I knew on the evening of January 2, 2017 my life was about to change drastically. A new normal was about to begin. The oddest feeling really. Like a punch to the gut. Or like my heart and lungs dropping simultaneously to the bottom of my stomach.

An unknown number was calling my cell phone. I don’t answer if I don’t recognize the number. Probably a scam call. A few minutes later my sister called. I picked up. That same number had dialed her as well. It was the police department calling to say they were with my parents at a gas station. They had received several calls that my dad was driving erratically. They took dad’s car keys, so we needed to come get my parents. When we got there, it was already dark, cold, and way past dinner time. Both mom and dad looked tired and confused. Dave drove mom home in our car, and I drove dad in his car. On the fifteen minute drive home, dad kept repeating how he didn’t know why the police had been called, he didn’t do anything wrong, and he just got a little lost. Turns out he was more than a little lost since he must’ve been driving aimlessly for hours before stopping at this gas station completely in the opposite direction of his house.

This wouldn’t be their last encounter with the police. Earlier this year, my mom decided to walk to the bank from their house. Four miles round trip. She hasn’t driven in years (because she shouldn’t) and no longer has a driver’s license. Still not sure if she actually made it to the bank, but it doesn’t matter since she got lost and a couple of concerned strangers called the police after trying to help her find her way unsuccessfully. The police met them at a gas station about a mile from their house and drove mom home.

Why didn’t dad just drive her to the bank? Well, after the January 2nd incident, my sister and I took his car keys, had dad evaluated by DMV driver safety who revoked his driving privileges, took him to his doctor, and learned that he had been seen by a neurologist two years prior and diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Of course, dad didn’t tell anyone.

The following 1,013 days would prove to be the hardest, darkest, most frustrating, challenging, depressing, and saddest of days.

I’m trying to rationalize and even justify why I didn’t see this coming. In retrospect, it was just easier to tell myself it’s all part of getting old. Your memory goes. You get more stubborn about inconsequential things. You wear the same clothes most days. Your energy level decreases. You talk about the same things like the needle stuck on the same track of a record album.

Time together was no longer like it was before.

Most of 2017 was spent arguing about the car and car keys. It didn’t matter what we said or did, dad would not accept that he could no longer drive. One time dad was so insistent that I give him back his key that he stood in the middle of the street in front of my car and wouldn’t let me leave until I gave it to him. I got out of my car and walked the six miles home in my leather dress boots which I ended up throwing out since the walk ruined them.

For the longest time, we were more worried about mom’s health. We suspected dementia which was confirmed after my sister and I attended a workshop years prior and recognized many of the symptoms. To make matters worse, my mom refused to see a doctor. She’s always been that way but grew even more adamant as her condition progressed. We would later “trick her” into going with dad to his neurologist where she was diagnosed with Alzheimers. But all that time, I had become so focused and frustrated with mom’s condition that it never occurred to me something might be going on with dad.

Dave and I have moved many times in our thirty one years of marriage. The last few homes were purchased specifically with the possibility of having my folks live with us when they got older. A downstairs bed and bath were a must. In 2018 it became painfully clear that we were in no position to provide the kind of 24/7 care both mom and dad would require. We set out to get them into a local assisted living community and out of their two story home ASAP.

Well, let’s just say all our initial efforts went over like a ton of bricks. Plan B was to hire in-home caregivers. No-go on that front as well. They would have none of that. In the mean time, dad was declining rapidly. Loss of memory, weight, strength, stability; increase in delusions, temper flares, and denial all contributed to frustration on everyone’s part. The most challenging was the denial. Both mom and dad were in denial that there were ANY health issues. They just kept saying “We’re just getting old. This happens to everyone our age.” The denial was not just frustrating and the root of every argument every time we tried to help; it became life threatening since it meant neither of them would take their medications.

We were getting desperate. And more frustrated. Speaking for myself, I was getting depressed.

As New Year’s Day 2019 approached, I realized it’s been two years since we found out about dad’s Parkinson’s. I could not imagine going another year the way we had spent the last two. We had already found a beautiful, wonderful local assisted living community at which I had already filled out forms and placed a hefty deposit. Of course, part of the admissions process is physical exams, TB tests, and in-person assessments. The care team, my sister, and I definitely deserve some Academy Awards for the show we put on to get all that done without them realizing.

And then there’s the actual moving day. We were assured by the assisted living director that most residents come to them with some degree of resistance, but do acclimate quite well to their new home where they get three delicious, healthy meals a day, meds administered, laundry and housekeeping done, exercise and other activities at his leisure, and a shuttle to take them where ever they need.

It’s like a cruise ship on land for seniors. Who wouldn’t want that when it comes time?

My parents. That’s who.

Did I mention we got desperate? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. My sister and I were beyond our capacity to continue driving them places, buying groceries and meds only to see them unconsumed, arguing every single visit. But what we were missing most were the days when we got together as a family just for fun. We were convinced getting them into assisted living at any cost would get them back on track and restore some semblance of health and family life.

It was time for Plan Z. (Yes, there were at least 25 other major attempts.) Since they wouldn’t accept help from anyone but family, what if we were no longer available? They would HAVE to move to assisted living, right? Since Dave and I had been regularly traveling to Indy where our businesses are located, I came up with the brilliant idea of telling my folks we were moving there and that my sister was also taking on a full time position, sooooooo neither of us would be available to regularly help them after February. Surely that would force them to see the necessity and practicality of moving.

Long story short, Plan Z failed.

In June we decided to try something we proclaimed “Project Termite.” We came up with this plan in which we’d convince my parents their home had termites and would need to move out so the house could be fumigated. My sister actually bought bugs from a pet store to strategically place in my parents’ house so they would see for themselves what might be found inside the walls of an infested home. I scheduled a termite inspection – yes, a real one (which in reality verified their home was clean as a whistle). The inspector showed up as scheduled on June 19th. My role was to take my folks to lunch while the inspector did his thing so they wouldn’t be around to ask questions. When I got there to pick up my folks, dad did not seem well.

Another long story short, I took dad to John Muir emergency that same day. He had developed pneumonia. The man never goes anywhere – how did he contract pneumonia?!!! Sadly, we learned the hard way that Parkinson’s causes a decline in ability to swallow. Dad was silently aspirating, and none of us knew. He became so weak, so fast. He had already lost a scary amount of weight and his rapid decline in ability to swallow was something we were definitely not prepared. A couple of weeks in the hospital and the next thing I know, the doctor was pulling me aside in the dark hallway outside dad’s hospital room asking me to consider feeding tube placement or “pleasure feedings” for end-of-life.

Ummm…WHAT?

We were just at Sweet Tomatoes having lunch two weeks ago!

*My blog post from July covers the events that transpired after that conversation including how we thought dad could possibly rehab and move to assisted living with mom.

Ninety-eight days in skilled nursing and rehab with a feeding tube. We watched dad go from unable to sit up on his own to walking down the hallway by himself (a huge no-no since he’s a fall risk) to becoming more delusional and agitated to the point of needing an incredible amount of meds in addition to the ones he was already supposed to be taking the past few years – all of which were being administered through his feeding tube.

Quality of life. You hear that all the time. Now it was staring us in the face. It was time to make some tough decisions.

And how’s mom been doing these ninety-eight days? Well, it took dad’s stay in the hospital to convince her she needed to move to assisted living. Her ninety-eight days have been spent acclimating to her new life and us explaining every day why she’s there and where dad is since she can’t remember. It’s like that movie “Fifty First Dates.” We recently discovered she’s not been eating and has been hoarding all her plates of food in her tiny fridge because she’s saving it all for dad. If you know anything about Chinese moms, you know they are all about food and feeding you. It’s how they show love, and it gives purpose to their lives. “Have you eaten yet?” “Yes, I’ve eaten. Thank you.” Proceeds to pull food out to give to you.

How am I doing? I think I’m at my best when I’m busy. Like crazy, non-stop busy. So, when dad was transferred to skilled nursing/rehab, I went into “Operation Move Everything” mode. In a matter of days, my sister and I moved my mom into her new home, and completely cleared out their house from top to bottom to get it ready to sell in order to help pay for all their upcoming bills. Come to discover our mom was worse of a hoarder than we imagined. But amidst the closets and boxes containing fifty years of random stuff were some gems that didn’t go to the junk removal/donation trucks. Plenty of pictures. A lifetime’s worth. We kept those.

One photo album in particular will hold a special place in my heart. My sister had compiled a memory box of photos and albums to keep in dad’s room for when we visited him. One of the times I visited dad by myself, I got out their wedding album. But it had more that just wedding pics. There were photos of the engagement, dating, college, army, and way more hair than I remember dad ever having. I held the album up close so dad could see. He began to reminisce of those days. It brought him back to when he was a boy growing up in a village with his seven siblings. There were nine, but two died. They were dirt poor. Everyone was. My dad was the only one from his village that finished high school then went to college. The entire village criticized his dad for letting my dad go to college because he should be staying home to help take care of the farm and the family. But his dad stood his ground since he believed my dad was smart and had potential. He took a lot of slack for that apparently because as my dad was sharing this, he started crying.

There’s only one other time I’ve ever seen my dad cry, and that was when he got laid off from his engineering job during the summer before my sophomore year at UCLA. He didn’t know I was watching him. He was at his desk in his den opening the mail. I knew he was expecting a letter about a job he applied. He opened the envelope, read the letter, then put his face in his hands and wept. I snuck out before he saw me.

And now my strong, stoic, stubborn dad was lying in a hospital bed with a feeding tube crying. Then his demeanor changed, and he switched gears to telling me how popular he was in school and how many friends he had. My dad not only had a lot of friends, he was a good friend to many. And he kept them through the years. Some of them were in that same photo album. Some of them called him this week from his homeland of Taiwan, from Arcadia where we grew up, and from cross country to tell him what a wonderful friend or uncle he had been to them. When we got to the part of the photo album with my mom in her wedding gown, he smiled big and said “She’s pretty!”

A good, memorable one of those ninety-eight days.

The other days are kind of a blur now. They’re a mixture of bringing mom to visit dad, checking in with nurses, sitting in on some physical therapy sessions, going with him to doctor’s appointments, pushing dad around in his wheelchair, and just sitting by his bed side. In August we celebrated mom’s birthday with a family visit and playing a bouncy ball game with a therapy ball outside in the courtyard of the nursing facility. Two weeks ago we got clearance from dad’s doctor to bring him to visit mom. Those were good visits. Last week we brought dad to the church where he has faithfully served since moving to Northern California in 2004. Family and friends made a special trip to church that day to see dad.

We were hoping for a few more of those types of visits.

The last time I wheeled dad around was Tuesday, October 8th. I sat outside in the courtyard with him and Facetimed Natalie in San Diego like I had done in previous weeks. Seeing his oldest grandchild always brought a smile to his face. This time he was significantly more tired and struggled to get words out. He wasn’t able to ask his usual “How’s work? How’s Zach? Has he gotten into medical school yet? When are they getting married?” This time he seemed to fade in and out of consciousness.

We were told by dad’s care team that his feeding tube was likely not delivering enough calories and nutrition. There just wasn’t enough muscle left to absorb it all. He was showing signs of organ failure. We had discussed the possibility of moving dad to be with mom his last days, but it would have to be without the feeding tube since assisted living is not licensed for that level of care. Tough decision with mom’s Alzheimer’s since it was very likely mom would not remember dad’s passing and continue to look for him at her community. We agreed to keep dad where he was. And now the most agonizing decision was upon us: when to stop the feeding tube and activate hospice.

Another day in the ninety-eight days.

Monday, October 7th, my sister and I dropped everything and went for some “run therapy” at Half Moon Bay. It was an unusually warm day on the coast. Both of us love Half Moon Bay for different reasons. That day we did something we hadn’t done in decades and certainly not the last few years since dad’s Parkinson’s diagnosis. We just hung out. No kids. No hubbies. No real agenda. No arguing about car keys. The one thing we did check off the list that day was agreeing we’d try for one more family visit and possibly a church visit this weekend before making any sort of decisions. We had a lot of peace that day.

Wednesday, October 9th, was a first for the state of California instituting massive PG&E power shutdowns in anticipation of extreme wind and low humidity forecasted. Because of these power outages, many businesses and schools were closed including my sister’s. As a result, she had the morning free, so we decided to visit dad in the morning. When we arrived, we quickly learned from dad’s nurse that he had just yanked out his feeding tube and thrown it in the trash a few minutes ago.

This may sound like an absolutely horrible occurrence; but on the contrary, it was a huge, undeniable answer to prayer. I so desperately did not want to make the decision about stopping the feeding tube and be wrong. Weeks ago when we first met with the hospice team to gather information, the lead nurse told me “Dad is about to cross his finish line. The finish line is in sight.” She didn’t know I’m a runner. Or what those words would mean to me. I pondered her words heavily the following weeks. It occurred to me that if we stopped the feeding tube “too soon,” it would be like cutting the course in a race. I did not want to cut dad’s race short. I shared this with my sister on our run at Half Moon Bay. We also affirmed each other in that we know we want only the best for dad and if we are “off” by a few days, we know we had the best intentions. God reminded me of Psalm 139 that says He already knows the number of our days. So really, even if we’re not sure we stopped the tube on the “right day,” God will call him home when it’s his time anyway.

When we got the news that dad pulled out his feeding tube on his own (pain free apparently), there was a great sense of relief because he had decided for us. I signed the hospice papers that day. I was told dad would officially be on hospice October 10th. That date is my parent’s 54th anniversary. Years ago my mom told me they picked that date because on a clock the 10:10 position of the hour and minute hands look like a smile. That date is also one of my favorite Bible verses:

“I came that they may have life and life to the full.” John 10:10

Setting himself free of the feeding tube was one more step toward his finish line. He was one step closer to full, abundant, eternal life as God intended.

Family and friends came everyday to sing and pray with dad. Even though dad was unconscious, we believe he could hear us. We talked to him and took every opportunity to share with him our most precious memories as well as tell him what an incredible father, husband, provider, friend, and faithful servant of God he has been. There were many tears because dad will be dearly, painfully, insurmountably missed.

This morning, October 13th, day ninety-eight, dad crossed his finish line moments after sunrise. He is without a doubt running on streets of gold with Jesus at this very moment. We have long joked that no matter how amazing a dish, dessert, event, or item is, dad would always say “Meh, it’s okay.” I imagine dad is in Heaven eating juicy mangoes like he did as a little boy in his village or playing another round of golf minus any sand traps and declaring with his big toothy grin “Wow, now THIS is pretty awesome, God!”

I rarely eat fried chicken, but when I do it better be worth the calories. That can be said of any decadent splurge foods. After experiencing THE BEST fried chicken in Alabama two years ago, Dave and I will forever judge food by that standard: “Yeah, but is it Hattie B’s good?” Seriously, Hattie B’s has ruined any and all other fried chicken we’ll ever eat in our lifetimes. We tried the #8 ranked fried chicken in the country after running the San Francisco Marathon this summer – which was reeeeeally good – but not Hattie B’s good.

Last night, we had another “ruined all others” moment. This time it was chicken pot pie. Yep, thank you Indianapolis based Pots & Pans Pie Co. for ruining another splurge food for us. And while we’re talking about Indy, Dave can no longer enjoy California steaks after his first Midwest Tomahawk rib eye at Eddie Merlot’s years ago. So last night after devouring my scratch-made pot pie with fresh chicken and veggies, perfect gravy to meat ratio, and melt in your mouth crust, I sat back in my chair and said to Dave, “I just got the theme for my next blogpost!”

“Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good…!” Psalm 34:8 NKJV

I needed that morsel of Scripture goodness. I’ve been in a major strugfest battle-of-the mind this week about whether to run a certain race this Saturday. The decision should really be a 100% no-brainer since I likely have knee bursitis. It’s flared up a few times after April’s treacherous trail 50K but was fine during San Francisco Marathon in July and several other races after. This week it’s been the most swollen and painful it’s ever been after getting off the plane in Indy Monday afternoon. I’ve been icing, elevating, and resting my right knee all week. *Thank you Southwest Airlines for the massive bag of ice which meant some passengers didn’t get ice for their drinks. Oops, sorry.

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Is running this Saturday really still a debate?

Yes, but only because if I miss this race I am out of contention for the Ultra Half Series Championship and maintaining my eight year streak. I have never cut it this close with number of qualifying races, but due to some scheduling conflicts this season, my last two qualifiers are the next two Saturdays before the big championship race at the end of the month.

Friends. Family. Normal people. Level-headed thinkers. Five year olds. Someone not being held hostage or questioned under duress. These are all people who’d say “Don’t do it.”

While my effort would certainly be valiant, I could potentially cause irreparable knee damage. But I could also experience God’s miraculous healing and strength to finish unscathed – victorious with massive coaster medal in hand. You see, once you’ve experienced a championship race like this one, it’s awfully hard to give it up. Undeniably the most challenging course – it’s called an ULTRA for a reason. But the views, the ascents, the descents, the camaraderie with fellow series runners, the satisfaction as you tear down that last hill knowing the finish line is around the corner makes all the pain go away.

Doesn’t sound all that crazy, right? As I typed that last sentence, I’m once again talking myself back into it.

Would it be THAT bad? If it’s not bad, it must be good.

Ahhh, more Scripture just came to mind:

‘As they continued their travel, Jesus entered a village. A woman by the name of Martha welcomed him and made him feel quite at home. She had a sister, Mary, who sat before the Master, hanging on every word he said. But Martha was pulled away by all she had to do in the kitchen. Later, she stepped in, interrupting them. “Master, don’t you care that my sister has abandoned the kitchen to me? Tell her to lend me a hand.”

The Master said, “Martha, dear Martha, you’re fussing far too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing. One thing only is essential, and Mary has chosen it—it’s the main course, and won’t be taken from her.”’ Luke 10:38-42 MSG

Jesus was the ultimate foodie. I mean c’mon, feeding the five thousand with five loaves and two fish, turning water to wine – and you better believe it wasn’t the cheap stuff.

In this famous scene with Martha and Mary, the takeaway is choosing GOOD vs BEST. Sure, you can criticize Mary for not pulling her weight around the kitchen or Martha for being OCD; but in this scenario, Mary came out on top for choosing what was BEST. As with any decision, a choice for one thing means letting go of the other. Mary let go of her immediate circumstances, urgent tasks at hand, actions with visible results, and need to please others. None of which were bad. In fact, they were all good. The problem is you might be missing out on potentially what’s BEST in the long run by tending to what’s good in the short run. Pretty sure no one’s talking about how clean Martha’s house was or the amazing dinner she whipped up. That “main course” Jesus spoke of was foodie speak for THE BEST. Mary chose to sit with Jesus and take in everything He came to her house to say INSTEAD of running around checking off a to-do list like Martha.

Am I willing to drop everything and sit at Jesus’ feet? Do I believe He wants to speak to me, but maybe I’m missing it being focused on other things?

Mary got to have Jesus to herself for an afternoon. How could anything top THAT experience? But she would have missed it had she stuck with her original schedule.

I know if I somehow managed to hobble my way up to the starting line this Saturday, I would be 100% obsessed with all the ways I could tweak my knee the entire time. I’d be constantly looking down, scanning, worried about making cut-off times, not enjoying the scenery or friends along the way. Having run this course several other years, it’s tough even on two fully healthy knees. As much as I don’t want to give up this Saturday’s race or the ultra championship, I don’t want to give up potentially many more years of running God’s race even more. Sure, I’ve run over 200 races – 52 of them marathons. Many were filled with checklists, pace strips, goals, and agendas – not a bad thing. I’ve also tasted what it’s like to run near 100% with Jesus. Nothing is as satisfying or rewarding. Nothing even comes close.

“Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see— how good God is. Blessed are you who run to him.” Psalm 34:8 MSG

The Mini Cooper service waiting lounge is strategically located right next to the showroom with shiny, new, souped-up 2020 models. My 2016 looks truly mini compared to its new siblings on steroids sporting way more technology, size, bells and whistles than I will ever need. Pretty new colors, too. Tempting.

It’s here that I finished reading the book I originally bought for my dad. Not for him to read – for me to read TO him while he’s in skilled nursing. It’s hard for him to read these days. He used to love reading the paper every morning as well as his Bible and daily devotionals. I find it strange dad doesn’t want to watch or listen to the TV in his room or go to any of the resident activities like singing or bingo. Strange because he spends almost 24/7 in his room and always talks about leaving or being stuck in bed.

One of my absolute favorite activities as an elementary school teacher was reading to my class. Perennial faves were Chronicles of Narnia, Tale of Despereaux, and Charlotte’s Web. So after a rather depressing visit with dad (more because I was depressed), I made a trip to my local Barnes and Noble to find a book dad might enjoy me reading to him. I ventured to several different sections ranging from sports to inspirational to classic novels to children’s literature. Nothing grabbed me. I gave up and headed out passing by numerous best seller displays. Then the last table near the front door caught my eye. Discounted books. I was surprised to see Max Lucado’s name. I enjoyed reading his children’s series to my classes. The title now staring up at me was Traveling Light – The Promise of Psalm 23. Funny since I had been reading that famous Psalm to dad the past few weeks. Perfect! And it was on sale for $7.98. I couldn’t wait to start reading it to dad.

The next day I headed over to dad’s skilled nursing facility with the book and a level of excitement I hadn’t had since he was admitted on July 12th. We would now have wonderful, meaningful visits together instead of the same conversations with me making small talk about the weather and sports. “How ’bout those A’s, dad!” Silence.

To my great disappointment, I didn’t get past Chapter One. Dad was completely uninterested. In fact, my reading seemed to agitate him. In retrospect, I think he didn’t understand why I was reading to him. He wanted to go back to the same conversations as in our previous visits. How’s Natalie? How’s Meagan? When are they getting married?

I left that day feeling defeated and thinking “Good thing the book was on sale.” I got home and put it on our coffee table since the cover was kind of pretty not intending to actually ever read it.

You know where this is going.

The book kept staring at me. Okay, okay, I’ll give it another chance. If I’m being completely honest (hate when people say that), I was in a dark place. My loneliness and depression had hit an all time low that week. Dave was out of town again for business. The weight of my parents’ health situation and handling their finances was coming down hard. The weight of it all. It felt hard to breathe at times. All the papers I’ve signed on their behalf this summer with the words “responsible party” under my name got me thinking the worst. What IF this and what IF that? Historically, I’m really not a worst case scenario type of thinker. I’m not even a long term planner. “Long term” in my mind is registering for a marathon a year in advance to get the early bird discount.

Well, the Cliff notes (do they still make those?) version is that God unraveled Psalm 23 for me through this discount book in a way that addressed just about everything I was carrying around but couldn’t articulate in words. God just knows how to get my attention. It’s like the warning light in my car that came on which prompted me to take it in for service. Too bad people don’t come equipped with warning lights. Or do they? Pretty sure I’ve ignored most of mine this year since I have found myself in almost debilitating conditions with desperate need of roadside assistance.

Ironically, I was afraid to read Chapter 12 “From Panic to Peace – The Burden of Fear.” And then dreading Chapter 13 “Silent Nights and Solitary Days – The Burden of Loneliness.” Those two chapters struck quite a few chords.

“I will fear no evil.”

Psalm 23:4 is not just something you whisper before boarding a plane, public speaking, opening a VISA bill, or hearing a doctor’s diagnosis. It’s a decision to not be afraid and proving it. This picture just flashed before me of that time my sixth grade tribe of four dared each other to start our own Judy Blume Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret club. I was afraid they wouldn’t be my friends if I didn’t join (honestly, I thought the whole thing sounded stupid), but I did it anyway.

The problem with conquering fears – whether it’s pre-teen peer acceptance or my parents outliving their money – is that deciding to eliminate fear is not enough. Imagine if these fears filled a suitcase – sometimes crammed to the point where you have to sit on it to get it fully zipped. Intellectually I know it’s not healthy to carry around all this excess baggage. I’ve emptied my bag – quite often at Jesus’ feet. But what replaced those fears? Or did I just carry around an empty suitcase?

I want these words that follow “I will fear no evil” to fill my suitcase:

“For You are with me.”

Imagine now if that bag is filled with God’s presence in the form of His word, His faithfulness, His grace, His mercy, His comfort, His provision, His healing, His redemption… Somehow everything fits this time without breaking the zipper. Surprisingly, it’s even lighter.

Heading out the door now to catch my flight to Orange County. Running my 16th mother-daughter half marathon with Natalie this weekend followed by a trip to Disneyland. Oh wait, almost forgot to pack this – don’t worry, there’s room:

“The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup runs over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Psalm 23 NKJV

First smoothie I’ve made since moving to our new apartment four months ago! Why so long? Well, it’s a short lesson in humility really.

The last few years, I’d mastered the art of whipping up the most nutrition packed, blendable ingredients conceivable (and inconceivable) as well as attempts at converting family members to the blended side – unsuccessfully. When we prepared to move this past April, I took great pride in meticulously, Tetris-style packing my beloved Ninja with all its not inexpensive accessories meticulously nestled in the perfect sized moving box, sealed, then labeled accordingly.

We’ve moved like 20+ times in our 31 year marriage, so this move was not my first rodeo. I’d even booked the same moving crew we used when we downsized from the big house in which we raised Natalie and Meagan to an apartment. This 3-man crew was everything you’d want for a three-part complicated move (house, apartment, storage facility). They were super courteous, efficient, diligent, and over-the-top detailed down to bubble wrapping individual light bulbs and screws. Made my OCD heart so happy.

This time around, I was shocked and disappointed to find my precious Ninja box missing upon settling in and unpacking. I immediately called the moving company to have them re-check the truck and inquire with the crew about my missing box. The next day the message was not good. I thanked him for checking and asked that he continue to keep an eye out for me if my box should somehow reappear.

Days and weeks later, I got sad every time I opened the kitchen cabinet gazing upon the empty shelf I’d marked out for my Ninja comrades. Sadness turned to anger as I now imagined some stranger blending smoothies with MY Ninja. How can one possibly enjoy smoothies made with a dishonestly acquired blender? The little angel on my shoulder said “Now, now, maybe it’s a poor working mom who was miraculously given your box by a stranger who just happened to find it, and this mom had been praying for a way to make healthier meals for her family who have all lost their teeth because they couldn’t afford dental care?” Then the little devil on my other shoulder answered back “Don’t be ridiculous! You know they intentionally stole your box on moving day, immediately put it on EBay, and made a killing! If it makes you feel better, picture the thief choking on his next smoothie!” This dialogue went on for like two months.

Last month, Dave was searching for something (can’t remember what) supposedly still unpacked from the move. I insisted everything had been unpacked and put in its proper place. Together we stood there staring at boxes in our apartment garage that I would swear in a court of law that I had already combed through with my eagle eyes.

“What’s in here?” he asked pointing to a perfectly sealed unlabeled box then proceeded to open it. GAH! There it was exactly as I had NOT imagined it! My beloved Ninja set – blender base, nutribullets, processors, attachments, and all.

Today, as I drink my fresh ginger root, kale, beet, pineapple, blueberry, mango, chia seed, coconut smoothie, I do so with my tail tucked between my legs. From this day forward, I dub all my Ninja-made smoothies “Humble Pie.” I mean, “Humble Smoothie.”

Truth be told, many things have humbled me this summer. A few of those have already made the highlight reel in previous blog posts. But unlike the others, this one actually made me laugh. God has a great sense of humor. Blended with abundant grace, mercy, and forgiveness. Dare I say, He is the ultimate Ninja.

‘And he gives grace generously. As the Scriptures say,

“God opposes the proud
but gives grace to the humble.”

So humble yourselves before God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.’ James 4:6-7 NLT

I was fine until the scene in the movie where she placed her medal around her dad’s neck as he’s lying in his hospital bed.

That exact scene played out in my head as I wrestled with whether or not to run my 11th San Francisco Marathon last month. July is all a blur now. In some ways it felt like the longest month ever as well as the shortest. I missed a race earlier in the month because my dad was in critical condition at the hospital. “Critical” – as in the doctor pulled me aside to discuss end of life options.

That same weekend I went for a quick run near the hospital after visiting dad. Why run at all at a time such as this? I pulled into the empty parking lot of the Lafayette Reservoir with an hour left before the gates closed at 9pm. No Garmin, no iPod, no running shoes. Just took off Forrest Gump style. I just felt like running. It’s what I knew. It’s where and how Jesus has faithfully met me EVERY TIME. That evening I had the trail all to myself. I ran, I prayed, I cried out loud. No agenda whatsoever, well, except to not get locked inside the parking lot gates.

Here I am seven weeks later. Seems longer when I say it that way. I’ve been discussing dad’s progress with his care team in terms of days. Forty-four days since he was transferred to skilled nursing and roughly that many days of physical, occupational, and speech therapy.

I sat in on one of his PT sessions yesterday after church. Leg lifts, toe raises, arm extensions with weights, ball bounces. Dad looked really strong. He wasn’t ever out of breath and didn’t appear fatigued but kept saying he was tired. I think he was bored or didn’t see the point. I told him to keep going because I could see his progress. Not a lie. I mean, I’ve had to lie about a lot things the last seven weeks, but this wasn’t one of them. It’s very tempting to say “You almost died last month! Stop behaving like a child!” when dad is being dad and objecting to everything that’s actually keeping him alive.

Hmmm…

Just as I typed that last sentence, I realized that could be God talking about me. If I’m being totally transparent, there have been days I couldn’t find a good reason to get out of bed. It’s been very depressing to visit hospitals and nursing facilities. I’ve left some days thinking “What’s the point of anything I do?” Especially running. What’s the point? I mean like my dad used to be extremely diligent about exercise and nutrition. But that didn’t stop his Parkinson’s and recent pneumonia. He used to be OCD about dental hygiene. His name (Gene) is even part of the word. I had to brush his teeth for him the other day.

Dave and I just celebrated our 31st anniversary. We got married at 22 and 21, so we’re not that old in case you’re wondering. I love Dave with all my heart and more deeply with every passing year, but I don’t think I’m ready to brush his teeth or for him to brush mine – not to mention other matters of hygiene. When we said we wanted to grow old together, I might’ve pictured it a little differently.

• 

Motivation. Purpose. Results. Those words resonated with me as a runner. For my dad, it’s now about rehabilitation and living. It’s taken on new meaning for me as well.

I did end up running the San Francisco Marathon on July 28th. I went into marathon #52 with the least amount of training I’ve ever done (running back and forth to the hospital doesn’t really count). But I did show up at that start line with perhaps the most important motivation and purpose. I would picture each difficult step my dad now takes when my own legs and feet are tired. I would take captive every defeating thought and emotion using them instead to battle in prayer for dad. I would keep a steady, consistent pace focused on each mile as progress my dad is making. I would fix my eyes on Jesus, setting my mind on eternal goals, praising Him for even the smallest of details along the course. I would finish my race strong knowing that I almost didn’t run that day because I almost let the enemy convince me that my running days were over. I would cross that finish line then I’d drive over to visit dad, and I’d place my medal around his neck.

Well, all of that did happen. Except I didn’t end up placing the medal around dad’s neck. He wasn’t ready to cross his finish line just yet.

Since then dad has made remarkable strides. Literally. He doesn’t realize it, though. We have to tell him. He argues with just about everything that’s being done for his benefit.

I ran a trail half marathon August 10th. One of my least favorite courses due to stifling heat, elevation, bee stings, and potential poison oak. Every year I’ve said “Never again!” after this race. This seventh year, I ran it with the motivation of keeping my 2019 Ultra Half Series finisher hope alive and showing the enemy “I’M NOT GIVING UP!” as well as the purpose of praying for my mom. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but the course really wasn’t so bad this year. And I’m actually looking forward to running it next year.

These days I have to be more diligent, intentional, and even thankful for the mundane. It’s humbling when I think about what my dad wouldn’t give to be back in his own home, mowing his lawn, checking his stocks, tearing it up on the golf course, and enjoying our weekly lunches at Sweet Tomatoes.

So when it came to that part of the movie yesterday, I got all choked up. My ending will be different, though. I’m still running my race alongside my dad.

“Who is it that overcomes the world? Only the one who believes that Jesus is the Son of God.” 1 John 5:5 NIV

“You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.” 1 John 4:4 NIV

“I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” John 16:33 NLT

I would never stop in the middle of a race to post on my blog. Nor would I update my Facebook page before crossing a finish line. So I find myself in an uncomfortable spot as I’m currently smack in the middle of the hardest race of my life. Actually, I don’t even know if I’m half way. In marathon mileage terms, where I’m at right now kinda feels like mile 12-ish. Those dreaded middle miles ahead and no finish in sight. I didn’t think I’d be writing all this until I knew the outcome.

My mind and emotions have been all over the place the last three weeks. On one end of the spectrum, I have said to myself:

“I’m never running again – it’s too painful,” “I have no more testimony – my blogging days are over,” and “Getting old is so depressing – what’s the point of anything I do.”

Contrast that with:

“I WILL RUN UNTIL MY LAST BREATH AND HEART BEAT!” “I WILL CONTINUE TO WRITE CUZ SOMEONE OUT THERE IS GOING THRU THE SAME THING!” “I WILL RUN FOR MY HEALTH AND FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT CUZ I HAVE SO MUCH MORE TO LIVE AND GIVE!”

Not to freak Natalie, Meagan, and their boyfriends out, but lately thoughts of upcoming weddings and taking grandkids to Disneyland are the only things that have kept me going. That and seeing Dave ugly cry when Cal finally makes it to a Rose Bowl.

Last Saturday – for the first time ever – I arrived late to a race. One week late to be exact. In fact, the start line arch and timing pads had already been taken down, I wasn’t wearing my race bib, and no running friends were anywhere to be found. It was just me, my Garmin, pockets full of energy gels, and quiet trails on a breezy, beautiful morning. I had told myself I would do this “make-up race” in my dad’s honor at some point. Natalie even said she’d run it with me. I didn’t think I’d be running it just one week later. But that’s a good thing.

You see, the week leading up to the July 6th Dirty Dozen Endurance Run, we thought dad’s time on earth was coming to an end after battling pneumonia and two weeks in and out of the hospital. His doctor gave me two options that Wednesday – one of which involved hospice and end-of-life “pleasure feedings” for the purpose of keeping dad comfortable. Basically he’d be fed ice chips. His ability to swallow had diminished (a symptom of Parkinson’s progression) which was how he developed pneumonia to begin with – silently aspirating on food and liquids going down the wrong pipe then bacteria accumulation. The ice chips would come with a high risk of aspirating and reoccurring pneumonia. This option was the “giving-up” route. I chose option two: a surgically placed permanent feeding tube. He would receive nutrients directly to his stomach with the hope of gaining the strength to allow him the opportunity to work with physical, occupational, and speech therapists.

Seems pretty cut and dry as I’m writing this. But as I was standing in that dark hallway outside dad’s hospital room with the doctor’s consolatory hand on my shoulder as she spoke and saw tears flow down my cheeks, it was one heart-wrenching blurry mess.

That same night I was picking up Dave, Natalie, and her boyfriend Zach from the airport (two separate trips to Oakland) since Dave was wrapping up a two and half week business trip and Nat and Zach were flying up for the July 4th weekend. We’d planned this family vacation months ago with Dave initially wanting everyone to meet up in Indiana where our businesses, home away from home, and good ol’ Midwest Independence Day celebrations would be abundant. But being that it was the same weekend as one of my favorite races which I have run eight years in a row, family plans were moved to the Bay Area just so I wouldn’t miss the tenth anniversary Brazen Racing Dirty Dozen Endurance Run. Turns out, we needed to be in the Bay Area for different reasons – a very different race.

Dad’s feeding tube was placed Friday since docs weren’t available Thursday on the July 4th holiday. He wouldn’t receive his liquid “food” for 24 hours after the procedure since he needed to be monitored for reaction and possible infection. We brought mom (whom we moved into Assisted Living the week before) to visit Friday afternoon. Dad was sedated, so we didn’t spend much time with him but did lay hands on him and prayed – even my mom. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom pray in Taiwanese. I do have a very limited understanding of my mother-tongue (and by limited I mean I only know how to order three dim sum dishes and repeat a few other choice phrases that were frequently yelled at me growing up); however, I could somehow discern my mom’s heartfelt prayers over my dad beside his hospital bed.

I left his room that day with the same thought I had after visits earlier in the week. This could be the last time I see him. I had made it a point when leaving each time to say “I’ll see you soon, Dad” because I couldn’t bring myself to say “tomorrow.” My TypeA/OCD/black&white personality has been tested to its limits quite often this past year as I’ve had to exercise great creativity, cross lots of boundaries, and flat out lie at times – all in the name of helping my folks navigate this challenging season of life. But somehow even after some lies of whopping-doosie magnitude (“Yes, mom, Assisted Living is completely FREE”), I couldn’t say “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

And so, I missed one of my favorite races the next day as well as my critical long run for my 11th consecutive year of the San Francisco Marathon less than two weeks from now. If you’re a non-runner reading this, I fully acknowledge that my priorities sound out of whack. How can I even think about running at a time like this? Call me crazy, but it’s just about all I could think.

“Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth.” Colossians 3:2 NKJV

Running, thinking, breathing, praying, living – they’ve become so intertwined and inseparable. In fact, after dropping Nat and Zach off at the airport then a particularly sad visit at the hospital with my dad, Meagan, and Nathan last Sunday night (thinking this was their goodbye to him), I felt compelled to go for a run. My happy place, the Lafayette Reservoir, was near the hospital, so I wasted no time in getting there with one hour before its gates closed at 9pm. I was the only one on the lower trail as the sun was setting. Too bad I wasn’t wearing my Garmin to track pace cuz it sure felt like I tore up that three mile loop. In my thirty plus years coming to the reservoir, this was my first time praying OUT LOUD the entire time. Running and wielding the Sword of the Spirit – key Bible verses I had memorized over the years that now were engaged in battle for my dad’s life. And when tears started flowing and it was hard to breathe between each stride, the Holy Spirit took over:

“In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” Romans 8:26 NASB

Not coincidentally, the next two days, Dad rallied! By Wednesday, his doctor called to give me a progress report anticipating discharge to skilled nursing/rehab on Friday. My sis-in-law, Beryl, has been a great encourager during this difficult season and texted me that exact verse Tuesday. Then my running friend, Mary, messaged me Thursday with these verses:

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:4-7 NIV

Even though I missed the race on July 6th, I can now say that I feel like I ran it in a different way surrounded by people God strategically put in place to cheer me on. A huge change in mindset for me after hitting the lowest of lows, depression, and loneliness a few weeks prior. Friday night, Dave and I visited dad in his new skilled nursing facility. After we prayed with him and got ready to leave, I said “See you tomorrow, Dad!”

The next morning I showed up at Pt. Pinole and the start line of what would’ve been my ninth Dirty Dozen race. I ran a little over thirteen miles – half marathon distance – enjoying time with Jesus on the exact same course that I would’ve run the week before. Sure, I was supposed to finish the six hour endurance run and had a goal of thirty miles like previous years, but this is one race that is far from over. Dad has an extremely long road ahead of him. Mom does as well. This finish line is no where in sight. I have no course map or official pacer. Most of the course is not particularly scenic, and the aid stations don’t carry my go-to fuel. This race came with a very hefty cost. No refunds, transfers, or deferment. DNF is not an option. There’s no cool race shirt or massive medal waiting for me at this finish. The motivation: the chance to run a race previously side-lined by guilt, regret, frustration, anger, shame, disappointment, hopelessness, and failure. The reward: high fives from Jesus and hearing the words “Well done!”

“And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith.” Hebrews 12:1-2 NLT

One letter and one word can make a huge difference. So can one weather forecast. Dave and I were in Indy for business, but I had timed my portion of the trip so I could run the Geist Half Marathon again. I needed redemption from last year’s humidity fest. I signed up thinking “There’s NO WAY the humidity can be worse!”

So like a good little runner, I dutifully checked the weather forecast every day the week leading up to the race. When we arrived in Indy Wednesday and after unexpected lightning, thunder, wind, and a torrential downpour the next afternoon, I started checking the weather hourly. Wasn’t looking promising for Saturday’s race. Then came the email from the race director warning runners of extreme heat conditions and to hydrate as well as slow down. Okay, even that didn’t phase me since I’ve received similar emails from other races I’ve run and lived to tell. But what really got me was this updated forecast after we got home from a fundraising event the night before the race:

• 

100 percent humidity? What does that even mean? I had to google it. Basically, it means that the air is 100 percent saturated; it can’t hold any more water than that.

In the hundreds of race eves we have now spent together, I’ve never said out loud to Dave that I was thinking of not doing a race. That night, after much thought about the potential suffer-fest and discussing the humidity thing, I said out loud “I’m not feeling it.” To which Dave promptly replied without ANY hesitation “Then don’t do it!” I told him he would be a horrible coach. He was supposed to say “No, don’t be a wimp! You’re tougher than a little humidity. You always tell other people to not make excuses, persevere, and run for God! C’mon, you got this!”

I seriously would have run the next morning had he said all that. No joke. Now, I would’ve completely died and told him afterwards that he should’ve talked me out of it, but…

It’s such a rare thing for me to NOT race. It’s like I don’t know what to do with myself when I don’t. Racing has become such a huge part of my life, my health, my testimony, and my identity. The next few days in Indy, we had some unexpected challenges come up with our restaurants. Momentary panic ensued followed by complete exhaustion as I tried to step in to work the line and kitchen for a day. My feet hurt worse than any marathon I’d ever run. After a few more days in and around, I had a brand new appreciation for the food industry, our staff, air conditioning, and compression socks. In particular, I was humbled and touched by certain employees stepping up to the plate when they didn’t need to – but it made all the difference.

One of my primary roles with our restaurants besides social media and special events is recruiting. Usually, I’m doing phone interviews from California. Last week, I had the opportunity to meet potential candidates in person. There’s a huge difference when you’re interviewing a high schooler or a college student home for the summer versus someone needing full time, working two jobs to make ends meet and had to quit one of them because her child’s caregiver went to jail. And that caregiver was her mom. I also met a gentleman the same day needing a job with flexible hours so he could spend more time with his newborn. I lost count of how many times during his interview he stated he “just wants to be a good dad.” We recently lost an employee who I thought was the answer to all our prayers and completely wowed everyone initially. After a few missed shifts and showing up late, we found out the employee was working another job until 2am and didn’t have a car, so he was walking to and from work every day – in the freezing cold. Remember, this is in the Midwest. The physical demands took their toll as this strong, healthy, intelligent young person just couldn’t handle two jobs anymore.

When I think about the many candidates I’ve spoken to over the years who have shared with me probably more than they should have, it’s overwhelming and humbling. But it hasn’t always affected me that way. This last wave of screening, interviewing, and hiring got personal for me. So much so that on my first run back in California, I did something I’ve never done before. I wrote the names of these most recent candidates for our restaurants on my hand so I could pray for them each by name on my run. It was probably like twenty names. Knowing how much I sweat, I had to pray right from the start so the names wouldn’t disappear before I could get to them.

I didn’t know anything about any of these folks and wasn’t about to look up each resume while on the trails that day, but this prayer time wasn’t about job history. It was about asking their Almighty Creator to meet each one of them where they are and provide for their deepest needs in a way that causes them to turn their gaze from earthly struggles onto Jesus.

“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” Colossians 3:2 NIV

I did also ask God to lead them to the right jobs if they weren’t the best fit for us. God demonstrated His love for these “strangers” that day by prompting me to pray for them. He simultaneously dealt with a few little issues I had been harboring called “pride,” its cousin “denial,” and its ugly nemesis “resentment.” Okay, it wasn’t little. It was over saturation – 100 percent at times like in that weather report. I couldn’t hold onto all the “junk” I’d let build up any longer. I had managed to grow a very unhealthy attitude toward our businesses. Notice I said “our.” Easy to say when things are going well. It’s kind of like when the kids are well-behaved, I have no problem saying to Dave “OUR kids are so awesomely perfect!” But when they disobey and cause all sorts of ruckus, I’m quick to say “Look what YOUR kids did!”

During my run and praying for this list of strangers written on my hand, God also addressed those issues I mentioned with this one verse:

“Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.” Colossians 3:23 NLT

Boom! And there you have it. Suddenly it all made sense. I had the wrong view of the ownership of our business as well as attitude toward those associated with it. So much so that I had let it become as stifling as a record high humid day in the Midwest. Our businesses are not “our” businesses; they’re God’s. Everything – including our staff and finances – comes under His authority and must be submitted and committed to Him. I am His direct report.

It’s hard to run well in humidity. God never promised perfect conditions for running, or really, for anything in life. He did promise that when we submit to Him our struggles, challenges, fears, doubts, pride, and stubbornness, we will be able to live and even run well.

Turns out that little prayer run last week was perfect training for this week’s VBS ministry. I was assigned to be a mentor to a group of middle schoolers. When I got the list of names, I counted 47. Over twice the number I had written on my hand the week before. From day one of VBS, certain kids stood out, and I immediately knew I had to pray for them. Every day, more kids grabbed my attention and my prayers. This morning I got to the church parking lot early to pray – and to avoid the parking lot mayhem of trying to get 1,000 students and volunteers in and out – but mostly to pray for my list of 47 kids by name. Did I know what to pray when I started? Nope. But I just asked the Holy Spirit to show me. And He did.

At the end of today’s VBS session, the kids and I talked about what went well and what needed improvement. Since my group of middle schoolers were serving as interns or helpers to the younger kids for the craft station, an overwhelming response was that some of the little ones weren’t listening to directions then didn’t know what to do when it came time to assemble their crafts. Ohhhhh, the many ways I can take that… Tomorrow’s lesson. Look out, kids. As for today, I focused on one middle schooler’s comment that he didn’t think the kids got the message behind the craft.

My response was that I have faith the Holy Spirit will do His job. What do I mean by that? I mean that these kids may not “get it” right at that moment or next week or next month. But the work that was put into that craft was not without purpose. One of the Holy Spirit’s job descriptions is to counsel and remind us of God’s word when we need it most to accomplish His purposes:

“It is the same with my word.
I send it out, and it always produces fruit.
It will accomplish all I want it to,
and it will prosper everywhere I send it.”
Isaiah 55:11 NLT

Perhaps years from now when someone is cleaning out a desk drawer, that bracelet made at VBS with its intentionally ordered bead colors will be a reminder of Jesus’ love. Or the artwork displayed on the refrigerator reminds that child’s family members each time they go to grab a soda that Jesus cares about the details of their day. And certainly when they find glitter stuck to a shoe or sock from their Etch-a-Sketch book, they will remember God’s Story was written with them in mind. Hopefully, the next time I see a higher than normal humidity forecast, I will remember the lessons of humility God crafted just for me.

I quite literally could not coherently post or comment last night after nine and a half hours on the trails yesterday in 80 degree temps and over 8,000 feet of elevation. I was dead tired but couldn’t sleep from all the caffeinated energy gels consumed during the race. Probably the equivalent of ten cups of coffee.

I just now got home from church. Me and my five shot mocha plus Biofreeze scented bod hobbled into service this morning. Almost didn’t make it but knew I’d really feel like I missed out if I didn’t take this opportunity to offer up praise and thanksgiving – especially after yesterday’s race up and down Mt. Diablo.

The enormity of the experience didn’t hit me until driving to church and making that turn up Crow Canyon Road which gives me a straight on, direct view of the Summit and North Peak. That view combined with a perfectly timed Kutless song on the radio brought me to tears:

“Let the King of my heart
Be the mountain where I run
The Fountain I drink from
Oh, He is my song
Let the King of my heart
Be the shadow where I hide
The ransom for my life
Oh, He is my song
You are good, good, ohhh…”

Then all the emotions and thoughts starting flooding my heart and mind. Aww man, I know I’m gonna lose it walking into service if I don’t pull it together in the next five minutes.

Not coincidentally, today’s message was on the topic of joy. The key scripture was from Nehemiah 8 and specifically verse 10:

“The joy the of the Lord is my strength.”

Yeah, I have that verse on a mug a student gave me years ago. I confess I never paid much attention to it until recently. To say that those words were instrumental yesterday would be an understatement. That verse helped propel me forward one painful step after another. As race photos are being uploaded, I just caught a few of me with friends, some big smiles, and a few crazy expressions. I totally want to look back at races years from now with fond memories. But more than anything, that my joy was not based on my performance that day. When I first started racing in 2009, I’d like to officially declare those race photos were not me. They were of some other poor soul in utter agony, overly focused on mile splits, and not physically capable of cracking a smile to save her life. I love how this morning Pastor Rick said in his message: “Are you joyful? Then tell your face!”

The other verse that was like CPR yesterday was Isaiah 53:5 “And by His stripes we are healed.” NKJV

You see, at most trail races, the course is marked with color coded ribbons corresponding to the race distance. Depending on the terrain and technical difficulty of the course, there could be more or less ribbons. The Mt. Diablo 50k is considered one of the more challenging, technical courses. Having run this course four times, you’d think I’d know it’s twists and turns fairly well by now. The first year, I did manage to go off course by almost a mile. Two years ago, it was by the grace of God and a fellow runner who saw me take a wrong turn and yelled out to me saving my sorry butt from a very long detour. Last year I was especially careful to look on ahead for those pink course ribbons hanging from tree branches at eye level. Doesn’t seem that hard to miss, right? But when you’re constantly looking down at the ground for rocks, tree roots, poison oak, and other trail hazards, it is entirely possible to miss a ribbon.

Yesterday, I saw those ribbons from a different perspective. Each pink and red ribbon represented a stripe Jesus suffered for me. Every time I saw a course ribbon, I was reminded that Jesus took on unimaginable pain with every crack of the whip, pounding of the hammer, and shout from the crowd. I don’t mean to over-dramatize this; but as the day wore on, temperatures rose, terrain worsened, and pain set-in, I depended on those ribbons for more than just course direction. God knows I am such a visual learner and object lessons go far with me. Those ribbons kept the praise and worship going when I was at my weakest.

I have to remember to ask my friend Oscar – course marking king – how many ribbons he used this year. It seemed like more than previous years. He says some runners complain about the course marking if they get lost. I am truly thankful.

Obviously since I’m writing all this, I survived the course and live to tell. Sam – race director, friend, and the one who dubbed me “The Tanginator” at a race years ago – always gives pre race instructions and wise advice to know when to call it a day if it’s just not your day. As I get older and race recovery seems to take longer, my last few races I find myself saying “There will come a day when I can’t do this. Today is not that day.”

It occurred to me as I was descending down from Juniper Station (mile 25-ish) that this could be my last time running a 50k on this mountain. The consistent pounding on the body and more achiness are just realities that I didn’t worry about ten years ago when I first started running. Most runners are so excited to hit the downhill parts of the course. Not me. I’m not a good technical runner, and gravity is not my friend. Surprisingly, I rarely fall during races. Yesterday I fell on a steep downhill around mile 27-ish. So much blood coming from my left hand where I initially landed. Turned out to be a teeeeeeeeny tiny scrape as I discovered after quickly rinsing it in one of the many nice cold stream crossings heading to the finish line. But you know where the views were most spectacular and absolutely breathtaking? On the steepest parts of the course. So what’s a little fall in comparison? After that, I made it a point to not go crazy fast (like previous years) down those last descents and just take it all in. The poppies and all the green for miles as far as the eye could see… As my friend Maureen said, “It was like the flowers were welcoming us down the hill and to the finish.”

Yesterday was the first time I forgot to wear my Garmin to a race. I had it all charged on my nightstand in its usual place. I had to laugh when I realized I’d forgotten it since all week I knew I wasn’t running this race for a new PR or any specific time in mind. I love the beauty this course affords and just wanted it to be a day on the mountain spent with Jesus and friends. One of the first people I saw at the start line was my friend Mike. Funny since he is the gadget guy. He runs with not one, but two watches. We both have the exact same Garmin Fenix 3 with the lime green band. A man of good taste. Mike has also quite impressively logged every single mile he has run since he started running almost a decade ago. When I saw Mike, I showed him my naked wrist and said “Can you believe I forgot my Garmin?!” The look on his face was priceless. Well, fast forward 9:33.15 – my official finish time. Did it even happen if my watch didn’t record it? Ha, ha…all the memes. This was my slowest 50k. My PR is 8:04 which at the time I don’t think I really appreciated.

Mike asked a great question after the race. “Sorry you left your Garmin at home, but was it a little freeing?” I honestly didn’t know how to answer. Wearing a watch is good for training and accountability. It’s also essential when you’re chasing a specific goal like at last year’s Carmel Marathon where sub 4:30 was my goal. At mile 25, I knew the goal was still in reach, but I’d have to kick it into high gear that last mile according to my Garmin. I ended up crossing that finish line with 13 seconds to spare. Yesterday I remember telling God, “This race is in Your hands. Time is in Your hands.” Literally. Did not wearing a watch free me to focus on other things? Yes. Yes, it did.

PC: Brazen Racing, Jay Boncodin, Cecilia Wolfram, Maureen Polacci

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

The “PIVOT” scene and “The One Where Phoebe Runs” are two of the most memorable Friends episodes. So much so that now every time we try to move large pieces of furniture, we instinctively yell “PIVOT” with that exaggerated Ross tone of voice.

Most recently while on the Lafayette Rim Trail, I had just reached the top of the steepest climb as a new pumped-up version of “Joy to the World” came on my iPod. As I was now on the descent and my favorite part of the trail was in front of me, I was actually giddy. I not only ran faster but freer, if that makes sense. No one was watching. I was alone on the trail. I didn’t care about running form or how I looked. It was one of those rare moments in which I could’ve laughed, cried, shouted, sang, leaped, skipped, and ran simultaneously.

I love Phoebe’s response when Rachel tried to apologize for being embarrassed to run with her:

“That’s okay Rachel. I’m not judging you; that’s just who you are. Me. I’m more free y’know? I run like I did when I was a kid, cause that’s the only way it’s fun. Y’know, I mean didn’t you ever run so fast you thought your legs were gonna fall off? Y’know, like when you were like running towards the swings or running away from Satan? (Rachel looks confused) The neighbor’s dog.”

Yes, I believe God can use a sitcom character’s words to illustrate His truth and desires for me. To draw closer to Jesus. To see His fingerprints all over the details of each moment. To run and live each day like I don’t care who’s watching – well, except for Jesus. And to find joy in all circumstances.

Joy – often confused with or used interchangeably with “happy.” That word is especially prevalent this time of the year as in “Happy Holidays” and “Happy New Year.” I confess I woke up this New Year’s Eve morning with some anxiety. Some painful words from my dad yesterday still ringing in my ears. Okay, completely wrecked me. A few days ago, I was on a high from a great Christmas with my entire family followed by a quick trip to Arizona to watch what ended up being an abysmal football game (five interceptions – really?!) but ending with a spectacular desert trail hike. But now the glow of the holidays is over. My kids have left the nest once again. Christmas decorations have been put into storage. The anticipation of 2019 is now looming.

Joy – so easily stolen. I actually started writing this blog post Saturday. Before heading out that morning for a run at my “happy place,” I discovered my bike had been stolen – yes, the custom lime green one. I was already feeling slightly depressed cuz the holidays were over, but this just made me more sad.

After quickly reporting the theft, I headed off to the reservoir for my run. I made a conscious effort to praise God out loud in the car – cuz I know I’m supposed to praise Him in all circumstances good and bad. Then something unexpected happened. I started getting angry and praises turned into battle cries aimed at Satan declaring he’s messed with the wrong gal. Cuz I’m the daughter of the one true powerful King! That’s right, Devil, you just messed with a child of the Almighty One – the Creator of the Universe – who can take you down with one word! That’s right, you good-for-nothin’ bleepity-bleep!! I might’ve said something stronger.

Funny how quickly my thoughts and emotions went from sadness, empathy, and picturing the poor, desperate dad (who maybe needed to steal my bike three days after Christmas to pay bills and provide for his family) to cursing the wicked, destructive ways of Satan who’s only mission is to take our eyes off of Jesus and make us think we can’t be happy unless everything goes our way.

In a way, he’s right. Happiness is temporary and dependent upon circumstances. God is the exact opposite. He is all about rising above circumstances. He is all about character and integrity. He is all about turning our ashes and mourning into beauty. He is all about demonstrating perfect love – the kind that already knows I’m gonna mess up a million more times in ways that disappoint people but not Him. He is all about forgiveness and restoration – even when I’m the one tempted to keep the incorrect overpaid change given to me, even when in my mind I want so badly at mile 17 of a marathon to hop over the invisible divider that would put me at mile 24, even when I know I should spend more time with my aging, often frustrating parents but only schedule the dutiful minimum, and even when I skim over His Word in the morning cuz I woke up late or was just too busy to give it my full attention and whole heart.

In so many ways, I steal from God every day.

When I really stop to think about it, everyday I’m taking stuff that doesn’t belong to me. Guilt, shame, blame, time, praise, glory. God never meant for us to have ownership over any of those things.

I ended up having one of my best hill training runs Saturday. I wasn’t wearing my Garmin, so I don’t know if it was actually “my best,” but it was so freeing and overflowing with God’s presence that even a PR couldn’t bring me as much joy. At that moment, I decided my goal for 2019 would be to run like Phoebe. With joy like a little kid running towards the swings. With the mindset that God’s opinion of me is the only one that really matters. With reckless abandon for the things on God’s heart.

“Don’t be dejected and sad, for the JOY of the Lord is your strength!” Nehemiah 8:10 NLT

“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” 1 Thessalonians 5:18 NLT

“Not that I was ever in need, for I have learned how to be content with whatever I have. I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little. For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:11-13 NLT