I am sitting in the front seat of a car with Dad. Perhaps I am four years old. We are parked on a street near the garden apartment in Bayside where we lived before we moved to Connecticut. The car is not moving; we are just sitting there talking. We must have just come from somewhere, because Dad is in the driver’s seat and I am next to him. But at such a young age, wouldn’t I have been in the back seat? This was long before the era of seat belts or car seats.
I am stroking my fingers back and forth across what I later learn is called the dashboard, which is made of a material that I think is leather. The dashboard, tan in color, is ridged vertically and prominently stitched with what looks like upholstery seams. This design feature fascinates me, as do the push-buttons that Dad uses to make the car start up or drive or back up. When our next car had a lever to do those things, I thought it very strange. This car is a Ford Mercury, marketed for its “space age” looks. The push-button automatic transmission appeared in the 1957 model year and was withdrawn in the 1958 model year. Not sure about the “leather”.
Sitting next to Dad, I ask, “But what if God makes another flood?”
“He will not,” Dad answers. “He promised.”
“But what if God does decide to make another flood?” I persist.
“He will not,” Dad answers. “He promised.”
I have a feeling this dialogue goes on for a little while. It is the first lesson in faith that I remember.
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