Leap of Faith

Shark on a Ladder

If you’ve been reading these posts for a while, you might remember that my dad was a minister. He passed away young — I believe he was 63 — right around the time of my ten-year high school reunion. He was obviously quite religious, and my mom too, but I never felt it was something heavy or suffocating. If anything, his faith gave him a way to question the world, not to box it in.

He loved movies (see my Jaws blog) — even the ones that stirred controversy. I remember when he took us to see The Life of Brian. The Church said it mocked Jesus. But afterward, over lunch, my dad shook his head and said, “How? Brian wasn’t Jesus. You can see Jesus right there at the sermon on the mount. Brian and his group was in the back not able to hear.” He didn’t see movies like that as threats; he saw them as conversations. For him, belief wasn’t a shield — it was an invitation to think, to ask, to wonder.

Since his death, I’ve found myself talking to him now and then — asking for help, like I used to when he was here. Once, when I was running my first business, my friend and I were trying to blindly "fish" speaker wire through a wall and between floors. We could feel each other’s fish tapes, but we just couldn’t connect. After about an hour I was lying on the floor, frustrated, ready to give up. I finally said quietly, “Dad, please help.”

Seconds later, the two fish tapes clicked together. My friend yelled from the floor up, "I am going to hell" believing that there was now an afterlife.

It has happened other times as well.

One summer, biking in Peninsula State Park in Door County with my mother-in-law, I was wearing my dad’s silver crown of thorns ring — a rough silver band of jagged thorns. He never liked to wear it because it poked into his fingers, but that’s why I did. Every jab reminded me of him and a memory. On that hot day, the ring slipped off somewhere on the bike trail. I retraced my ride again and again but couldn’t find it. I finally gave up and apologized to him in my head as I pedaled on.

Well Worn Crown of Thorns Ring

A mile later, near a cemetery — a place we hadn’t even ridden to yet — I said "Help me find your ring." I then saw something shiny on the road and peddled back 10 yards. It was the ring. A little dented and crushed, but unmistakably his. Mine. Ours.

I can’t explain it. Maybe it got caught in a car tire and ended up there by chance. Maybe something else.

Then yesterday, I was on a 20-foot ladder cleaning the dome of a surveillance camera

with another Shark, Greg. I dropped one of the tiny screws of the camera into a bed of rocks below me. I told Greg I’d never find it. Still, I climbed down to find the needle in the haystack and said, “Dad, help me.” Seconds later, the screw was in my hand. I told Greg, "Found it!" "Fire" was his only response.

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe coincidence. Or maybe — just maybe — something more.

My dad used to say you have to have faith — you have to jump in with both feet.

I’ll admit, I stumble more often than I leap. Most days, I’m just trying to balance between belief and doubt — between what I can explain and what I can’t. But maybe that’s what faith really is. Not certainty. Not answers. Just the willingness to keep jumping, even when you’re not sure what’s below.

And maybe, somewhere in those moments — when a ring reappears, or a screw is suddenly found — he’s still there, steadying me as I take the leap.