It’s been exactly one year since I first saw my face on someone else. Witnessed the curve of my smile on another person’s lips.
From the beginning, I could easily spot her and claim her as my own. And throughout the 365 days that have passed, the similarities have only grown stronger.
The girl with big eyes and board straight hair.
The girl with a constant smile, and audible gasps over balls, books, and puppies.
The girl who sticks out her tongue in stern concentration. And also downright silliness.
My daughter. My mini-me.
It’s peculiar, this phenomenon. This ability to see yourself in something that lives and breathes outside of you. In something that reflects you perfectly but is not your reflection.
This opportunity must be rare, I think. Not only do the stars and planets have to align just right, but so do the egg, sperm, and impending chromosomes.
And I’m so glad I got to have a mini-me.
As I sit, gazing at the miniature version of myself, I wonder if this is how God must feel. Has He looked at me and relished all the ways I reflect Him? Even more so, has He gazed at all of creation—the hundreds of billions of people who have existed in the world—and thought the same thing?
Though we look at each other and find such vast differences, surely He sees each individual and marvels at their striking similarity to their Father. Since the start of modern humanity over 200,000 years ago, I imagine God’s been doing this. Over and over. Billions and billions of times.
And we still haven’t completely captured Him. (Well, other than Jesus.)
My hope is that from the beginning of time, God could easily spot me and claim me as His own. That throughout the days that pass, the similarities only grow stronger.
That on the day I meet Him face-to-face, He’ll gaze upon me with love. “My daughter,” He’ll say. “I’m so glad I got to have a mini-Me.”