Last week I was invited to two birthday parties. Two very different birthday parties.
The first was one we were all invited to. America turned 250 years old on July 4, 2026, so there were all kinds of festivities, parades, concerts, speech-making, and fireworks. It was quite the show because a semiquincentennial doesn’t come around very often. (I’m glad—it’s a really hard word to pronounce.)
I didn’t get too involved personally in that 250th birthday hoopla. We did have a low-key parade in our little midwestern town organized by our local Legion, with flags, firetrucks, and candy tossed out for the kids. All enjoyable. But watching video of another parade that day, one in Washington D.C., with masked white nationalists marching with Confederate flags wasn’t something I needed to see.
When it came to speeches, I did catch a few minutes of our president’s pre-birthday remarks at Mt. Rushmore on July 3rd. He talked a lot about how great America is. How this country is the strongest and most powerful nation in the history of the world. A county with massive military power, he said. A nation more respected than any other nation in the world. Ever. This is a very impressive country, he said.
The other birthday party I was invited to was on July 7th. That was one I certainly wasn’t going to miss. My son, Andrew, turned 38 years old that day. I was invited to a party in his honor held in the driveway of the home where he lives in Chaska, Minnesota. It is a group home. Andrew is disabled with a rare neurological disease, progressive in nature, and incurable. He needs a wheelchair to get around. He is intellectually disabled. His halting speech is garbled. Andrew needs help doing pretty much everything.
All the other guests at this party (except for the group home staff caring for them) are also disabled. More than half are in wheelchairs. Many are non-verbal. One guest was using an oxygen machine plugged into an extension cord. Another was being fed with a stomach tube. A young man named Tony, in his early 30s, cannot talk but communicates by blinking his eyes.
This was not an impressive bunch. Physically or mentally. Words like “strong” or “great” or “powerful” just don’t fit. That seems pretty obvious. Long ago a Famous Person used a different phrase to describes the people at this party. He called them “the least of these.”
Here is what I saw. A group of people all ages, shapes, colors and sizes, all smiling, happy, and enjoying this beautiful, Minnesota summer day. I noticed how kind and polite they were with each other—staff and clients alike. The menu of pizza, cake and cookies was a huge hit. Then out came the karaoke machine and everybody was offered a turn. Soon the sounds of Creedence, the Beatles (their “Happy Birthday” song, of course) and Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” filled the neighborhood.
I was surprised when my son, wearing a bright red plastic fedora, accepted the microphone. His hands were shaky; his smile was huge. “Let’s try ‘Hey, Jude,’” said his helper, and Andrew slowly began mouthing the words to a song I didn’t even realize he knew. I am the world’s least likely karaoke-participant, but I wasn’t going to miss this. Soon a very happy and proud dad was sharing that microphone and a “Hey, Jude… na-na-na na” with his birthday boy. Great and impressive singing? Hardly. A priceless moment? You bet.
Two parties. Very different. If I had to choose one to go to, and which had the happiest and most welcoming spirit—for everyone—well, that’s not even close. That Famous Person told us the choice He would make. I see Him at Andrew’s party eating pizza and birthday cake. Maybe doing karaoke, too. I’m sure glad I was invited, too.
