Well, it’s my birthday. Age 49. Really. Not “49 and holding,” but an actual 49. So next year, people will probably make a bit deal out of the big 5-0. Our worship leader intended to draw attention to my birthday during the services this morning, so they could sing “Happy Birthday,” but he forgot. That’s fine with me. I hate having “Happy Birthday” sung to me. It’s excrutiating.

I was at a little medical clinic several years ago for some ailment I can no longer remember. A nurse came in, looked at my chart, and saw my birthday: October 23, 1956. In an East European accent, she said, “You were born on a very special day.”

I responded, “I know. The day the Hungarian Revolution started.”

It about blew her over. The expression on her face was priceless. She was from Hungary and experienced the invasion by Russian tanks. She remembered it well. And she was astonished that this American knew that date. My Mom had told me about the Hungarian Revolution connection when I was young, so I’ve always been aware of it. That nurse made sure I was well taken care of. It’s nice when a piece of trivia, after 40-some years, actually comes in handy.