OCTOBER 12, 2026 – When our sons were young, their birthdays and arrival days were a very big deal. Weeks before each of these important dates, my wife was on the hunt for appropriate gifts—make that plural—along with cards, treats and balloons. The set-up, spread across the kitchen counter, was complete before she retired the night before. At dawn the next day, the son whose day was being celebrated, would get to revel in the accoutrements of good cheer. I could never decide, however, who found the greater delight—the giver or the receiver.
What used to be conferred on our sons is now showered upon our grandchildren, and today my own joy was doubled on the occasion of our oldest grandchild’s 11th birthday, or, to be technically precise about it, the 11th “anniversary of her birth,” as the Anglican (Episcopalian) Book of Common Prayer[1] insists on calling one’s birthday.
Except . . . because Illiana woke up in her own bed in her parents’ home, and not in her guest bed in her grandparents’ house, she missed out on the morning card, treats, balloons and gifts. Because her dad had to be in Rochester (MN) at nine for an all-day interview and “audition” for a promising job opportunity, he’d left the house before Illiana was awake. Her mom had had to work late last night. When Illiana greeted the morning light, all was quiet. No card, no treat, no balloons, no gifts.
Beth and I had been informed yesterday that we’d need to cover for Illiana’s transportation to school. We gladly accepted the appointment. I would be the driver, and Beth would be chargé d’affaires, as only she can fill that role.
This time around, however, she surprised me. For the first time ever, she made a card out of home-based materials. Heretofore, this approach had been my purview, not because I possessed any special skill or talent in this regard but because I’d been reliably derelict in procuring a proper commercially produced card. When Beth showed me her finished work, I was duly impressed. In addition to attractive flourishes with a bold red marker around “Happy Birthday, Illiana!” and “We love you!”, the inside of the card featured a pop-out layered cake. It was all very clever and sure to delight our granddaughter.
When I complimented Beth on her creativity, she assigned me the task of drawing a picture for the front of the card. I obliged by pulling out my colored pencils and putting them to work. The scene featured a sloop heeling gently in a mild breeze, with birds and fluffy clouds overhead—and a bright sun looking out boldly from around the side of a more distant cloud. Along the shoreline in the background, I drew a dense network of trees. Underneath the scene I wrote, “SMOOTH SAILING!” Above it I printed, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” On the spinnaker, I put “11” inside a circle, and across the pennant waving from the top of the mast, I wrote, “ILLIANA.”
This morning, we organized ourselves early so we could reach Illiana’s home by 8:30 and deliver her to school by 9:00. Beth sealed the envelope containing the homemade card and tied a ribbon and modest bow around a book of poems she’d ordered recently for Illiana’s birthday. The Giver then prepared a simple birthday treat: five fresh large strawberries—Illiana’s favorite snack—snuggled neatly into an open container, with a birthday candle planted on the top of the center strawberry. With card, treat and gift in hand, Beth boarded the “carriage” as I took to the controls.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the driveway. Illiana’s dad had been texting—nervous that we’d be late and receiving Beth’s confirmation that no, we’d arrived with minutes to spare and were waiting for Illiana to appear. I rang the doorbell, then knocked a friendly knock. Eventually, the door opened and out stepped Illiana. She looked so sharp, smart and confident, but I sensed she was a tad unsettled. As she climbed aboard the conveyance, Beth wished her a happy birthday. Illiana deflected the greeting.
She was disappointed, we knew, that no one had been on hand to greet her on this her special day. But thanks to Beth’s role as giver, she had the means to put joy into the heart of the girl. Before Illiana could fasten her seatbelt, her loving grandmother furtively lit the birthday candle atop the strawberry and presented the container. Illiana’s face beamed. “Thank you!” she said, with delight in her voice. Her smile was like the sunshine that bursts forth as the wind pushes a blocking cloud aside. She made a silent wish and blew out the candle.
Once we were underway, Beth handed Illiana the envelope bearing the fifth-grader’s name—surrounded by hearts. “Thank you,” she said, as she accepted the hand-off.
“Did you draw this, Grandpa?”
“Yes,” I said, “but look inside and see what Grandma made.”
“Ohhh! A cake! That’s nice, Grandma,” said the sweetest voice in the world. “Thank you.”
Next came the gift. Beth now reached back with the book of poems. This too was greeted with a joyful “Thank you,” which sounded like a musical phrase uttered by a nightingale.
Whatever disappointment had clouded Illiana’s mood before was now gone, displaced by things as simple yet critical as a homemade card, five strawberries with a single birthday candle and a book of poems in which Illiana had expressed an interest, prompting Beth to procure the collection in time for Illiana’s birthday. But it wasn’t things that moved the cloud. It was love and kindness, joy and delight.
At the school entrance, I turned to Illiana and began to recite the “four imperatives,” as I have so many times over the years. “Remember, Illiana . . .” except this time, she took the baton in a seamless hand-off . . . and said . . .
“. . . Smile, be kind, pay attention, and know where you’re going.”
Beth and I watched as Illiana strode from the “carriage” to the school entryway, her pink overstuffed kid’s backpack—doo-dads dangling off the sides—upon her shoulders and her grown-up’s briefcase in hand. She looked ready for business.
Her grandparents, meanwhile, savored the fact that her birthday was happy.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] If as a kid you’re dragged by your mother to the Anglican (England) or Episcopal (America) church, you wind up committing to memory large chunks of the liturgical Book of Common Prayer. In the supplications recited weekly, you become accustomed to hearing about the upcoming “anniversary of [a congregant’s] birth,” as opposed to the person’s “birthday.”
