There was a time when I would not have let myself get this far behind. Over eight months of race bibs shoved in a drawer. Then there’s the medals. After nearly pulling down a wall from the weight of over a hundred medals on a $20 Target coat rack, I never re-hung them after the great collapse of 2017.

Not that I don’t love a commemorative race bib or spectacular medal anymore. It’s that showcasing them is just not a priority like it was before.

Sooooo, quick life update: We’re getting ready to move again next month. WHAT?! “But you just moved less than a year ago!” Yes, and not only did we move from our big house (where we raised our now-grown-up-kids) to a two bedroom plus den apartment, we also downsized Dave’s massive multiple office suite to a single-desk executive space. But wait, there’s more. We bought a house a few months ago in Indiana (where our businesses reside) and moved from a downtown apartment to new construction on the other side of town.

So when our California apartment lease renewal letter came around this week, the last thing I wanted was to pack for the fourth time in less than a year. But with California housing prices being what they are and us really only needing a one bedroom, I’m packing once again.

It shouldn’t be nearly as intimidating of an endeavor as our downsize a year ago. Actually, I’ve surprised myself and adapted quite well to smaller spaces and lots of transitions this past year.

Maybe I’ve been bracing myself for the hardest move of all. Moving my parents to assisted living.

It would be an understatement to say that dealing with my folks’ aging and health decline this past year has been the hardest transition of my life. “Wait, but you’re not the one with Parkinson’s.” True, but watching my dad’s rapid decline and trying every creative and even slightly deceptive method under the sun to get them the help they need has been more painful than any race I’ve ever run.

They simply (actually nothing about this has been simple) are in denial of any health issues and need for help.

A few weeks ago I was completely prepared to pack up my parent’s house and forty years of stuff that should’ve been dealt with (thrown away) thirty years ago. Having just purged thirty years worth of my own family’s stuff last year, I was up for the task. Practically speaking, with exception to some photo albums and my dad’s desk, the cost of storing all this stuff far exceeds the actual value of the items themselves. I could say that for my own stuff as well.

Alas, my recent last ditch effort to persuade them to move was met with more resistance than my trying to convince Dave to run or try beet juice.

I have to keep a sense of humor and proper perspective through all of this because it has just been too emotionally painful. I haven’t written a blog post in months (this is the longest stretch I’ve gone postless) for that reason.

But somehow as I was staring at this pile of race bibs, I was struck by how much I had changed over the course of a year. The ups and downs with my dad’s condition have brought out the best and the worst in me. I’m a different person than I was a year ago before our big move and before dad’s diagnosis.

I spent a good part of last year crying. Ugly crying. Usually by myself, often on a run.

I was pleasantly surprised that after this last encounter with my parents and my complete failure to get them across the finish line of assisted living, I didn’t leave totally emotionally wrecked like I have all the other times.

I’ve also never prayed and cried out to Jesus as hard as I did leading up to that meeting. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that I left with a sense of peace. Were the results what our family had hoped for my parents? Nope. Have we given up on any other solutions for them? Not at all.

I think I just realized I have to stop putting God in a box. What seems to make the most sense or is the ideal timing may not jive with God’s purposes. I wish with all my heart and every fiber of my being that my dad didn’t have Parkinson’s. I want so badly to visit them “just for fun” without any healthcare agenda resulting in heated arguments. I want back the previous version of both my parents.

But those days are gone. Just like the days I meticulously preserved Natalie and Meagan’s kindergarten artwork. Or those years I scrapbooked volumes of childhood memories. Or proudly displayed a decade of race medals and race bibs. Funny, since after this month, I’ll have even less room to do so (even if I wanted to) .

As painful as this past year has been, I can wholeheartedly say that it has helped me with perspective. I told Dave the other day that I used to grimace when I heard platitudes about death/tragedy like “They’re in a better place” or “Jesus come now!” In the back of my mind, my response was “Wait, no!” “I’ve got it pretty good here right now!” “God’s not done with me yet!” But somehow watching my brilliant, strong, stubborn, sacrificing, loving, former engineer, and accomplished golfer dad’s regression has not only changed my mind but has also had one positive effect on me…

I confidently look forward to spending eternity with dad where he will be healed in more ways than I can imagine. We will laugh again together. He will smile again the way he did the first time his golf ball landed right on the green and not another sand trap. As for that poor bird dad took out mid flight from the tee, all will be forgiven.

I run for different reasons today than I did a year ago. So I guess it makes sense that I see those race bibs and medals differently, too.

Not everything needs to fit in a nice display case or binder.

“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.”

Romans 5:3-4 NLT