It doesn’t matter that the picture is a little blurry. It’s one of my favorites. I’m not even sure if it’s me or Melody in your arms, but that’s not the point. The feeling I get every time I look at it—that sense of being small and safe and completely loved—that’s what matters.
You were the one who introduced me to Jesus. Trusting and loving Him came easily because the two of you were so much alike. Quick to forgive, patient, and always ready to listen. And both of you loved me no matter what.
I know I disappointed you more than a few times. But I also know you loved me through every mistake and stumble. Back then, I took that feeling of being cherished and protected for granted. I didn’t realize until later that not everyone with a father had what I had.
I’m 67 now, with kids and grandkids of my own, and I’ve tried to give them what you gave me. But I sure could have used your advice on so many occasions. No matter how many years it’s been since you went to heaven, I still miss you more than words can say. Grief is a funny thing—it never leaves, and that’s okay. It shows up at the strangest times, like an old friend reminding me of how much I miss that connection. Father to daughter. When it’s severed, there’s nothing quite so lonely.
So, if you’re allowed to peek over heaven’s banister, I hope you read this today. I hope you know I’m wishing you the best Father’s Day ever. I hope there’s an incredible choir up there for you to lead, and I hope you know that down here, your kids miss you terribly. We were so lucky to have you. And we thank God for you every single day.
Welcome to another Arizona summer! I’ve been here since 1972—minus three years in St. George, Utah, where the thermometer showed mercy and the landscape didn’t look like Mars. But here I am, still in the land of melting steering wheels and third-degree burns from seat belt buckles.
Every June, the same ritual: I stand at my window, watching my Home Depot flowers I purchased in the Spring, surrender to the heat, their leaves curling like tiny white flags. The thermometer hits 115. My neighbor’s trash cans have warped into abstract sculptures. The pavement shimmers with heat mirages that promise water but deliver only more scorching asphalt.
Inside, I’ve created my own climate zone. A/C cranked to 65. Sweatshirt on. Coffee mug perpetually full. I shuffle from my desk to the kitchen and back, a vampire avoiding the deadly sun. My daily outdoor expeditions? A sprint to the mailbox—fifteen seconds of exposure, max—and the garbage run, where I move like I’m dodging sniper fire.
When clouds roll in, I actually celebrate. Sure, it’s still 112 outside, but inside my arctic cave, with the gray sky beyond my window, I can pretend I’m in Seattle. I can almost smell the rain that will never come. Unless…we get a good monsoon season. If you don’t know what Monsoon Season is? Google it.
Back in the 70’s, my sister and I would slather ourselves in baby oil until we glistened like rotisserie chickens, then cover cardboard in aluminum foil. Don’t ask. Unless you were a 70’s teen, you’ll have to Google it or ask someone older than you. Back to my story.
Andrae Crouch and the Disciples blasted from our boom boxes while we basted in the sun, flipping occasionally to ensure even browning on both sides. Which never happened, since I was a blond hair, blue eyed Norwegian!
Without a pool, me and my siblings improvised. We’d stretch giant black garbage bags across the lawn, crank the garden hose to full blast, and hurl ourselves down our homemade slip ‘n slide, skidding across plastic and collecting grass clippings in places grass shouldn’t go. When the novelty wore off, we’d drag out the enormous garbage cans, fill them with the hose, and wedge ourselves inside—knees tucked to chins, elbows jabbing ribs, water sloshing over the sides with every shift. The crown jewel of our aquatic empire? A 3-foot do-boy pool (yes, that’s really what they called them) in the backyard, where two teens and an adolescent would cram ourselves into three feet of lukewarm water that smelled faintly of rubber and chlorine, convinced we were living the dream.
The hose itself was a prized resource. We’d stand in line, mouths open like baby birds, waiting our turn to gulp metallic-tasting water that had been baking in the rubber tubing all afternoon. In California, we’d had automatic sprinklers and actual grass—acres of it. Ok, maybe not acres. We’d wait for those timers to click on, then sprint through the spray, shrieking as cold water hit sun-scorched skin. When we moved to Arizona, the houses had grass too, but the automatic sprinklers? Those didn’t make the trip with us.
Most summers, though, Dad packed us up and we fled the state like refugees. Being a minister meant preaching engagements across the country, which meant we got to discover an important truth: there are worse things than Arizona heat.
Atlanta in July was our first lesson. I stepped out of the air-conditioned car and straight into what I can only describe as breathing through a hot, wet sponge. The air wrapped around my face like Saran Wrap. Within thirty seconds, my hair had frizzed into a triangle that would’ve made Einstein jealous. My clothes stuck to places clothes shouldn’t stick. And this was just the walk from the parking lot to the church.
Then there was Natchitoches, Louisiana. If Atlanta was breathing through a sponge, Louisiana was like being wrapped in a warm, wet blanket fresh from a broken dryer set to “tropical rainforest.” The air didn’t move. It just sat there, hot and thick and personal, pressing down like a soggy mattress made of soup. I watched a local man walk from his truck to the gas station—a distance of maybe twenty yards—and he moved like he was underwater. Slow. Deliberate. Each step a negotiation with the atmosphere.
Please don’t get me wrong. Georgia and Louisiana are beautiful states. Just not where I’d choose to be in the summer!
Arizona is boring when it comes to natural disasters, and I’m not complaining. No earthquakes – at least none worth mentioning. The last earthquake I felt was a 3.2 that rattled my coffee mug exactly once before I could even look up from the book I was reading. The news called it “significant seismic activity.” I called it a heavy truck driving by. When you’ve lived in California, and experienced an actual earthquake, the rattling coffee mug is nothing. Earthquakes are downright terrifying, and you’ll know it when it’s happening. Trust me!
No hurricanes. No tornadoes. Just haboobs—those wall-of-sand monsters that roll through during monsoon season like we’re extras in “The Mummy.” You’ll be driving along, minding your own business, and suddenly the sky turns the color of a paper bag. Your hood disappears. The car in front of you disappears. You’re just sitting there in brown nothing, waiting it out. Twenty minutes later, you’re digging sand out of places sand has no business being, but at least you’re alive.
And no tsunamis. Why? Well, we’re a desert. Last month we got a quarter inch of rain and people posted photos on Facebook like it was a celebrity sighting.
But look, I’ll stop griping. This year? This year we got a miracle. Spring actually showed up and stuck around for a while. I drank my morning coffee on the patio in April—outside, in a chair, without the back of my legs melting to the cushion. At night, I opened the windows and heard crickets instead of the hum of the air conditioner. Seventy-five degrees at 8 PM. Yes, it was a miracle.
Then the first week of June rolled around. Day one: 96 degrees. Day two: 97. Day three through seven: a steady 98, like the thermostat got stuck. That’s when you know—Summer’s here. Forget the calendar. Summer in Arizona doesn’t wait for June 21st to make it official. It shows up when it hits 95 for five days straight and decides to stay awhile.
Most years, we’re already kissing triple digits by my birthday. In April, I know—Spring gets about two weeks here, tops, squeezed between “still need a sweater” and “the steering wheel just gave me a second-degree burn.” But this year, I wore a jean skirt in May. In May! I sat outside. I left my windows open past 9 AM. And it was glorious.
Now I’m staring at my phone: June 20th, 11:34 p.m., and it’s still 94 degrees. The forecast for today says 104—which, fine, I can work with that. But Thursday? Thursday’s showing 112. And Friday and Saturday! That’s the kind of number that makes you wake up, stumble to the thermostat, press your forehead against the wall vent, and whisper, “Thank you, God, for waking me up. And thank you—thank you—for a working air conditioner.”
And here’s another reminder…You must run the shower at 7:30 a.m. sharp (or earlier) —because I learned the hard way that the “C” on the faucet is more like a suggestion than a promise and time after 8:00. That “C” may stand for Caution, but Cold? Not in Arizona.
But every place has its trade-offs, right? The beach has hurricanes. The mountains have snow. Arizona has heat that could cook an egg on the dashboard—which I’ve seen someone try. You pick your poison. You weigh what you’re willing to live with, and you make your choice.
The good news? There’s one place with no trade-offs. No scorching summers, no broken A/C units, no steering wheels that brand your palms. It’s a place called heaven—the original plan, actually. The garden before the fall. And one day, after fire cleanses this earth, it’ll be right here again. New, but familiar. Home, but better.
I don’t know exactly how it’ll all unfold. But I know who’s holding the blueprint, and that’s good enough for me.
So, this weekend? I’ll be the one clutching a water bottle like it’s liquid gold, parking in the shade like I’m hunting for treasure, and lingering a little longer in front of the ice cream section at the grocery store.
Stay safe, stay cool, stay hydrated, and be kind. You never know what battle someone else is fighting.
Pam Torres | Author 