Mr. Robertson’s camp was advertised as one to teach boys and girls all the basic skills of basketball. Since I was a total rookie, and the only skill I had was being able to do OK at a game of “horse,” I asked my parents if I could go. They agreed. The camp was a week-long summer camp to be held at the gym of our rival high school. No matter. I expected I’d get to know somebody there – even though I didn’t sign up with anyone from my school.

The first day I showed up, before I even walked into the gym, the coach pulled aside my mother for a little conversation. It turned out, not only was I the only person signed up from my school, I was the only girl there. I was given the option of a full refund on the spot. No deal. I figured I’d try to stay and learn something.

The week was not the most pleasant one I’d ever spent. I got blisters on my feet the first day. Since I was really new to the sport, I got paired up with the most awkward players at camp, and more than once I had to point out to the coach that I really didn’t want to be on the “skins” team. But by the end of the week, I was quite pleased with myself. I didn’t give up. I learned some better dribbling and passing skills, and a few boys from Valley High School would now know that girls from my neck of the woods were made of pretty tough stuff.

The last day of the camp, we had an awards ceremony of sorts before we left to go home. A couple of the boys got trophies for actually being good at the sport, and one award was left to give out. The coach made this little speech about determination and drive, and some other nonsense, and said that he had a trophy left for “sportsmanship,” and he asked everyone there who they thought deserved it. I looked dumbly around the room until I realized that most fingers were pointed at me. I was embarrassed, but flattered too. I wish I could have told Miss Cessna the story. I’m not sure if it was ever really about learning basketball – but about learning how to face other kinds of challenges. She lent me some courage, and taught me to take risks by what she had asked me to do.

I tell you this story today, hoping that you’ll reflect for a brief time about your 12 year old self and about someone who may have given you a little shove out into the world. Who challenged you to begin to take strides on your own? How did they encourage you along the way? What about your 12 year old self still remains a big part of you today?

The only story we have of Jesus’ childhood in the gospels is this one, a story of him at 12. Whether it was a savvy rabbi who saw his potential and encouraged him to stay at the temple a bit longer, or Jesus’ own will to be there and duck away from his parents isn’t a detail of the story that we know. We do know that he did something either brave or foolish by staying behind when he had to have known that his parents’ traveling group was pulling out that day. It’s hard to believe they went a day’s journey before they realized that he wasn’t with any of their friends or relatives, but knowing they were in a large group perhaps we shouldn’t judge by our own parenting standards. Sadly, though, after a whole day’s travel, they needed yet another day to get back.

Needless to say, Mary and Joseph were not all that happy with Jesus when they got there. But those who were at the temple were amazed at him. They saw something in Jesus that his own parents were slow to see. Looking back at our 12 year old selves, it’s no surprise to me that parents sometimes miss a few details. My 12 year old self had some wonderful characteristics of drive and curiosity that I admired, and a whole lot of awkwardness that made it clear I had many things left to learn about making my way in the world.

Jesus’ parents were rightfully angry that he left them worried, and yet they soften when they find out exactly how he was spending his time. This story became a treasured memory that gave Mary a glimpse of what kind of man her son would become.

It’s amazing the kinds of things that seem to be hidden in plain view – especially when it comes to reading people. Some seem to have an uncanny gift for recognizing the untapped potential in others and drawing it out. They happen to make fabulous teachers! And yet, some of us struggle to get to know other people well. I’m not sure it matters if we’re quick studies or not. But what I do think matters is that we find ways of encouraging one another to pursue our God-given strengths. Basketball wasn’t one of my greatest talents – and yet Miss Cessna used her eye for a decent jump shot to help me grow into a person who would take on difficult challenges and learn from what happens during that time.

Thank God for Jesus’ own inner strength because Jesus didn’t always have the back up that may have been helpful to him. People tend to fall away when the going gets tough, and his disciples later would be no exception. And now, we’re not perfectly good followers even of our own strengths. We try to hide or minimize who we are in many circumstances, and it often takes someone with an outside perspective to say, “Hey kid, nice jump shot,” or “Great lyrics,” or “Thank you for your kindness.” It’s rare and precious to find such encouragement in our culture today. We need to be that for each other.

OK on fast forward…. If 12 is hard to remember, maybe you can remember an older version of yourself when a professor or supervisor helped you discover exactly where you were meant to shine. Or maybe you can realize how you were the teacher, supporter, or friend of someone who looks up to you. I think it helps to remember what it was like to be young and moldable, ready to take on the world, but needing someone to show us the way.

Only by knowing and accepting the younger you can you see how over time, you, like Jesus, have increased in wisdom and years, in both divine and human favor. I know we’re not Jesus – not even the 12 year old Jesus – and yet God gives us many opportunities to grow into the paths that are ripe for us, just as Jesus slowly and with great pains at times accepted the mantle: Son of God.

Amen.