When the Judge Spoke Her Name

In a county courthouse in Nashville, Tennessee, on a Tuesday morning in March, a three-year-old girl named Eliana sat on her foster father's lap, clutching a stuffed elephant. She had been in their home for nineteen months. She had learned to sleep through the night there, had taken her first steps on their kitchen floor, had said her first full sentence at their dinner table. But until that moment, she was not legally theirs.

The judge looked over his glasses, read the decree, and said, "This child is now and forever your daughter."

Her father wept. Not because anything about Eliana had changed — she was the same girl who had smeared oatmeal on the dog that morning. What changed was that her identity was publicly, irrevocably declared.

When Jesus rose from the waters of the Jordan, the heavens tore open — Mark uses a violent word, as if the sky itself could not contain what needed to be said. And the voice of the Almighty thundered what Jesus needed to hear before a single sermon was preached, before a single demon was cast out, before a single mile of dusty road was walked: "You are My beloved Son; with You I am well pleased."

Not for what He had done. For who He was.

Every baptism since echoes that same declaration — the Most High stooping low to say your name and call you His own.