When I was five, I had my first conversation with my father about the existence of God — or at least the first conversation I can remember.
That I would have such a conversation with Dad was not, in itself, remarkable. He was preoccupied with religion, though very much from his own particular angle. He would talk about God with whomever happened to be available.
My father tended to see God as a means of attaining prosperity — material, relational, or spiritual. Faith, for him, was a form of self-efficacy: a way to get ahead in life. Talking about religion was how he scouted for spiritual techniques and spread his own version of the gospel.
One evening after dinner, Dad had his usual nap. When he woke, he must have realized he was running low on cigarettes. He could become very unpleasant indeed if he could not get his nicotine fix. Time, then, to march out to the convenience store that stayed open late and buy a pack.
The trouble was, the store was some distance away — or at least it seemed so to me at that age.
He found himself in this situation routinely, often enough that these expeditions had a name: “tobacco runs.” Many times, I would realize he was going and beg to come along, but I was usually denied. On this occasion, when I saw him preparing to head out, I protested loudly.
“I want to go with my poor old daddy!” I exclaimed, tears spilling down my cheeks.
My parents laughed. The reason, of course, was that the expression was not mine. Dad frequently referred to himself as “your poor old daddy.” I was using his own words against him, and they found it charming. It is worth noting that ever afterwards, he referred to himself as “rich young daddy.”
Perhaps because I had made them laugh, however unintentionally; perhaps because of the intensity of my distress; or perhaps because it was not yet terribly late, I was allowed to accompany him.
To me, it felt like a long adventure. We had to walk as far as my public school and beyond to reach the store. First came the stroll across the soft grass to the edge of the housing complex, then a bridge over a brook, then a fenced passageway beneath towering hydroelectric power lines. From there we climbed slightly uphill across the school grounds, passed the school itself, and continued on to the store.
We talked the whole way.
Both of my parents were big on communication, and conversation was seldom allowed to stop. It came as something of a revelation later in life when I learned that not all families are this way, and that kin can quite normally enjoy moments of silence.
Dad’s patter often — though by no means exclusively — involved sorting the world into what he considered good and bad. One of the good things was believing in God, so the subject came up frequently. On that walk he spoke about belief in God as essential to living a good life, though he was a little vague about exactly why. We made good time, because he insisted that I keep up with his pace. My little legs had to work.
At last we reached the bright yellow fluorescent sign of the open convenience store. Dad bought his cigarettes, and for me, a package of chocolate Swiss rolls wrapped in foil. I had never tasted them before. They seemed wondrous.
Then we took a different route home. Instead of returning through the fenced passageway beneath the power lines, we crossed the field behind the school, turned left, and entered the park. At the far end of the park lay the street that ran in front of our housing complex. To our right was the fenced-off field.
I do not remember much of what we said on the way back. But I do remember asking him the great question.
“But how can we know God is real?” I asked.
Dad opened his package of cigarettes and pulled out a small rectangle of foil wrapping. He held it up where I could see it, then let it go. It sailed toward the field, gleaming in the twilight. The breeze carried it to the fence, where it wrapped itself briefly around a link before vanishing beyond it.
“God is like the wind,” Dad explained. “We can’t see the wind but we see what it does, we cannot see God, but we can see what He does.”
Ever afterwards, I would be on the lookout for signs of God’s working in the world.
My long conversation with God had begun.
Many years later, my father would follow me where that conversation finally led: into the Roman Catholic faith.