Monday, August 6, 2012
Oh, to be Twelve
Twelve. What a great age. That's my son. So very 12. He does stuff like... constantly changes the gears on his bike. All you hear is "tick, tsk-tsk, tick" as he rides by. And always jumps up to touch ceilings and shoot various "baskets" with who-knows-what - socks, trash, boogers.
And he just started boot camp for tackle football. Man, what a tough thing to watch. Whenever I hear the coach yell, "You think this is funny?! 20 push-ups, now!" I'm afraid it's my son giggling out there. Who is 12. Who rates his level of fitness exertion by how big his "sweat beard" gets on his t-shirt.
Twelve. What a stand-out age, too. For myself, I don't know how many times I've said, while being super sick, "I haven't been this sick since I was, like, 12." While staring at my messy room, "Looks like a 12-year-old lives here." While wearing a dorky outfit, "I wore a shirt like this when I was 12." While making a bad decision, "How old am I, twelve?"
Ah, but 12 comes and goes for all of us. At least I hope it does. I'd like to think I'm a moving-forward kind of gal. Self-focused one day, others-focused the next. No longer a people-avoider, but rather a how-may-I-assist-you-er. Out with uptight and moody, in with go-with-the-flowy.
But whether or not it's a three-cheers-for-Molly kind of day, I do know this: he who began a good work in me will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ (Philippians 1:6). God has an expected end for me - for you - and it's a good one, too.
I see it this way... whenever crayons and blank paper and kids are in front of me, I'm tempted to draw my famous "house picture" - a colorful, cozy drawing of a house with polka-dotted window curtains, a smoking chimney, a lot of trees, and a tire swing.
And as I draw, I've got a smirk on my face. Why? Because I know what's coming next. Who knew, besides me, that my trees were going to become apple trees? Or a window or two would get a kid peeping out? Or that I'd draw a cat on the tire swing - a cat with long, fluttery eyelashes?
Makes me wonder if God smiles as he works on the canvas of my life. Or he could just get really bored, "There she goes. Buying another four-flavored frozen yogurt on a Wednesday night. Asking to sample a new flavor she knows she's not going to get. Again. So predictable."
Or could it be that each one of my days is like Christmas morning for him? (Using the word loosely, as a figure of speech. Because, well, he is Christmas.)
At any rate, God knows what he's doing. Knows what's coming. Sees the completed picture of me. And is excited about it. He loves me now and back then, at the awkward age of 12 - the age I remember well as I draw my house picture and say, "I've been drawing this same picture since I was, like, twelve."