I went out for dinner on Monday night with my three children, Miriam, Esther and Silas. Miriam’s away at university now and Esther heads off in September, so the opportunities for us all to be together are increasingly limited.
This dinner was special though, because until my birthday later this month, we are 100 years old: Miriam’s 20, Esther’s 18, Silas is 12 and I’m 50.
Esther worked this out some months ago; otherwise it would have entirely passed us by. And so what, I hear you think. So what indeed?
It’s hardly the most striking of anniversaries. It doesn’t happen on a single day, but over the weeks between Esther’s birthday and mine. No one but us could possibly care about it. But we ate and drank with happy relish, we pinched each other’s food, we teased each other (everyone gets teased in our family), we told stories and remembered ridiculous things we’d done and we laughed like drains. And at the end I managed about a dozen words of tribute to the three of them before getting too teary to continue; or ‘going a bit Sound of Music’ as it’s known in our house.
The thing is, sometimes it’s good just to find something to celebrate, to conjure up a reason to be in company with people you love and to revel in it without waiting for a birthday, or an anniversary or some special achievement.
Before he died, Jesus was having dinner with friends, when one of them, Mary, took a fantastically expensive bottle of scented ointment and bathed his feet. It was an outrageous thing to do. But when one of Jesus’ disciples complained about the waste, Jesus told him to back off. “Leave her alone,” he said. “I won’t always be here to celebrate with”. And it’s true. We never know what might happen to the people we love. Life is fragile. But that doesn’t have to be a reason for caution or worry: it can be a reason, instead, to do something wild, to invent something to celebrate. Go ahead. Count the years. It might be your 100th sooner than you think.