Any Number will Do

"We know how old Martin was when the Japanese killed him" my uncle said it almost without emotion, "but the rest of us, we don't know our birthdays." My uncle was referring to his siblings. Martin is their oldest brother who was killed by the Japanese during world war II. My mom's name is Valentina , she told us her birthday is on Valentines day. When we asked how old she was she would give us an approximate. No one bothered to question her, because we don't celebrate hers or her kids birthdays anyway. I sure did not remember celebrating my own until I had a job. In the Philippines, the birthday celebrant is expected to treat people to food, unlike in America.
"Money is so tight to just spend it in one day" she would explain. She would inculcate in our heads to be glad just to have food on the table every day.
In our household Christmas and birthdays were just the same as any other day. Last August, I gathered my aunts and uncles (2 aunts, 2 uncles living) and I asked them about their birthdays. All four of them don't know! "How old do you think you are?" I asked in disbelief and amazement. "Well, our parents told us to count 2 years apart from the oldest and 4 years to the youngest one." I said that is fine, "but what year do you start with?" They believed Martin was born in 1911. As we were talking, I was amazed at how unimportant or unsymbolic their birthdays meant to them. Since nothing special is done on anyone's birthday, why care? "So how old was my mom when she died? " All four of them started talking at the same time and giving their best guesses. Their best guess was what they had come to accept. So we figured 80 is about right. She would have been 39 when she had me. I am the youngest of 5 siblings and I came 7 years after the 4th one. They did not expect to have another baby. Make sense why I was called a "precipitate" in the family.
"So how come my mom knew her birthday is on Valentines day?" I pressed on. "It was later in our adult years that we made it up, because her name rhimes with Valentines day." They said matter-of-factly. My grandparents did not believe in them sitting in the shade learning how to read and write when they should be growing food in the field. None of them were born in the hospital and none of them went to school, so that eliminated the need for a birth certificate. They did have a baptismal certificate because every Catholic baby has to be baptized or the witch will snatch the baby away from your house. My grandparents were not church-going people but the long arm of the Catholic law had a chokehold on them.

When I first got married a baptismal certificate was required as I did not have a birth certificate. I went to the church registrar where an old lady flipped through this black book with yellowed pages and edges that looked like it was chewed on by some bugs. She could not find my records so I told her when I was told I was born and when I was baptized. (Catholic baptism) Back then, before computers, a bribe was cheaper. It did not bother me that they could not find my records. I never was one to put a special meaning on birthdays anyway- my parents attitude must have rubbed on me.
But lately, as my 50th birthday is approaching, I ponder. Not pondering because I suddenly think birthdays are special, but because ,I feel turning 50 is. Also, after my sister died at 45, every year after I turned 45, I considered it to be a bonus from God. I used to question my being born at all, but now I am confident that I have a purpose built in me by God. As He told Jeremiah in the Old Testament, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you." So before they carve my tombstone and inscribe my date of birth and my date of expiration, I want to make sure I fill in the dash. Not with wishes but with accomplishments. And 50 is as good as any number to start with.