Letters to Eliana

“Hey, you’re squishin’ my girl!”

I stop in my tracks and look down. You squint up at me with a half smile, your little hand snug in mine.

I glance around, and then follow your eyes to the ground. It takes a moment, but eventually I realize that yes, the setting sun is peeking over our right shoulders and casting long shadows on the grass. Indeed, I am stepping on your shadow. Your girl.

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And somehow, as always, the way you turn a phrase causes me to catch my breath. That shadow is an extension of you, but it is not you, I want to say. No mere shadow can ever encapsulate all that you are.

You have pink fingertips. You have blond ringlets. You have a tiny mole on your right cheek. You run for your apron whenever I even set foot in the kitchen. You have a heart so tender that when your brother cries, you come running to hug him and caress his chubby cheeks. You wear dresses every day. Twirly ones, of course. You love to make your daddy laugh with funny, nonsense stories. You love Jesus so much; every night in our prayers we thank Him for His sacrifice, and every night you sigh contentedly, “He loves me,” as you snuggle down under the covers.

You and your shadow-girl are not who you are going to be yet, but He laid His foundation in you. Right after He knit you together in my womb.

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I squeeze your pink fingertips in my hand and start to chase your girl; you laugh in surprise and run to squish mine, then shriek, “Let’s squish Daddy’s boy!”

We run, deep grey shadows rippling over the new spring grass.

And the sun sinks below the hills.

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