Some of the oddest things stir up old memories. A familiar song on the radio. The feel of worn leather under your fingertips. A certain scent floating through the air, carrying you back in time before you even realize what’s happening.

Psychologists call them emotional triggers. I call them God’s gentle nudges—His way of weaving the past into the present, reminding us where we’ve been and who we love.

Of all our senses, the one most tied to memory is smell. The reason? The way God designed us. Our olfactory system—the part of us that processes scents—takes a direct route to the emotional and memory centers of the brain. That’s why a long-forgotten fragrance can bring a grown man to tears.

I was reminded of this not long ago when I traveled to visit my mom. She’s 89 now, still living on her own since Dad passed nearly a decade ago. The morning before I was to speak at an event, I realized I had forgotten my aftershave. Knowing my mom had kept many of Dad’s things just as they were, I opened the medicine cabinet. And there it was.

Dad’s last bottle of ice blue Aqua Velva.

The glass vial, still heavy in my hand, held a little less than a third of its contents. The lid was sealed tight, the way time tends to cling to the things we love. But as soon as I twisted it open, the crisp, familiar scent filled the room. And just like that, the past came rushing in.

I was a little boy again, curled up on my dad’s lap, listening to him read The Cat in the Hat or The Berenstain Bears. The scent of Aqua Velva mingled with his voice, wrapping me in the warmth of childhood.

Then I was eighteen, standing outside my college dorm. My dad—strong, stoic, a man who had seen the hardships of the Great Depression and fought through two wars—was saying goodbye. He tried to be tough, but as he pulled me into a hug, his shoulders trembled. He was crying. So was I. And in that moment, as the scent of Aqua Velva clung to his shirt, the fragrance of fatherly love etched itself into my heart.

In his later years, no matter how weak he became, my dad insisted on shaving every morning. It was his way of holding on to dignity, of facing each day with resolve. Toward the end, we had to help him with that simple task. But he never let it go.

My last memory with my dad is one I hold close. I was kneeling before him, his frail hands resting on my arms. I leaned in and whispered, I love you, Dad. His tired voice answered, I love you too, son. I’m proud of you. And there it was again. That familiar, steady scent. Aqua Velva, marking the moment, sealing it in my soul.

Solomon wrote, “Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart” (Proverbs 27:9). That Sunday morning, standing in my mother’s bathroom, I understood exactly what he meant. A simple fragrance, locked away for a decade, had opened the door to a lifetime of love.

This Father’s Day, my dad would have been 96 years old. Oh, how I wish I could hug his neck and tell him I love him just one more time. But until that day comes, I’ll treasure the memories. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll leave a few Aqua Velva moments for my own children to remember.