You’ve been there exactly four weeks now, Paul. You’ve been a resident of Heaven for a whole month.
I was right there with you when you exchanged residency. So peaceful, you were, as you took your last breath here on Earth.
What was it like to go there?
You belong to a club that I’ll join someday. I have the membership card, but it’s hard to imagine what it will be like to walk in that first time. Do you just drop to your knees, or were you kicking up your legs, like you did on that Marco Island beach with your flippers and plaid swim-shorts? (Please tell me they don’t have plaid swim-shorts where you live now.)
Things are different here. We miss you terribly, you know.
I went by your grave the other day in my new van. I put the van in park, rolled down the window all the way and turned up “Glory in the Highest” to VOLUME MAX. Did you hear it?
Oh, to hear the sounds you hear now.
Anna said she’s certain you’ve been talking to her. She said you told her that you got the balloon she sent you. I have to confess, Paul, that part of me didn’t believe her at first. But now I know it’s true. She can’t stop talking about what you told her. And I want to thank you for giving her that gift: a whisper in the ear of a 4-year-old.
Lydia misses you, too. You were her mud-pie, tea-party buddy. She’s been doing great in first grade, still doing amazing in spelling. You’d be so proud, “Bop.” She had the word “ridiculous” on her spelling test this week. Made me think of those plaid swim-shorts.
You’d be proud of your son, too. This will be his first planting season without you. But he doesn’t feel alone. He says you’re everywhere. You’re in every tractor, every barn. He senses you in every tool he picks up, every turn he makes in the pickup. He loves you.
So do I.
Happy one-month anniversary, Paul.