The Long Road Home

When my cousin’s stepdaughter got married in Colorado, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

If I’m being practical, I would have flown. I would have spent more time with David and Avalon and less time watching the interstate roll by.

Four days of vacation in the car didn’t seem like the best use of precious time.

I also wasn’t sure my parents, now 88 and 86, should make the trip.

But they wanted to go.

So we packed the car, and the five of us—my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, and me—headed west.

Twenty-four hours of driving.

Two hotel stays.

Meals together.

Conversations that wandered from the important to the completely ordinary.

And somewhere along those miles, I realized something.

They needed me.

Not because they couldn’t make the trip.

Because they could.

But because there were hundreds of little moments where another set of eyes and another steady hand made everything just a little easier.

Leaving the hotel room.

“Do we turn right or left?”

Keeping track of medications.

Finding the closest entrance.

Walking just a little slower.

Making sure everyone was ready before we pulled away.

I found myself constantly asking a question I never imagined would become part of my life.

Am I helping…or am I taking over?

There is such a delicate balance between caring for your parents and protecting their independence.

I didn’t want to make every decision.

I didn’t want to rush them.

I didn’t want to treat them like they couldn’t do things they absolutely still can.

But I also knew that if I wasn’t paying attention, the trip would have been much harder for them.

And maybe for all of us.

The funny thing is, none of those moments are in my camera roll.

When I looked back through my photos, I realized I don’t even have a picture with David and Avalon.

I wish I did.

But the memories I treasure most wouldn’t have fit inside a photograph anyway.

They’re tucked into long conversations in the car.

Listening to my parents bicker over something completely insignificant before bedtime, only to wake up the next morning as if nothing had happened.

Laughing together over lunch.

Watching my dad smile.

Watching my mom keep going.

It was exhausting.

It was frustrating.

It was slow.

And I wouldn’t trade it.

Because I also know many of my friends would give anything for one more road trip with both of their parents.

This season of life is teaching me that love sometimes looks like driving.

It looks like waiting

It looks like slowing your pace without making someone feel slow.

It looks like quietly carrying a little more of the responsibility while doing your best to let your parents remain your parents.

The miles were long.

The trip wasn’t easy.

But somewhere between Iowa and Colorado, I realized that the destination wasn’t the greatest gift.

The time together was!