On a recent trip to visit my family in Los Angeles, I was lounging in bed in jet-lagged drowsiness when a familiar sound wafted from the sliding glass door beneath the guest room. It was the whoosh, whoosh of the vertical blinds gliding obediently along the rod as my mom welcomed the Southern California sunshine into the breakfast nook.

I opened my eyes and smiled at a memory.

My dad was a perpetual early riser who was meticulously systematic in rituals and routines. Each day, he would make his way down the stairs of their townhouse in his fur-lined brown moccasin slippers, find his way to the blinds, draw the cords, and greet the day. The syncopated whoosh, whoosh sound drifted up to my room each time I visited; the cadence seemed to say. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. The day’s a-wastin’”

Although he is gone, reminders of my dad still linger in every room, at every visit:

In the garage is a basket of tennis balls and a sleeve or two of Titleist. Inside the kitchen cabinet is a Tupperware cake caddy which hasn’t held a confection in decades, instead it served as the receptacle for the traditional Sunday night “corn,” popped the old fashioned way and expertly doused with copious amounts of salt. On the coffee table in the living room is a crystal candy jar with several packs of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum and a random assortment of chocolates. The key to the grandfather clock he faithfully wound resides on the mantle shelf; a stuffed toy gator, donned in orange and blue, presides over the master bedroom from his perch on the armoire; and the foyer closet holds the baseball caps which he used to protect his balding head and “sweet, clean, beautiful face” from the unforgiving sun.

My dad – also known as Paul, Colonel and Dood – still lingers in that condo on the hill. And if I close my eyes, I can see his gap-tooth smile and hear his laugh as he pronounces that he is, indeed, “finer than frog’s hair.”

That was his home, where he lived, and where he was loved as a husband, father, and grandfather.

But one thing is certain; one thing is sure: he is not there.

Nearly 3,000 miles away, just north of Tampa, is the peaceful, sprawling grounds of the Florida National Cemetery. It’s filled with moss-covered trees and green grass, and Old Glory presides overhead from its perch atop the flagpole. My dad was born and raised in the Sunshine State and even after decades in California, he always considered Florida his home– and it’s where he chose to be buried.
If I go there, I can find his headstone and trace my fingers along the engraved letters. I can see his name and two dates and a dash; lay flowers in remembrance; and honor his memory and his military service to this great nation.
And if I close my eyes I can see his gap-tooth smile and hear his laugh as he pronounces that he is, indeed, “finer than frog’s hair.”

But one thing is certain; one thing is sure: he is not there.

My dad was a man of faith. But his spiritual journey started late in life – so there were decades of self-proclaimed wild oats and regrettable choices. He experienced the principle of reaping and sowing, and the sting of regret. But, he also knew the freedom of forgiveness and the life-changing power of being covered with grace upon grace from a merciful God with unfathomable love.

Five years ago today, my dad took his last breath on this earth. I remember those last hours with sorrow—even still. Throughout this day, I tried to think of happy memories and recalled the lyrics of one his favorite hymns:

“I heard about a mansion
He has built for me in glory.
And I heard about the streets of gold
Beyond the crystal sea;
About the angels singing,
And the old redemption story,
And some sweet day I’ll sing up there
The song of victory.”

The memory made me smile.

A decade of Alzheimer’s decimated his earth-suit, but my dad believed in the words of the Good Book, “Our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body.”

Dood knew with all certainly that he had an eternal home in Glory, and that God’s promise of life-everlasting meant that Heaven was one last breath away. And if I close my eyes I can see his gap-tooth smile and hear his laugh as he pronounces that he is, indeed, “finer than frog’s hair.”

And one thing is certain; one thing is sure: he is there.