by Kevin Burton
Today we talk birthdays on what would have been my mother’s 92nd. She died May 4, leaving an unfillable hole in my heart and life.
She is gone from this life but far, far from forgotten. There were many special days while mom was with us. Birthdays were among the most special.
In the years we were together on my birthday she would always bake me a birthday cake. I remember asking for a chocolate cake with green icing one year so I could have a “green 13.” I guess I did so again, because I recently found a picture of a green cake when big numeral 1 and 7 candles on it. Guess I had a green 17 also.
In years we lived apart, Mom would always call on my birthday and sing Happy Birthday to me. I could count on it. If memory serves though, she did not do so in 2024. That was the year my sister Pat died – on my birthday.
Can’t be a much worse thing that can happen on your birthday. I said at that time that my sister’s death “saved me from ever having to celebrate my birthday again.” I meant that.
To that end, I took my birthday off my Facebook page last year, so I would not get dozens of reminders of that horrible day Pat died. That was helpful. It saved me some of the emotional torment. The day passed quietly with some acknowledgements of the day but no real celebration.
So why after only one year do I plan to put my birthday back into my Facebook info?
To tell that tale I need to first tell you a little about my mom.
She was the formal sort. She wanted to be called “Mrs. Burton” and not “Evelyn” most of the time. She talked a lot about what was “proper.”
Sometimes by “proper” she meant what was the style and manner of her time, what were the norms while she was growing up. She’s certainly not the only one to prefer her salad days to later days crammed with unwanted changes. But she was aggressive in talking about such things.
Her handwriting was emblematic of that attitude. She formed some letters with big sweeping flourishes, almost like she was a font unto herself. “Classic Evelyn,” or “Evelyn Bold” I guess.
As things turned out, 2025 was my last birthday where mom and I would be together as mother and son on earth. By that time she had passed her 91st birthday and her memory was mostly unreliable.
Between my wife Jeannette, my brother Steve and I, we would remind Mom what birthdays, anniversaries or other important days were coming up. This was not because we needed or wanted another card, or that we thought mom was going to buy us anything. It was because when the birthday came around, and we told her about it, Mom would be very, very angry with herself for having forgotten.
So it was that after a reminder from Jeannette my mother was writing out a birthday card for me. I knew what she was doing. I was busy with some paperwork or other, but I pretended to be busier than I really was.
She was struggling. She was laboring. She was taking a loooooong time.
At some point I told her she didn’t have to make this effort but she wasn’t hearing it. She wanted to finish a birthday message to me. She didn’t want anybody to help her either.
Mom was a proud woman, with more than a few things to be proud of in life.
This woman with the most beautiful handwriting, not long ago, at great length produced a card with writing that resembled that of a small child. And she knew it too.
As I said, she was a proud woman. But she was so determined to express her love for me that she didn’t care what it looked like. It took my breath away to say the least. I told her how much it meant to me and why.
That card is now among my most prized possessions. It’s a deeply touching memorial so filled with love that it makes me want to lean into birthdays again. I never thought I would say that. Never.
Now I’ll have to celebrate without Mom’s special Happy Birthday serenade, but that song will never be erased from my minds ear.
“I wish I could buy up half the world and give it to you,” is what Mom said after giving me that card.
She gave of herself. And that’s all I needed.
So Happy Heavenly Birthday Mom, a child of God in the arms of the Lord Jesus.
Page 7 