i am the luckiest
happy birthday to the best one. tonight somebody asked you if you were a rock star, all skinny jeans and flannel shirt and beard and freckles. you aren't, not traditionally (although you are a killer lyricist, a slam poet in hiding) but you still manage to make me feel in a tizzy, after 8 years of knowing you, nearly five being married.
you're a baby, only just today 26, i feel guilty for snatching you up. but i'm glad too, in a way, for us to grow old and wise together, to have the majority of our stories be intertwined.
you have, in your few years, overcome more obstacles than most people i know. you have more reason than anyone to be bitter, cynical, and hardened by your experiences. but this is your miracle: you are soft, open to the things of god made manifest in the people all around you. and this is why people come to you, spill their secrets and souls, why everyone feels so darn safe around you.
you are bringing the kingdom, every day, with your refusal to hate and judge and war, with your propensity towards peace and calm and goodness.
here's to you, on your birthday. you really are the best one.