Go to Acts 17:34, any bible will do. Her name, Damaris, sits there, being mentioned only once in the thousands of pages of holy thoughts and evil sins.
Who was she, this Damaris? Was she young, her eyes glistening with youth, her future filled with hope and excitement? Or was she old, her back hunched, her faced weathered and, burned in her mind, the memories of births, lives and deaths.
Who were here parents? Did she have any? Was she an orphan? A runaway?
Was her family rich? Was she raised into a life of privilege? Was she poor? Did days go by, when she did not eat?
Did she have siblings, brothers and sisters? If so, was she the oldest, the overprotective one, the one who helped her mother the most? Or was she the baby of the family, who everyone dotted upon? Or, perhaps, she was a middle child, sometimes ignored but always there and never forgotten?
Was she shy? Or outspoken? Did she get in trouble? Was she kind? Would she give her last piece of bread to a beggar?
Did she marry? Did she have a sweetheart? Did she have children, who she loved more than her life? Did she have a daughter that took after her mother?
Was she missed, when she left?
Yes, we know precious little of Damaris. We only know that she lived and that she believed, that she had faith. Maybe that is all we really need to know about a woman named Damaris.