I love birthdays. I love to give cards and simple thoughtful presents and call people on their birthday. I also love it when people remember me on my birthday. When people send me cards or emails I save them for a long time, reading them over and over again. When people call and wish me a happy birthday I am apt to save the messages for many months. As nice as it is to receive love on my birthday, it gives me greater joy to give my love to people on their birthdays.
Thirty three years ago I was a new mother with a seven week old baby girl, totally unprepared for how busy I would be. Sleepless nights had left me dragging around our little home yearning for even a little bit of relaxation. It was the day before Barry’s birthday. Typically I would be able to shop for his present, make a very special dinner or have exciting plans in order. I had nothing! What could I give him? I didn’t have the strength to take our baby out shopping or make a nice dinner for him. We had been living on a simple diet of salads, brown rice and vegetables.
While I nursed my daughter Rami, I contemplated my dilemma. I loved doing arts and crafts and had plenty of supplies, but I knew Rami would not enjoy being put down long enough for me to even start something. What was I to do to honor the man I loved so much? After Rami finished nursing I walked her around the house just looking around hoping to get ideas. My eyes happened to fall on an old brown journal book my dad had given me, something that had been given to him long ago which he realized he would never use. The pages were blank and he thought I might like to write in it. I had stuck it in the bookshelf and forgot about it. I took it out. It was a little musty, but ideas began to form in my mind.
On Barry’s birthday, there was no special dinner and no exciting plans, but I did have a present all wrapped up. As Barry was unwrapping it he looked at me quizzically and said, “When did you have time to buy me a present?” He looked even more confused when he saw the old brown book. He opened it to the first page which read, “To my beloved Barry on your birthday. Your gift today is the gift of my words of love for you. Each and every year that I am able I shall write in this book on your birthday to tell you how much I love you. I feel so deeply honored to be your wife and closest friend. I am so grateful to be sharing this life with you and now sharing the gift of parenting together…” I then went on to tell him all the things I appreciated about him. Barry loved this present so much that he asked if he could also write in it on my birthdays.
And that’s how an unusual tradition has started. Each year on our birthdays we receive the gift of the old brown book. It now has 33 years of birthday entries and 33 years of appreciations and adoring messages. Barry is more of a poet than me. He writes, “To see the petals of a rose unfold is to hint at the glory of your opening heart. Yet unlike the fully blossomed rose whose petals then begin to fall away, the petals of your heart keep opening wider and wider.” My birthday messages are simpler, listing all the ways I appreciate him. The style really doesn’t matter. What matters is that the book has become a treasured item. It truly gets richer and more meaningful year by year.
Last June our family was ordered by the county sheriff to evacuate our home due to an approaching wildfire. We had just a half hour to sort through all of our belongings and decide what we wanted to bring with us. Surprisingly our pile of stuff was very little: photos and art work by and of our children, a few clothes, a laptop computer, and of course one very important item – a shabby old brown book.
Two years ago my mother passed from this world to join my father. It was then up to me to sort through all of their stuff. My mother loved books and, as I was going through them all, I came across a little book with a smiley face on it. As I opened it I was drawn to the first page and a note from my mother, “Dear Joyce, I am starting to write in this little book shortly after you were born. I am going to write all things I love about being your mother. Each page will be filled with my gratitude. I will try to always express this gratitude to you in words. However someday you will not be able to hear my voice and I want you to know how much I love you and love being your mother.” The book was filled with writings from my mother about her journey of parenting me. There were many physical things I inherited from my mother, but this little book with the smiley face upon it is by far the greatest.
Someday, after Barry and I have left this world, our three children will be sorting through our possessions. They will come to a little brown book that is not very attractive. Hopefully they will open it up and be able to read about two parents who deeply loved each other. I hope this book will be as much of a treasure to them as it has been to the two of us.
Joyce and Barry Vissell, a nurse and medical doctor couple since 1964 whose medicine is now love, are the authors of The Shared Heart, Models of Love, Risk To Be Healed, The Heart’s Wisdom and Meant To Be.
Call TOLL-FREE 1-800-766-0629 (locally 831-684-2299) or write to the Shared Heart Foundation, P.O. Box 2140, Aptos, CA 95001, for free newsletter from Barry and Joyce, further information on counseling sessions by phone or in person, their books, recordings or their schedule of talks and workshops. Visit their web site at sharedheart.org for their free monthly e-heartletter, their updated schedule, and inspiring past articles on many topics about relationship and living from the heart.
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