A Heavenly Birthday That Lives On. Grief, Ritual, and the Quiet Ways We Keep Them Close

A widow’s reflection on carrying love forward one ritual at a time.

Just like grief isn't linear, neither are birthdays.

In two days, Alex would be 47 years old. It has been seven years since we saw him blow out his birthday candles celebrating another trip around the sun. His last birthday was a fond memory. He was getting impatient, running a few errands with a friend because he had to get paint for our house. Watching him walk through the firehall doors, his face lit up in this mix of shock and joy that only Alex could pull off.

Family, friends, food, the kids laughing…it was the kind of night that felt effortless, like the world was exactly as it should be. I can still hear him, "you know, I thought there was something going on" amidst the shouting "Surprise" and "Happy Birthday!"

I didn’t know it then, but his birthday would become one of my deepest teachers and will forever remain in my heart.

After all, none of us knew this would be the last time we’d sing him “Happy Birthday” with candles and cake for Alex died seven weeks before his 41st birthday the following year.

After his death, Alex's birthday changed shape in so many ways. I still remember his birthday without him. I surprised myself, courageously planning birthday toast in his honor via Zoom. Truthfully, I yearned for the connection with others who knew him. I even posted a small fundraiser for the local Humane Society in his memory.

On his birthday, text messages came in from his family in blue, other family members, and friends. Some held up a glass of a preferred beverage in honor of him, wishing him another Happy Birthday. I remember one officer holding up a glass of milk because he was on duty. The Zoom call consisted of singing Happy Birthday, a toast, and grateful thank you to those who showed up.

Alex's birthday has slowly become one of the most sacred days of my year.

Every year since, we honor him with the things he loved most: German food and a slice of pecan pie. It’s simple, grounding, and somehow keeps his presence woven into our lives. Our children and other family members gather together for this dinner, as if Alex was actually physically present in the room with us.

What I want to share is what I’ve learned over these heavenly birthdays:

Ritual is its own kind of medicine.

It gives your heart something steady to hold onto when everything else feels unpredictable and uncertain.

For widows, birthdays become such complicated dates. Sometimes the day comes with tears before you even open your eyes. And sometimes it brings laughter because you can’t help but remember their quirks and funny moments. And then some years it all feels softer, quieter, like the grief has moved but not disappeared.

There’s no right or wrong way to feel on the heavenly birthday of someone you love.

Grief is not linear, and neither are heavenly birthdays. Some years I’ve cooked the whole meal myself. Some years I’ve ordered takeout because that was all I could emotionally carry. Some years the kids and I talked about our favorite memories. Other years, we let the silence do the remembering for us.

What matters is this:

The ritual keeps him close. The act of celebrating keeps him alive in our story.

When I sit down with that German dinner and pecan pie, I feel connected to the version of him who once sat at this table and to the version of me who loved him then, loves him now, and has grown through every chapter of grief.

Widowhood has taught me that love doesn’t vanish. It transforms. It finds new ways to speak.

And birthdays. These heavenly birthdays have a way of reminding us of that.

So if you’re reading this as a widow wondering whether it’s okay to still celebrate your person’s birthday, please hear me on this:

You are not living in the past. You are honoring the love that shaped you.

You get to do it differently every year. You get to change your mind. You get to celebrate, cry, laugh, make a favorite meal, or simply light a candle.

Your ritual, whatever it looks like, is a bridge between here and there. Between the life you had and the life you’re learning to live.

As for me? Every year, when I take that first bite of German food, I swear I feel Alex right there. His warmth, steadiness, and probably laughing at how serious we get about the potato pancakes especially last year. So much starch on everything.

And you know, for a moment, the distance doesn’t feel so big.

Heavenly birthdays will hurt. But they also heal.

I trust both can be true.

Oh, and Alex, I will be ordering the premade potato pancakes this year.

My love for Alex never leaves the table. I just learn to set a new place for it.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Alex.

I love you forever and forever.

xo,

Jac

Tell me, how do you celebrate your loved one's birthday?

Stay tuned... in my next blog, I will share the gift that Alex gave me on his 1st birthday in Heaven.