Today is my birfday. Yes, birfday. That’s how my daughter used to say it. Birf.

And I’m 38. That’s a big number, at least in my mind. 37 can be rounded down to 35, but 38 is rounded up to 40. And 40 is darn near 50. And that’s just scary. Downright birfy.

I remember when I turned 25, I thought to myself, “Well, just twice more around the block, and I’m done.” Sounds morbid, but it’s true. But as of today, statistically speaking, I’ve got just one more go around the block. For the average male.

Not that I’m average. I cry during sappy movies. I’m romantic. I talk about my feelings. They matter to me. See? Not average. On the other hand, I have a sword hanging in my office, I love climbing things and jumping off of them, and Braveheart is one of my favorite movies. But I digress.

38 is old enough to know that life doesn’t turn out exactly the way you’d hoped it would but young enough to dig deep and still find remnants of the youthful naivety you’ll need to remain hopeful with the second half of your life. I’m determined that the best days are yet to come. Because, as I said yesterday, today was designed with me in mind. God is just warming up with me, I can tell. And vice versa.

Tomorrow is will be no different. I choose to live, to risk, to love, to forgive, to trust, to obey, to laugh, to cry, and to die trying. Actually, what am I saying? My Jesus says I’ll never die. My body will fall off one day, find that “over the hill” crest and begin its downward pull… but for my spirit, for my heart of hearts, it’s all uphill from here.