Wait, he says.
I think she's taller than you.
And so my girl and I stand back to back, shoulders brushing. Does she feel it, the time growing short as she grows tall? His hand moves from light brown to darker, straight to curly. He declares us the same height.
And I smile, though I feel like crying.
It won't be long before I'm the smallest in the family. I already feel so small
when I remember how a ruptured appendix could have ended her life in my womb;
when I recall our first meeting and seeing her, so new, in her dad's arms;
when I reflect on one of the first times she said Jesus, holding out her hands to me, closing her eyes and saying Let's touch Him now;
when I look back at the night she found salvation and the morning she was baptized;
when I listen to her talk about youth group and Bible study, friends and activities;
when I realize how special she is and how humbled I am to be chosen as her mother.
I feel so small at those times, but smaller still when I think about how quickly these first 12 years have gone and how much faster the next 6 will go. I'm running out of time to teach, to model, to encourage, to love.
For now I will cherish the sound of her calling Mommy, though each time I wonder if it will be the last.
For now, I will continue to look her in the eye, though I know soon I'll be looking up.
For now, I am thankful that I still have a girl in my home.