The house is still quiet this morning. The sun hasn’t fully climbed over the hill yet, but its light is already stretching through the windows, soft and golden. The dogs are starting to stir. The day will pick up soon, with the shuffle of paws across the floor, phones buzzing on countertops, and voices rising over the sound of coffee brewing and boots being laced. But right now, in this calm before the celebration, I find myself sitting in the quiet and thinking about Mitch. About what this day means. About the man we get to celebrate.

It’s his birthday, but the gift has always been ours.

Even on his birthday, while others rest or celebrate, he suits up and shows up, serving through the night as he always does. He will work midnights tonight, just like every other shift, quietly protecting and providing while the world sleeps. We will squeeze in a store-bought cake and a quick Happy Birthday in passing. No big production. No time to linger. Our life doesn’t always allow for perfect moments or candlelit dinners. Sometimes celebration looks like a hug in the hallway, a card left on the counter, a plate of food saved in the fridge. We’ve learned to roll with it. We’ve learned that love doesn’t need ideal conditions to be felt. Sometimes the belated dinners and the smallest gestures are the ones that linger longest.

Mitch isn’t one for declarations or attention. He’s the kind of man who holds steady when everything else starts to shake. The kind who quietly carries more than most will ever know. He walks into each day without complaint and returns with shoulders a little heavier, but a heart still wide open to the people he loves.

His faith is quiet. Uncomplicated. Deep. It shows up not in words but in presence. In the way he holds our family together. In the way he never fails to show up, even when he is running on empty. He loves with all his heart, and it shows in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

We’ve settled into this season of life, and it feels like peace. But there were years that didn’t feel this way. Years that pushed hard against us. Storms that could have taken us under if not for Mitch’s strength and goodness. I think about the nights I didn’t know how we would make it through. The weight we carried. The losses we endured. And I remember his arms around me, steady and sure, reminding me we were still in it together.

That kind of love is rare. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it lasts.

This morning, I find myself grateful for the quiet ways he loves. For the chocolate he brings home just because. For the way he laughs in the kitchen when the dogs are running wild. For the way he reaches for my hand when I least expect it. For the way he still asks how I’m doing, even when his day has been harder than mine.

With each year that passes, I fall in love with him more. Not because he has changed, but because he hasn’t. He’s remained kind, loyal, faithful, and strong. He’s grown deeper in all the ways that matter, and the roots of what we’ve built together feel unshakeable.

Soon, the house will come alive. There may not be candles or confetti, but there will be love in motion, the kind that’s baked into every small moment we share. And tonight, after the shift and the sirens, after the last call and the quiet drive home, he will walk through the door. The house may be still again, but the love he built here will wrap around him like a warm light.

That is worth celebrating. Today. Always.

---

Happy Birthday, Mitch.

You are the quiet strength behind everything we have built, the steady light that guides us, and the kind of man worth celebrating every day, not just today. We love you, we are proud of you, and we are so thankful for the way you love us back.

Here is to 43.

We will celebrate in the moments that matter most.

-J