THE BIRTHDAY LETTER

MAY 27, 2024 – This time of year is “birthday week” for our two sons, Cory (May 23) and Byron (May 27). When Cory turned one, 37 years ago, I started the tradition of writing, then reading aloud, a birthday letter, which summarized highlights of the previous year and imparted encouragement for the year ahead. In their younger years, Cory and Byron heard detailed accounts of fast-expanding developments in their lives. I labored over their letters a good month in advance of “birthday week,” writing and editing multiple drafts. By the time the boys became full-fledged adults and moved out of the house, however, the letters grew shorter and less detailed, given my diminished firsthand observations. I pressed on, however, doing my best to capture the highlights I knew about. The first few annual letters were multiple pages penned in cursive. With the advent of home computers, I eventually relented and switched to a digital format connected to a QWERTY keyboard. In aggregate the letters serve as a chronicle for each of the brothers.

This year the highlight of Byron’s letter, which I read to him on Face Time this evening, was the arrival of his first child, our first grandson. Of notable mention were his usual travels, far and wide and the many visitors that he and Mylène hosted at their home in the American “Far East.”

What received special mention in Cory’s letter four days ago was his breakdown in physical health after pushing himself too hard at work. “Work” responded by dismissing him from the firm’s employ, the final straw in the company’s exploitation of his recognized skill and unparalleled work ethic. His work had chewed him up and spit him out. I worried about him. After recounting this backdrop, I filled the letter with encouragement: “I have every confidence,” I wrote, “that you will land on your feet, Cory, given your skills, your knowledge of the industry, your contacts, and the sheer necessity of your circumstances.”

But I also reminded him of what’s most important in life:

Let the record reflect how much your young daughter loves and respects you. During one of her frequent after-school stays at our house, she expressed that love and respect quite directly. Out of the blue she announced that she wanted to “Be like my dad.” When I asked in what respect she wanted to be like you, she said, “I want to be kind.” Honestly, to what higher quality can a person aspire?

Two days before Cory’s birthday, I mentioned to Illiana that she needed to be thinking about what she could do to honor him on the occasion. Without missing a beat, the second grader said, “People appreciate most something that you make for them.”

“Exactly,” I said. “How about making him a birthday card? You’ve got plenty of art supplies here at our house.”

She went straight to work[1] while I unloaded the dishwasher and tidied up the kitchen (Beth was still on her expedition to Alaska). A half hour later, she showed me the result of her effort—on the outside, a birthday greeting in a blaze of color and on the inside, a rainbow with one end emanating from an artful portrayal of a smiling sun and the other end from a storm cloud with an angry face projecting lightning bolts. It was a remarkable drawing.

What brought me the greatest joy, however, was Illiana’s inscription on the page facing the rainbow.[2] Only upon reading her words did I understand the symbolism of her art. What heart could be bigger? I thought. What message could convey greater hope? What finer “birthday letter” could there be?

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson

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[2] Note: I liked Illiana’s resourcefulness in correcting “people,” which she realized she’d misspelled, after she’d fished a packet of miniature Post-its from the kitchen pen and paper drawer.