Joan C.

Benson

"Where is daddy's face?" asked my six-year-old granddaughter. “I can't find him!"

The child turned over random puzzle pieces, examining the details for clues. The puzzle had been a gift created from family photos, each image representing a favorite memory.

Shrugging her little shoulders, Cassie added, "I know he's here! I just need to look harder."

"Look, Cass, is this your Daddy's eye and nose?" I asked, holding up a piece.

"Yes, yes, I see him!" my sweet grandchild answered.

“Let’s keep looking until we have daddy all together, Cassie.”

I was reminded that sometimes I, too, have searched for my Father's "face" among the disassembled puzzle pieces of my life. I've even cried out, Where are you? In those times of darkness, I have had to trust and remember who my Heavenly Father is. Like Cassie, I need to look harder for evidence of God's presence, instead of fixating on the unsolved problem. It seems to be human nature to painfully focus on what is wrong, those missing pieces.

Yet we have the assurance that God has not abandoned us:  "And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow — not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below — indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord," (

I still remember how proudly my grandma would show me off to her friends whenever we’d come for a visit. She would spin me around to the admiring audience, and say something like, “Look at all those blonde curls ... just like her daddy’s.”

Of course, my daddy was her little boy all grown up, and Grandma was pleased as punch that I had his blue eyes and platinum blonde hair.

I have pondered why this experience always made me feel good. Of course, I admired my father. In fact, I loved him dearly. I looked like my father some would say, and that signified I was his girl. I later grew to understand that these encounters provided a sense of belonging, an identity. With an unusual family name, we seemed some way peculiar, or set apart, but that also contributed to a distinguishing identity.

So, who was this little girl with the blonde curls and unusual surname? As I matured, I had many questions about who she was, and whether her life bore any significance. I had confidence in my parents’ love, and as an added blessing, they instilled in me a hopeful, yet naïve belief, that I was capable of doing anything I put my mind to. That was all positive nurturing stuff. But, I needed more than that. Life doesn’t pour out continual blessings, and in times of discouragement and loss, I needed more to help me navigate through the tumult. Knowledge that I belonged to my family was not enough.

My mom faithfully taught me from Scripture about our loving Creator God. So why did He create humans anyway? Was He lonely, or did He have unfulfilled needs? It always seemed logical to believe God didn’t require anyone to satisfy His existence. After all, how could an infinite omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent God need anything? When he completed making the world in all of its splendor, “… God looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good!”

What exactly is a story anyway? One definition refers to story as a narrative, an account of events or experiences, either fictitious or true. As you know, stories develop as the main character works to overcome each and every obstacle, sometimes successfully, but sometimes not.

Stories grow – usually building interest through an escalating development of events leading up to a peak, the most dramatic and suspenseful place, where an outcome cannot yet be presumed. In classrooms, this framework is often referred to as a “story mountain.” From that high point, the story’s climax, tension declines and the author begins tying up loose ends, ultimately coming to the resolution.

As I reflect on my life, I can see some distinct parallels to the story structure I once taught children. I can look back down my “story mountain” and see miles of events. It’s all there with its various goals, milestones, obstacles, and defeats. I see answers to prayer where the Lord carried me through trials and led me to higher ground with overcoming victories. God was faithful even when the waters ran deep, fires raged, and unimagined grief was written into the pages of my life.

Now in my seventh decade, life on the “mountain” looks different. Though it’s possible for great achievements to be written, in place of lofty goals, I have a restless stirring in my soul, and an accompanying desire to prepare for this tale’s resolution. As a Christian, what does this mean? Ultimately, my earthly story will conclude; I will enter a new joy, living in the presence of the glory of God … a heavenly eternity, the promise of salvation! Jesus says in

My longtime friend came for lunch, bounding in the door, effusing hugs and giggles with her signature enthusiasm for life. We hadn't seen each other in-person for several years, but as friends and sisters in Christ, we shared a history that spanned a few milestone-filled decades.

Anne handed me a small gift bag made of colorful cloth, ribbon-tied with flair. At her request, I emptied it onto the counter. Most of the items were practical, yet thoughtful goodies, including a devotional and Scripture verse. My eyes fell to a curious piece of knitting, a small rectangle of dark green yarn. Explaining how she was just learning to knit, Anne proudly held up her first project, a "washcloth." As she dangled the stitching between us, two rather sizable holes became obvious - not lacey, planned holes for effect. These were irregularly spaced holes where stitches had been accidentally lost.

"I don't know how those holes got in there," she announced with an infectious laugh. Thanking her for her thoughtfulness, we went on to enjoy our short time together as couples – eating, sharing, and celebrating friendship.

All too soon, it was time to part. When final goodbyes were said and our friends pulled away, I reached for the small swatch of knitting once more. I was genuinely moved, but I wasn't sure why. And then I began to understand its significance. Anne had entrusted me with her handiwork – though it was flawed. Would I have taken that risk, or would my pride have overruled?

The Bible tells us,