I never liked having birthday parties. Yet every year my mother would successfully convince me that I needed to have one, and would rattle off a list of ideas she had to celebrate. I would protest, “It’s Christmas break. Everyone is traveling. It’s cold outside and there’s snow on the ground. This is the season of endless parties; why would anyone want to come to my party?”

What if they didn’t like the food, or the games? What if they got bored or couldn’t afford a present? After rehearsing the usual questions in my head, I would again tell my mother “No, I really do not want a party this year.”

Did she listen? No. Was I always glad afterward that she insisted I have one? Yes.

It was my Junior year of high school and mother had once again set a date and spread the word about my birthday party. All the girls would come over on Friday night and we would go Christmas caroling, then come back to our house and have a slumber party. And so began one of my favorite birthday parties ever.

On Friday, six of my friends and I piled into our Chevy Astro mini-van with gloves, scarves, and headgear as we drove the slushy streets to the first house. Marilyn and Harvey were home and after singing they invited us into their house for hot chocolate. Every surface and corner of their home had some sort of Christmas flair adorning it, as if Marilyn had attended a “Decorating for Christmas” class from Mrs. Claus herself.

We visited the home of our choir director next. Only his wife and children were home, but the children’s excitement over these unexpected teenage visitors tickled us and multiplied our desire to keep caroling.

After carefully climbing the icy stairs, we rang the doorbell of my voice teacher’s home. The dark windows made us doubt anyone was home. Suddenly, the door shifted and an elderly man appeared. He explained that my teacher and his wife were gone, but that he was my teacher’s father. We gladly sang for him, and by the second song that gracious gentleman was crying.

“Hold on a second,” he said and walked into another room. “Here, I want you to take this,” he said, pointing a ten dollar bill toward us. “You can use it to help with gas. I’m so glad you came and sang for me tonight.”

I’m still moved when I think of him standing in the doorway shedding silent tears at our music. I knew then that this was the perfect activity for a birthday party. What could be more memorable or special than encouraging a stranger with our simple songs?

Our last stop was the fire station where my friend Wendy’s dad worked. After we sang they showed us around the firehouse and let us take a few pictures on the fire truck.

Back at the house, we thawed out and ate cookie cake to give us the sugar high we needed to stay up late and giggle for no reason. We went down to our basement where I had taken brown paper grocery bags and placed various items inside. The girls split into two groups and each group had to perform a skit using all the things in the bag. I think we burned every cookie cake calorie with our laughter that night.

I never liked having birthday parties because I wrongly assumed they were all about me. I was wrong. The best birthday parties aren’t about me at all. A birthday party should be a time for me to say thank you for being my friend. A birthday party should be a way for me to say, because God has given me another year of life, I want to use this new year of life to make someone else’s life better.

Janna Antenorcruz is the founding editor of the blog Mommy’s Piggy TALES: Record Your Youth where women are encouraged to share their stories of growing up for future generations.