I can’t believe I’m 50.

On this day in 1969, a little hazel-eyed blonde baby was born to APD officer John Ritchie and his teacher wife, Gloria.

I had the quintessential Southern suburban upbringing. School, church, neighborhood parties. Summer vacations, club tennis and swimming. Grandparent visits, piano lessons, community theater.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I look back with rose-colored glasses or I just didn’t appreciate it like I should’ve back then.

Probably a little of both.

My teenage years were tumultuous. Even then, I was stereotypical. Preacher’s kids and cop’s kids, right?

I was a rebel.

But a very naive one, a fact I would later realize in my early 40’s. One whose pragmatism was ironically cloaked in idealism. Still is, to a certain degree. It’s strange when you have two brains simultaneously competing for thought time.

But after 4 decades of life, I have come to appreciate these quirks. I like that I’m a little weird. I think we all are.

If only we could realize that when we’re younger.

I’ve also learned to embrace my past. It’s not delusional to stow away the more unpleasant memories and focus on the good ones. I know they are there; I’m not trying to erase history. But their place is the basement of my mind. The good memories get the window seats.

I like being able to look in the mirror and really like the person I see. Sure, she can lose a few pounds, but she’s no longer lost HERSELF.

I like her because I see the Lord in her.

Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? 1 Corinthians 3:16

Now for my next 50 years…