I turned 46 in the most festive way by blowing out candles jammed into a pumpkin pie — the official cake of November. Brittany easily found all the birthday candles in our cupboard and lit a fire hot enough to toast marshmallows and make s’mores — the official sandwich of November.

Strangely warmed pumpkin pie was one of the last things that happened on my 46th birthday.

The first thing that happened was me waking up. Of course, that’s something I’ve done just about every day of my life (indeed there were a few adolescent hibernation stretches during High School where I slept through an entire Thursday.) Practically speaking, I’ve woken from sleep every day. However, Monday was the first day I woke up as a 46 year old. That’s something new.

After the morning ceremonials, I was off to prayer in my garage abbey, which makes my lawn chair and retired dining room table pushed against scooters and flanked by toolboxes sound like something it’s not. The place of prayer is… the place where you pray. It needs not be fancier than that. I was still waking up, not just in my body but in my heart, soul, and mind.

As I prayed, I thanked God for the 45th year and asked for certain graces and mercies for year 46 — an increased awareness of His presence, a love that loves Him for who He is and not what He can do, and for me to be anxious about the right things — not the obstacles of life but the obstacle of self that limits reception of unfailing love. I spent time in Psalm 84, which I think will be my jam for year 46 because it expresses the Psalmist’s desire to be in God’s presence, whether the temple or the pilgrimage, going from strength to strength, and trusting Him for the results.

At Central, our team has been working on big picture stuff for the new year. A five hour online meeting may not be the place one would expect God to move, but He surely did. We were mysteriously unified around a common idea that will help build structure for the church in 2026 and beyond. A blessing. An awakening.

Brittany and Cam showed up at my office with my liquid love language: decaf coffee, Coke Zero, and a few dozen birthday donuts for my co-laborers in Christ. People did that thing where they cut a donut in half, eat it, and then come back after a few minutes and eat the other half. This is a ritual that every office worker knows.

Once I got home, it was time to feast. We chose Texas Roadhouse because 1) steak and 2) rolls with cinnamon-infused butter. As long as a restaurant has Chicken Nuggets, French Fries, and Sprite, Cam will happily dine. The servers shouted across the restaurant that it was my birthday, and I’m sure several people were possibly interested. Mostly my family. The leader of the singing server crew, the guy wearing the cowboy hat and has a God-given megaphone for a voice, asked me my age in front of everyone.

“Rude,” I said. Just kidding.

I said “I’m 67.” I did this precisely for my son who, like the rest of the enlightened world, has been taken captive by a random number sequence like we haven’t seen since The Macarena. Not only does 6-seeeveeen it ruin the joke — why was six afraid of seven — it also ruins basketball scores, math classes, and economically-minded thermostat settings.

Anyway, the crew at the restaurant didn’t smile at my audacious claim of being 67 years old, and that stung a bit. One must remember that, to the young, anything over 40 is roughly 70.

But I wouldn’t let a number ruin my birthday. I embraced it. Well, Cam embraced it. Brittany un-embraced it and told the servers I was actually 46, which is surprisingly close enough to 67 that they would have believed either age. “Yee haw!,” they said, and I agreed. It’s good to be alive. Even better than that bloomin’ onion thing they have there.

We got home and I opened wonderful gifts from my family — the people who are the real gift. However, after eating all that steak and onion blossom and rolls and complimentary ice cream (Yee Haw) I wasn’t really prepared — gastrointestinally speaking — to eat pie.

I’ve counted this as a birthday week. Not because I think I deserve that level of celebration but because Facebook kept telling me about your kind birthday wishes over the last few days. Thank you all very much. So, although the great Pumpkin Fire of 2025 was the last thing that happened on my 46th birthday on Monday, it has been a week of being thankful that I’ve made it this far and thankful for you.

As for the pie, it’s long gone now. Been a good week.