When I was two, my parents and I moved to Leesburg, Florida. I don’t remember much about that time except for the monster turtle which crawled down our driveway. In my memory, he was as big as a car, but mom corrected me years ago. She said its shell may have been a foot across. Tell that to the then three-year-old me. He was coming to eat me!

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I had bad dreams for days. Mom just laughed.

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My mother’s nickname was “Doodle”. Her father gave her that name as a child. She was his doodle-bug. The name stuck and many people never knew her given name until she was in her 40’s and decided she wanted to be called “Thelma”. The neighbors in Florida, though, only knew her as “Doodle”.

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The year I was three, they invited me to their daughter’s birthday party. It must have been a fancy affair, since a picture appeared soon after in the newspaper. Because the neighbors didn’t know my family’s surname, I was identified in the caption as “Mike Doodle.”

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All these years later, I still think that’s funny.

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My birthday last month was a low-key celebration with my immediate family. No newspaper picture appeared after my big day and I was fine with that. I’ve written here before I’m not looking for anything too flashy at this point in my life. I felt appropriately feted and the meal and birthday cherry pie this year was perfect. When I told a friend about this she said, “Birthday cake is so over-rated.” I agreed; birthday pies for me from now on, please.

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I’ve obviously thought much about birthdays lately. I remember when I was 12, I couldn’t wait to be a teenager. On September 21, 1971, I got my driver’s license and my first car. It was one of the best days of my life. On my 18^thbirthday, I took two huge steps toward adulthood. I registered to vote and I registered with the selective service. That year, 1973, the Paris Peace Accords were signed in January and the last US soldier left Vietnam in March. Though I was still in high school, I was so relieved.

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Next September, I’ll be 70 years old.

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Psalm 90:10 says, “The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.” Some of my years have been better than others, but most have been good years. Through each of them, God blessed me more than I deserved. I’ve enjoyed his goodness and mercy all my sixty-nine years and, though I know he’s always been with me, in recent years I’ve sensed his presence more.

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I’ve not spent much time wondering how many years remain since I believe the one who created me also numbered my days. I’m convinced I will “fly to him” only when he chooses.

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‘til then, I’ll have another slice of cherry pie.

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