It was a huge vase. A vase so huge, in fact, that it could fit a bouquet of flowers and a family of midgets in it with room to spare. For years, it also had been an unremarkable vase, one which I had passed innumerable times.

It rarely held flowers and certainly held no real meaning to me – until last weekend when it became more than a huge vase.

My mom recently moved into a new apartment and given her fragile health needed help unpacking the boxes which filled her living room. So, I set off on Friday to kill two birds with one visit. I did not board the DC to Richmond train as a happy camper. Frankly, I was in a stinker of a mood. It was cold and I could think of any number of things from being forced to listen to Rick Astley songs for 24 hours straight to, well there are f experiences more intolerable than that.

I had registered to run the Richmond Marathon on Saturday morning and the weathermen were gleefully predicting temperatures at the start of 25-30 degrees. And I hate the cold. I was not looking forward to running and I was even less enthused about coming home to polish off the afternoon unpacking boxes.

I awoke at the crack of dawn on Saturday wearing more layers than a Russian nesting doll. My legs were dead for the first few miles, which is not uncommon for me. And for the next few miles. I expected that like previous marathons, they would rebound, but running a seemingly endless mile into the wind across the Lee Bridge indicated that would not be the case.

Even by Mile 20, the legs had not had a Lazarus moment. They were still dead. And that is where the mental part of marathon running comes in. Think of anything but the legs. Since I am running to raise awareness for Comfort Zone camps and had been talking about my own Dad the night before, my thoughts an prayers turned to him.

Take each mile, as I take each day, as it comes and tap into the stubbornness by not giving up or giving in.

To my amazement, I finished under four hours and set off to find a coffee and a cab back to Mom’s. While elated at having the marathon under my belt, I was dreading the boxes. But I had promised Mom I would help, so with box cutter in hand and gripes and groans sufficiently kept under my breath I began unpacking while Mom napped.

I unpacked box after box, including the box with the huge vase. I set it aside and continued. That evening I returned to the boxes while she rested on the couch. And then Mom asked, “Did I ever tell you the story about the vase?”

She had not. I learned the vase was purchased on a trip my parents took to Portugal with another couple. They were a young couple. They were young parents of a gregarious five-year old. Mom and Dad were living and loving life, and that vase represents that love.

That huge vase partly filled the huge hole left in my heart when Dad died. That huge vase is now a connection to the young father whom I have few memories. That vase gives him life and gives me hope that every day provides an opportunity to learn more about him and about myself. After more than 20 marathons this year hope and faith have been constants and every time I think the challenge is too great, I place my faith in Dad’s strength and in the hope that this journey will encourage and inspire even one child who believes it will never get better. Trust me, it will.