In the heat of summer I assuage myself for resisting ice cream with flavored sparkling water. The other day I was opening a fresh bottle when it started frothing all over the counter. Which admittedly is not much of a mess. Still it reminded me of that curious phrase in the 23rd psalm. 

That's what happened on Saturday. John has apparently been storing sixty three years worth of sneakiness to unleash on a single day. He did have the collective collusion of our children, whose communication leading up to my surprise marathon birthday logged more texts, google chats, emails, and phone calls than an undercover sting. He oh so casually shepherded me from one event to the next. On the ruse of returning a shovel I landed at a ladies brunch with homemade quiche, fruit salad and flowers. Then we headed to my favorite restaurant where a couple we have loved for decades was waiting for us. After lunch he wedged my mother into the conversation and suggested we go visit her grave. A notion that has not emerged in the eleven years since she died but why not. He turned the car into a driveway just a stone's throw short of the graveyard and dropped me off at a party of Rose cousins, with four generations from eleven of the twelve branches of our family tree.

As if that were not enough we meandered near his office where he mumbled something about using preschool blocks for his church service the next morning. We sailed past the school and went into the home of a couple in our marriage group, and there were the people we have been spending a night a week with since the fall of 2016. After a couple of hours of heartfelt conversation John said it was time to be parents again and we headed home. Only there were a bevy of beautiful people there ready to continue to celebrate, including three daughters who live out of town. 

The grand finale was a video chat with our two sons who live in LA and Portland, and the revelation that I will be flying out to visit them. Soon. Alone. And while I am in the neighborhood will stop to visit my sister in San Fran. Because they are all so close on an 8 1/2 by 11 atlas and what is a few hundred more dollars. 

Turning sixty has been significant. Any new chapter such as turning the odometer on our lives, a loss, a job shift, or a baby, offers us a chance to redefine ourselves. We can explore both what we can and might no longer do. I am done with chickens, which conveniently paved the way for reclaiming the yard. It means I can get on a plane without being anxious about dehydrated hens. It is alright to try my hand at costuming a play, and fitting forty teenagers for a production. Even though I am pretty clueless about what that entails.  

I feel like George Bailey on Christmas Eve, and I didn't even have to jump in the river.