We all have a birthday, and tomorrow is mine.  But what's a birthday?  Birthdays are the stuff of existence.  When I think about my earliest years, years when I wondered why I was here, why I was doing what I was doing, why I was being told to believe the things I was told to believe, I often wonder: how did I get to where I am today?  I have no idea. Yes, I planned, and yes, I tried to execute intentions, and yes, I went here and there, and yes, things happened, but in the end I have no clear idea of how I landed on today.  Who does?  We're all living in a universe we did not make, a universe over which we ultimately have very little control.
     All we know is that life is a promise and expectation, an inkling and anticipation, a river and ocean coming constantly together in a creation we do not really make, a creation that, whether we know it or not, is made meaningful by God.  We are poems with a point, poems with a destiny, poems with a conclusion.  We are poems of eternity. 
     Otherwise, it's futility.