My last visit with him was moving. We’ve finally made that transition, the one from parent - daughter to friends. I know it because we sit across the dining room table for hours each night, sharing stories. And now I get to ask the questions I never dared to ask before, the ones that will show me who he is in his quiet moments, the ones that will tell me where his mind wanders to as he carves his shore birds in his workshop each day.

And so I ask, because on some level, he’s given me permission to. I ask of his childhood, a terrible time for him, replete with poverty and struggle.

“For years my shoes had no soles. I delivered newspapers then off the Newsday truck. My first day was in the dead of winter. I had no coat. One of the old workers took me aside and pushed a paper in my hand. ‘Here, open your shirt and stuff these all around in there. It’ll keep you a little warmer.’ He said. And so I did. I stuffed them in my shoes too. And it worked for a while.’

“I made it through a few seasons like that.”

I watched the sadness wash from left to right on his face, and then give way to a slight smile.”

“But all that changed in the Navy . . . I’ll never forget what it felt like the first time I held my uniform in my hands. Thick material. I’d never owned anything new like that. And the shoes. Strong shiny black leather shoes . . . “

My father has trusted God for things I scarcely can understand. His food, his health – his very life. And God has provided, in forms that perhaps were odd at the time, like a newsprint coat and wartime shoes – but still provision. And from his story, from his appreciation, I glean. I live well. I have.

Our fathers knew your goodness
And we your works record
And each of these bear witness
One faith, one church, one Lord.

My father is because of God’s goodness. He has because of God’s provision, and to some degree, because of my father’s diligence and God’s response to it, he sits on the coast, breathing his sea.

I know it. My father knows it, and in a sense, I carry the record of it in me – in my soul. I am a testament of God’s goodness, his faithfulness to my father, because I am here, and I am enjoying the fruit of their bond.

I bear witness. One faith. One church, one Lord, who saw my father as a boy, shivering in the dark hours of the early morning, tossing newspaper bales in order to provide for his family. One Lord, having pity and mercy on a determined young sailor, fully willing to give his life for his country. One Lord empowering and blessing a good father who faithfully went to a job he disliked for thirty-five years – all for his children, so that they wouldn’t know the bitter side of life.

Yes, my father knows his goodness, and those works are recorded in me. And every time I think of my father, I smell my own “sea,” it is the fragrance of love, laden with the salt of mercy – a gift my own father has offered up to me for my entire life. It is so awesome in scope that it humbles my heart, leaving me prostrate at the cross, worshiping my fathers provider, my provider, the one Lord of Life.

I suspect, much like my father, I’ve come to depend on my “sea.” It is a marker, a trail, a reminder of His goodness, which has followed me all the days of my life.

I am sure too, that like my earthly father, that I too, can’t live without it.