Today is my 53rd birthday.
If you’d asked me yesterday whether 53 was a significant number, I’d have said no. It’s not a milestone birthday like 50 or 60. It’s just a little further down the road.
But the more I think about it, the more meaning I find in it.
For starters, 53 is a prime number, which feels oddly appropriate. Age has stripped me of my divisibility. I no longer feel much need to fracture myself for anyone’s approval. I am who I am… and, by God’s grace, that’s enough.
A leap year can contain 53 weeks, which also feels fitting. That 53rd week is extra. A bonus.
And every year I get to keep writing stories, sharing lunches with friends, laughing with my kids, and falling more in love with my wife feels like extra blessing piled onto a life already rich with good memories, treasured friendships, and a faith that continues to shape me in new ways.
Strangely enough, 53 is also the atomic number of iodine, an element essential to human health in tiny amounts. Too little and systems begin to fail.
Most of my interactions with people happen in small doses, too. Brief moments at the bookstore where I work. Short conversations while driving customers to work or home from my other part-time job. Tiny intersections of lives.
In those moments, I try to offer grace, compassion, understanding… even if only in small amounts. Sometimes the smallest things help hold fragile systems together.
As a Christian, Isaiah 53 speaks to me deeply. A prophecy about the coming of Christ, it reminds me:
“He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief…”
When I grieve, I’m not abandoned to it by a cold or disinterested God. I’m met there by One who understands pain, loneliness, and rejection firsthand.
Later in that same chapter comes this promise:
“By His wounds we are healed.”
Beyond the hope in those words, I’m reminded that scars are not always evidence of failure. By His grace, they can become the very thing through which healing reaches someone else.
In 53 years, I’ve lived a lot of stories. Some funny. Some painful. A few downright confusing.
All of them shaped me.
I’ve watched my children become remarkable people. I’ve cried with grieving friends. I’ve laughed with strangers. I’ve published work I’m proud of—and I sincerely hope some of it outlasts me. And even now, I still find myself excited about what comes next.
Every story I’ve lived across these 53 years has been made better by the people who shared it with me.
Whether we’ve known each other for decades or exchanged a single conversation in a church lobby or waiting room… my story is better for having you in it.
Stick with me. I’ll stick with you.
If my story ends tomorrow or 53 years from now, I’ll be grateful for the time I was given.
And for the pages we shared.
