I’ve been dreading this day. Exactly one year ago, my dad crossed his final finish line here on earth. Even writing those words gave me a lump in my throat, and I can feel my eyes start to well up.

I’ve surprised myself these last 364 days. I’m super sentimental, a photo addict, and borderline hoarder of trivial memorabilia. But this last year I have found it too painful to look at anything that reminded me of my dad. I was just tired of crying. Darn…now I’m crying.

Last October 13th would’ve been my second Chicago Marathon and #53. As the day approached, I knew it wasn’t gonna happen as it became painfully clear God was calling Dad home after a tumultuous battle with Parkinson’s. Darn you, stupid disease.

I had deferred my 2019 Chicago Marathon registration to this year. The race would’ve been last Sunday, but like most major races in 2020, it was cancelled with the option for virtual. I decided to run this solo marathon on Dad’s heaven-versary in his memory and to face head-on what I had been dreading all year.

Hydration vest packed for this self-supported 26.2 mile trek, I gave Dave a hug goodbye then totally lost it. Darn, I told myself I wasn’t gonna cry. Miles came running over as if to console me, but she probably smelled the power bar in my pocket.

Okay, enough already. Let’s get this done. I headed out on a crisp, cool gorgeous fall morning. Clear blue skies. Dad would’ve loved this. I spent the first few miles thanking God for all of Dad’s great qualities that have in so many ways gotten Dave and I to where we are today. I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. More memories filled my heart for the first time in a long time. I might’ve allowed myself to get a little emotional. Reminded me of the countless times I ran and cried ugly tears praying for Dad to be healed. I started to pray the next dozen or so miles for family, friends, our businesses, our church, our community, and our nation. All of a sudden I was at the White River overlook near Broad Ripple where I would soon turn around and head back. Funny how time flies when you’re praying for others.

They say the marathon doesn’t really start until mile 20. No truer words have been spoken. Ohhhh, the times I’ve prayed the Lord would come at mile 20. Just kidding. Sort of. I had planned today’s race course with two stops – both at our restaurant on Main Street since it was about 6 miles from our house on this out and back route. So when I arrived the second time around, it was now mile 20. I put on my mask, went in to grab a bottle of ice cold water, and started craving pineapple. Good thing fresh pineapple is on our menu. As well as coconut water. Chugged them both and headed back out to conquer the hardest part of the marathon – miles 20 to 26.

It had warmed up quite a bit and the shaded Monon Trail with its glowing, spectacular fall colors was way behind me now. My mind returned to my dad. He never did anything less than 100%. He worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known without complaining. I am part of his living legacy now. I often think those same things about Jesus. The parallel between my earthly father and Heavenly Father hit me those last few miles. I would finish strong because that’s the example I’ve been given as a child of Gene Hsiao, and even more so, my Almighty Heavenly Father.

Soon (but never soon enough in a marathon), the finish line was in sight. I saw our house in the distance. Not a mirage, I was almost home. I hadn’t mapped it out precisely for a door to door 26.2, so I needed to do another very long loop around the neighborhood to get my Garmin to hit the most beautiful set of numbers ever.

Just to be safe, I let it roll over to 26.21 miles.

And just like that, marathon #54 is in the books. Would you believe I just now realized I’m turning 54 this month?

Thank you, family and friends, for the love and support you’ve shown me more than just these last 364 days. Some of you know the struggles and heartache my sister and I faced trying to get my parents the help and care they desperately needed but stubbornly refused the last few years. Mom is now living in a beautiful senior home. Dad is in the most perfect, beautiful eternal home – probably golfing and singing his favorite hymns all day.

As for me, I am ridiculously sore and happy.