Tonight I needed to make a birthday cake for my friend Joyce.  Tomorrow we'll celebrate her 41st birthday...our sixth birthday together since she moved to the United States.  It's a little late; her birthday is actually documented as January 1st.  Some government official in Burundi put it down as an approximation, just like they did for thousands of other refugees who were not sure of their exact birth dates.

Sometime over the last few years, David (Joyce's now 11 year old son), decided he liked homemade birthday cakes better than the chilled Kroger variety.  There was a family consensus with this position.  Since then all birthday cakes for their family of nine have been generously prepped by my friend Duncan Hines* and decorated by a multitude of artists.  (The Kroger bakery is remarkably grateful.  There are only so many times that I can spell Z-E-B-E-D-A-Y-O before the baker writing it on the cake and I want to cut each other's throats.)  Tonight as I was slowly smoothing the icing on the 8" rounds, two-tiered for a change, I had an interesting thought.

In that moment, I felt genuinely sorry for any person who had never been given the opportunity to make a birthday cake for their friend.

Now, I'm not talking about the actually baking skills part.  I'm no Martha Stewart making it from scratch, nor am I an anti-processed food warrior pushing the complete Michael Pollan collection on you.  (As much as I loved The Omnivore's Dilemma, I may love a good Nutter Butter more.)  Heck, I won't even throw in some anthropological reference to American birthday rituals and familial traditions.

No, I just mean having people in your life that you love to celebrate -- people who love you even when their birthday cake looks like a third grade art project.

I can't begin to count how many boxes of Duncan Hines* cake mixes I've poured into a mixing bowl and added eggs, oil and water.  My cakes aren't one tenth as beautiful as my mom's; after all, her Wilson icing tip collection fills a whole linen closet.  Sometimes mine are surprising put-together in their appearance, other times I'm slightly embarrassed by an icing effort gone awry.  I've had what can only be described as "sweet" cakes made for me, lopsided in their love.  Nonetheless, here's what I realized:

If I measure my life in homemade birthday cakes, I am a rich woman indeed.  Each one represents a gift to me, loved ones I believe are special gifts from my Abba.  He knows their birth dates, even if sometimes they don't, just like He knew the exact date they'd walk in and enrich my life.  That is something to celebrate.

*I am loyal to Duncan Hines because my mother favors it; however, I do firmly believe there are just some occasions that call for a Pillsbury Funfetti cake.