Once upon a gilded time

March 10, 2015, six days before his 73rd birthday, my dad passed away in his sleep. Our relationship had taken many twists and turns over the years, but one thing always remained constant…the love and support he offered me. No matter what was going on in his own life, his positive words lifted my spirits in a way only he could.

In the weeks following his death, I struggled to imagine my life without him. I missed his voice, his laugh, his lessons.

On a particular heavy day, I found his watch along with a death announcement nestled in the back of my desk drawer. I slipped the watch on my wrist watching the second hand move around the numbers and mused about the oddity of time.

Time travels in a linear line, a timeline, yet somehow life is a circle.

Time measures the past, present, and future in yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Before and after.

One miraculous or devastating moment of it can utterly change your life.

Time can be counted in seconds or centuries. It can be cherished. And it can be wasted.

Time will always tell the truth.

You can save time, lose time, or serve time. You can even kill time. But you can’t stop it.

Without fail, time marches on.

Time can either fly like the wind or stand stone still…an hour like a minute, or an eternity.

It is unbiased and equal. All that draw breath are graced with twenty-four hours in a single day.

No more. No less.

Time is priceless, and oh so costly. Spend it wisely.

I read through the funeral notice, running my finger over his birth date. March 16.

3/16.

Instantly, I thought of John 3:16.

For God so loved the world that He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.

I repeated the last seven words…will not perish but have eternal life.

I’d known this scripture all my life, perhaps some of the most recognizable words in the Bible. And yet, in that moment, it seemed fresh and alive. Over the next month, I wore it like a life vest, speaking its promise every time I started to sink into the sorrow.

One morning in late April, my husband sent me a text about a vacation house for rent. The picture revealed a cedar shingled beach house with a gorgeous view of the ocean. My heart leapt when I read its location. Newport, R.I. Could we possibly go? It’s almost May. We don’t have much time. My mind was racing when another text came in.

I booked it. We are going in June.

Newport. My happy place. My husband and I moved from Massachusetts to Georgia in 2001, and each summer we’d packed up our growing family and headed north. I adored Newport for many reasons but topping the list was spending time with my dad. He still lived in Massachusetts, and this was the only time of year we were able to see him until the summer of 2011 when he moved to Georgia just a few miles away. That, coupled with growing financial obligations, kept us closer to home. But my heart longed for Newport. Some of my best memories resided there amongst the old stone walls and cobblestone paths. It had been four long years since I’d walked those charming streets, and it was time to go back.

After traversing nine states, our 1,067-mile journey neared the end when the grand Newport Bridge finally came into view. I rolled down the window and inhaled a strong gust of sea-salted wind. It felt like coming home and I thought of my dad. Maybe he would be here, somehow, waiting for me.

One mid-week afternoon, my husband returned from the store. “The tide is coming in and the waves are big,” he said, setting grocery bags on the counter. My older kids heard from the other room and rushed to change into their bathing suits.

“I think I’ll take a drive,” I said, “So Bree can nap.” My youngest daughter has Down syndrome and the vacation was catching up with her. And a ride around Newport was just what I needed.

“Have a great time!” I called, buckling her into her car seat.

Driving down Bellevue Avenue, I noticed a tall, ornate street clock and quickly turned onto Victoria Avenue to park and snap a picture. Painted in matte black and highlighted in gold, the four-faced gilded clock stood nearly twenty feet tall. Sunlight bathed the image of four lions positioned at the base. I grabbed my phone, zoomed in, and tapped the camera icon. When I looked at the picture, my eyes landed on the time.

The big hand was on the 3, the little hand on 16.

The time was exactly 3:16.

A holy presence swelled around me as real as the waves crashing onto the cliffs and the salty tears streaming down my cheeks. He was here. My Dad, and my Father with a beautiful reminder of the eternal hope of His son. For God so loved the world. For God so loved me that out of 1,440 minutes in each day, I happened here at precisely 3:16.

“Until I see you again, Dad.” I said.

Until next time.