George Year Twelve

There is something different about twelve. (Honestly, I probably think this about every birthday you have.)

Maybe it’s because you’re my oldest, and so much of this feels like uncharted territory. Maybe it’s because somewhere between the little boy you were and the young man you are becoming, I have started to realize that my job is changing, too.

This past year has been full of big conversations.

Conversations about friendships and what it means to be a good friend. About responsibility and learning that our choices have consequences. About peer pressure and the courage it takes to stand firm when doing the right thing isn’t necessarily the easy thing. About faith, and what it means to believe something for yourself rather than simply because your parents taught it to you.

And, perhaps most importantly, conversations about the kind of man you want to become.

I have watched you navigate things this year that little-boy-you never had to think about. You are beginning to notice the world in a different way. You are figuring out who you are, who you want beside you, what matters to you, and what kind of person you want to be when no one is watching.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, I want to slow it all down.

I want to keep you little enough that I can fix everything. I want to protect you from the hard conversations, the disappointments, the mistakes and the moments when you have to figure things out for yourself.

But I know that isn’t my job anymore.

My job is slowly becoming less about holding your hand through every step and more about making sure you know where to turn when you need it. It’s about giving you a foundation strong enough to stand on when I’m not standing right beside you. It’s about reminding you who you are when the world tries to convince you to be someone else.

I don’t expect you to have it all figured out at 12. Goodness, I certainly don’t have it all figured out at 41.

But I hope you always know this: you are deeply loved. You are allowed to make mistakes. You can ask questions-all the questions. You can change your mind. You can walk away from things that don’t feel right. You can stand up for people who need someone in their corner. You can be kind without being weak and strong without being hard.

I see pieces of the man you are hoping to become.

I see him when you take care of your siblings. When you make me laugh. When you stand up for a friend. When you wrestle with a hard question instead of simply accepting an easy answer. When you show compassion. When you make a mistake, take accountability, and try again.

The little boy I once carried around is becoming someone I can have real conversations with. Someone whose opinions I genuinely want to hear.

And while a part of me will always wish I could keep you little and hear that sweet little voice, another part of me is incredibly excited to watch you become a new version of you.