Sunshine streamed through the kitchen windows as I washed dishes that Saturday morning. Birds happily chirped and hummingbirds buzzed to the feeders perched just outside the window. What a beautiful day! My little brother ran around playing and enjoying the magnificent June weather with such joy in his angelic face.

I heard the phone ring, but I kept washing dishes, because it seemed someone had answered the call. A few moments lapsed. I heard footsteps. Looking behind me, I saw my mother appear pale-faced and slapping her chest trying to make herself breathe. I read her lips as she voiced, "We've lost Papa. He's gone."

"What!" I thought. I don't think the word made it past my lips. Soapy dishes crashed onto the linoleum as I struggled to grasp this reality. Papa is gone? He's only 66. I just talked to him yesterday! My mind raced.

My aunt had delivered this news. She informed us that Papa had gotten up on this beautiful June morning, the same as us. With his passion for the outdoors, he mowed his lawn. Later, he went inside to start a pot of stew he planned on sharing with his daughter and grandkids that evening. He never even took time to turn on his beloved CB radio that morning.

Papa was an avid gardener, and he always found the beauty in a day even if it was raining and gray. He was also an exceptional cook, and offered up his talents raising money for St. Jude Children's Hospital through the CB Club at which he was a member. A lot of people criticized him for having a CB, but he struggled to keep the lines free of filthy language, as he offered old-fashioned advice and witnessed about a Savior that would forever change one's life.

With his chores completed, he decided to run over to his brother's house to try to help fix his broken down lawn mower. He checked out the mower, visited for a while, and off he went anxious to check the progress of his stew.

Papa never made it back home, for God called him away as he rounded a street corner. He must have known something was wrong, because passersby found his foot on the break and the car was coasting over to the edge of the road. They stopped the car and put it in park. He'd had a massive heart attack; his head was leaned back on the seat.

Fathers' Day had just passed, and because I had been ill, I hadn't gone to see him. I thought a phone call would do until I could see him in a few days. But I learned that time is like an hourglass filled with gold, quickly slipping through our fingers. It was too late. I'd never see him again.

Heaviness filled the house. It hovered over us like a heavy blanket, smothering out the fresh air, making it impossible to breathe.

Preparations had to be made. Clothes had to be ironed and shoes packed. We had to choose flower arrangements, and we had a long trip to make.

Tossing and turning, I struggled to find sleep that hot summer night. Feeling the presence of someone standing by my bedside, I quickly rolled over and gasped as my eyes fell on Papa. I caught my breath and rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Was this possible? We had just found out Papa had passed away this morning. Were my eyes tricking me? No, I decided. Papa was passing through on his way to eternity to watch over us. It was so good to see him standing there in his T-shirt and jeans, hands folded in front of him as he lovingly looked down admiring his family. Thank you, Papa, for coming to visit. Thank you for one last good-bye.