells me that he associates my Birthday with the redbuds and not with a day.

So did everyone else in my family back in 1938.  So did everyone in my family for my entire life.