The student librarian eyed me as I came from out of the stairway, carrying eight or nine volumes. "Seminarian?" he asked, as he instinctively reached for the due date stamp for the seminary portion of the library book collection. "Yes," I mumbled, feeling a bit sheepish for checking out so many books so close to the end of the quarter. I set the heavy load of books on the counter, glancing around the reference section, students with heads held over books, some nodding off, others discussing maybe tomorrow's assignment. Muffled laughter came from somewhere behind the stacks. But mostly among so many words, loneliness hung thick in the air.

The student librarian was taking cards out from the backs of the books, making a small pile of cards in front of me after stamping each with the due date, less than two weeks away. "Grant Christensen Box 14," I scribbled on each card. The books were mostly on missions in Japan, and Japanese culture gathered to write that last paper before graduating and leaving for Japan.

I imagine what my father would have thought if he knew that a son--who was yet five years from being born--would someday follow the call of God as he had done, also signing his name to an insignificant library card, while trying to prepare for all that might unfold ahead. No, he could not have imagined. But for the moment, when all the usual and uneventful surroundings of the library faded in my remembering, he and I stood in that place together, and I found myself thankful that he had been there before me.

I don't know if my father finished that thick volume, nor do I know what he may have gleaned from its pages. Neither do I remember much about the book, its title, its content, nor whether I finished its many words. Yet, in the simple signature of my father's hand, his name remembered, I also experienced the signature of our Lord's hand: he too has been before me, preparing for all that will unfold ahead.

Maybe in the same way, into the pages and words of our everyday lives God leaves his signature in places we least expect to find it: in a conversation graced with his presence; in the compassion of a stranger; in the mercy found when we most expect condemnation--if not from without, at least condemnation from within; in arguments when expected anger is swallowed in forgiveness; or in moments of solitude when loneliness hangs thick in the air. He leaves a scrawled signature, left to remind us that he has been before us, and his name--Emmanuel--remembered.

"My father's name, written here," I said to the librarian.