On Sunday my firstborn will turn 17. Dang. That makes his mama old. Here’s a chunk of a post I wrote four years ago when he hit his teenage years. Hey Jacob…thanks for not making these last four too dramatic.

Happy birthday.

It was thirteen years ago that I held that little chunk of screaming baby in my arms.  Thirteen years ago that I cried because of God’s mercy to us.  Thirteen years ago that I changed my firstborn’s very first diaper and then ducked as he peed all over me.

I find myself revisiting all the things I ever said to parents of the teenagers in my group.  Was I off base?  Did I have a clue what I was talking about?  Was I relying on biblical principles or my own pseudo-knowledge?  Will the things I taught be the things that I turn to now that I’m in those very same trenches?

I find myself looking backwards to the first thirteen years and forwards to the next thirteen. Will he become the man I want him to be?  Will he be a better man than I want him to be? What parts of his character still need to develop?

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