To be loved.

My father used to remind me repeatedly when I was growing up to always believe a person’s behavior.  Actions, he reiterated, were what mattered. 

You can say anything; but, most of us don’t do much of what we say.

This past weekend, my grand 30th birthday celebration, was non-stop action.  Rather, non-stop love in action, in oh so many ways, all for me.

My eldest sister flew up from Pennsylvania.  A dear friend flew all the way across the country from Oregon and surprised me.  Another dear friend flew up from Washington, DC and surprised me.  Close friends from New Jersey and Connecticut made the drive north, while another sweetheart made the drive south from Maine.  My fellow Bostonians ventured out via cars and cabs in the snowy, dark cold of a Saturday night—all to celebrate my birthday.

My sister and brother in law baked me a delicious homemade birthday cake.  My friend’s mother baked me sweets she calls “Better than Sex” cookies—and let me tell you, biting into and enjoying one of those gooey, chocolaty, delicious bars is definitely better than some sex I’ve had.  My friend from Oregon indulged me by coming, fearlessly, eagerly, enthusiastically, to her first Bikram yoga class on Friday afternoon, allowing me a chance to stretch out and sweat it out in the hot room, despite the fact that she’d flown across the country less than 24 hours before she stood atop that mat. 

Friends sent me hilarious and touching cards; one of my best friends bought me a 30th birthday tiara and necklace; my sister had pins made with various photos of me and funny sayings.  My eldest sister gave me a beautiful ring.  My parents gave me a gift certificate to put toward taking a writing class this spring.

And on Saturday night, all of it, all of them—these dear, sweet, wonderful, thoughtful people in my life—crowded together in one bright and spirited corner of the beautiful Liberty Hotel and surprised the very breath out of me with their birthday wishes and hugs and kisses.

It was a celebration I will remember for all my birthdays to come.

And although the evening itself was remarkable, what struck me and what I keep thinking about is how very hard my sisters and friends worked to make the evening (and the entire weekend) what it was.  The phone calls, e-mails, text messages, e-vites, planning, organizing, booking flights, placing orders, making reservations, buying champagne, and putting such effort and thought into every last detail—all to make for an unforgettable and special evening for me. 

I am so lucky.  I am so lucky.  I am so lucky.

We don’t always know what we will get for all our giving.  Sometimes, the pay-off is instant; sometimes, it takes years.

This past weekend was a loud, lovely, unexpected waterfall of returns.  I stood within the noise, the fervor, the reeling and rushing waves of emotion, and I grabbed hold of those near and dear.  I held tight, trying to find my footing amid the great churning in my heart. 

And then I remembered it was okay if I slipped, it was okay if I got soaked through, it was good if I let go.

Because clearly, I have many, so many, to catch and hold and love me back to standing.

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