As I’ve said before—and as most of my close friends know—I’m just now beginning to like my birthday.
That might sound small. But to me, it’s seismic.
You spend enough years pretending your day of birth is just another day, and eventually, you believe it.
You teach yourself not to expect anything; over time, even the presence of joy feels like an intrusion.
A noise in a quiet room you worked hard to make still.
But now, because of the stubborn kindness of those around me, it’s changing.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Almost against my will.
They’ve made my birthday a project.
Not a celebration, but a mission.
To make me smile.
And I won’t lie—something about that type of caring, unsolicited but insistent, humbles me.
Still, no amount of cake or candles wipes away the long memory of absence.
There’s still the question of what was missing.
And maybe worse, those who never cared enough to say they were wrong.
A friend told me something today that I can’t get out of my head.
She said, “Sometimes we don’t get an apology. That’s just reality. That’s why we have faith. God said, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ He will make it right.”
I nodded.
But the part of me that’s been carrying silence for decades didn’t just nod.
It stirred.
Because she’s right.
We don’t always get the apology.
We don’t always get the closure.
Some of us are walking around with unfinished stories tattooed on our backs.
We carry them into every conversation, every argument, every strained holiday dinner, hoping—just once—someone might say, “I’m sorry.”
But they don’t.
And the truth is…
Maybe they never will.
So I’ve been praying.
I pray for guidance.
Not for patience—not anymore.
I used to pray for patience until I realized God has a sense of humor.
A disturbing one.
Because when you ask for patience, God doesn’t hand you peace.
He hands you people.
Situations.
Moments designed to strip you raw.
I asked for patience and was placed in a line behind an elderly woman who was handwriting a check and logging it in her journal.
I asked for patience and got coworkers who don’t do their treatments or charting.
I asked for patience, and God reminded me I still have so far to go.
So now I pray for guidance.
Because I know right from wrong.
But I don’t always know how to move through it.
Because doing the right thing doesn’t come with applause.
It comes with silence. With resistance.
Biting your tongue so hard it leaves marks.
Smiling at people you know would sell you out for less than you’re worth.
Standing still while someone else gets away with what you could never do.
So yes—I smile.
Because I’ve learned that’s easier for other people.
And on some days, it’s easier for me, too.
But it’s not just a smile.
It’s a shield.
A sermon.
A small declaration of war.
Because inside that smile is the tension between “I’m trying” and “Don’t push me.”
Because even though I’m praying for guidance,
Even though I believe God fights my battles,
Even though I believe vengeance isn’t mine to seek,
I also think that some people walk too close to the edge—
And that if I weren’t actively praying,
I’d push them.
Into traffic.
Into silence.
Into the reflection, they keep avoiding.
So I breathe.
I pray.
I eat the cake.
I take the hugs I never asked for.
I thank the people who won’t let me hate this day.
And when someone asks how I’m doing,
I say, “Fair.”
Because I am.
And I thank God for the strength to keep from doing what I want to do.
Even if He knows exactly how close I get.
By Kyle J. Hayes
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