I get up and shuffle down the hallway toward the garage to work out at 5:30 in the morning. First, my left big toe pops. Then my right knee. Then I feel a little tightness in my ankles, so I twist them one at a time and am rewarded with a satisfying pop from both. This reminds me of Dad.
Growing up we had a wood burning, cast iron, fireplace insert that we used to heat the living room. Dad was usually the first one up, and he’d get the fire started in the winter. Sometimes, however, I managed to get downstairs before him. I’d put some kindling on the embers from the night before and gently blow on them to get the fire going. It wouldn’t take long for Dad to wake up, and I always knew when he was heading down the stairs because I could hear him coming.
I’m not writing about anything new. It’s not even new to me. One of my pastors, Marty Angell, gave a message about meditation many years ago. He explained how Christians would often question meditation because of its ties with Eastern religions, but instead we should embrace it as a vital part of a Biblical life. That stuck with me. I’ve had the head knowledge and I’ve intermittently put it into practice over the years. However, our recent trip with The Center for Short Term Missions, and Jaron’s trip with Global Expeditions, have made the concept more real to me than ever before.
Jaron is in Dallas getting ready to hop on a plane headed toward the jungles of Panama with Global Expeditions. I’ve been thinking about how beneficial this will be for him. He is going to be doing real good in a very rural part of the world, and he will expand his own experiences and worldview. I realized, however, that I have a bit of a “kids these days” point of view as I shake my head ruefully at the shallowness of American teenagers. I was sitting in traffic yesterday, and as is often the case, I found four fingers pointing back at me. Continue reading First World Problems
There’s a dying stereotype that says women do all the work around the house. Fortunately, I was brought up in a home where the chores were shared. Mom was home most of the time, and did the bulk of the child rearing and housework, but Dad was known for vacuuming and doing the dishes. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m married to such an awesome girl. Unfortunately, I haven’t quite lived up to expectations.
I’ve got Dad’s truck now. It’s a 2WD Toyota with a medium cab. It’s nothing fancy, but it does come in handy. We’ve picked up big loads of mushroom compost for our garden, and we’ve used it to move beehives back and forth from the property. As an added benefit, once I got the truck I became much more popular. I found out that I had more friends than I realized, and all of them are moving stuff for some reason.
So it was that I found myself helping a friend of a friend move the other day. It was raining. The two apartments were only a few miles apart, and I like helping people move, so it was no problem. In fact, it was fun. It takes a rare combination of strength, agility, and guile to be a mover. Fortunately I have all 3 in good measure. There’s also an aspect of spatial awareness that comes in handy when you’re trying to squeeze an overstuffed couch around a 90 degree turn. I’ve played a lot of Tetris in my day, so like a good supervisor, I stood to the side and told the guys how to rotate and lift the couch so that it fit through the opening perfectly. They couldn’t have done it without me.
We couldn’t have done it without the truck either. I was proud of the way we stacked a large couch, and a queen sized box spring and mattress on the relatively small truck bed. I tied it down with a rope and a luggage strap, but it didn’t look safe at all. The mattress and box spring extended up precariously, well past the top of the truck. As I drove to the new apartment I reminisced about that time the dresser broke free from it’s moorings and slid right out of the back of the truck up on Diamond Springs Road. Then there was that time we took the chicken coop to an Earth Day event. The wind caught up under the shingles and flipped the whole thing out of the back of the truck and it smashed all over the road. We at least had the foresight to take the chickens separately in the van, otherwise we may have been eating chicken stew for dinner.
I looked back at the mattress swaying gently in my rear view mirror, and I slowed down a little.
I also reminisced about Dad. The main reason he bought the truck was so that he could help people move. He didn’t need a truck himself, but he saw a need in his community and he knew that having a truck would help him fill that need. He gladly pitched in when a former law student, who was also a bit of a hoarder, moved boxes and boxes filled with tons of law school books. He carted chairs and picnic tables around for church events. He helped his sons and their families move into their new homes. He loved to help people move, and the truck was an instrument of service.
I was driving his truck. Helping someone move. Carrying on his legacy.
The truck is emblematic of the impact Dad had on many people, and this is felt most strongly by his family. If we look we can see ripples of him every day. I parked the truck facing forward in the driveway recently, to keep rain from pooling in the bed. It was unusual for me to park that way. We had a birthday party for the kids that day, and when Lianne looked out of the window before the party and saw the pickup pulled in and facing forward she thought, “Wow, Rob’s here early.”
It only popped into her consciousness briefly, like a flash of lightning illuminating the memory of Dad and then disappearing quickly. Suddenly, she was back in the present, left with only a dull afterimage of what once was.
Our lives are still filled with those reflections. We have moments when we forget that Dad passed away, and then the inevitable reality crashes in. Dad isn’t here to offer advice about all the practical things that he seemed to have so many answers for. He isn’t here to lend his strong back and laughter to a morning of moving furniture for a friend. He didn’t get to see Clay and Angie’s property, he’s missing all the kids growing up, including Lex, who only got to meet him from the womb, and Lachlan who was born after he died. He missed Jaron’s wedding, Grant and Mary’s new puppy, and Mom’s love of boxing. Not only is he missing them, but we’re missing his reactions and thoughts on all of life’s wonders and all of life’s hardships. Dad’s responses to these things would have been ebullient, wise, and practical.
Maybe Dad is getting to experience some of our lives from the spiritual realm. Maybe these moments when we think he’s here, and the times we spend with him in our dreams, are manifestations of a tenuous connection between our world and his. I don’t know if that’s true. The spiritual realm could be outside of space and time as we understand it, and the concept of our loved ones watching us may simply be a coping mechanism we have to deal with grief and loss. Either way, when I hop into the truck and see his old machete sitting on the floor I’m going to use that poignant moment to remember Dad, and to be grateful for the legacy he left.
I thought these thoughts as I drove his truck and lent a hand to a friend of a friend.
Here’s the story of how we came to be be rural land owners. Hopefully it will be helpful to any of you thinking about taking a similar journey. The story begins four years ago, or was it five? Maybe it was even further back, something that was stirring in us when we visited our grandparent’s farm, or hiked in the Appalachians on our honeymoon. A stirring that gradually grew from an ember to a flame, the type of flame that is steady and constant. We decided to buy land. Over the past four years (or was it five?) we looked at a ski lodge near Wintergreen, we drove all around Blackwater in Pungo, we walked properties near Smithfield, and in Chesapeake and Suffolk. Now, we can finally say “Land, Ahoy!” … in Amelia County.
Dad could sing. He wasn’t trained, but he could carry a tune. One day around the Fall/Winter Stevenson birthday season we were at Mom and Dad’s house to celebrate with dinner and dessert. The Stevensons love their dessert, so we don’t typically wait to let our dinner “settle” before looking for the sweets. Dinner is more like the interminable engagement period you have to trudge through before you get to the real goal underneath that veil of icing. It is a necessary evil, but it isn’t meant to be enjoyed on its own.
So it was, with thoughts of a glorious sugar high dancing in our heads, that the boys made quick work of dinner and immediately started scouring the kitchen for the main part of the meal. Alas, Mom informed us that the cake was still in the oven. A collective groan went up as we bemoaned our lot in life. “Why does it take so long to bake a cake?”
We invented ruffling. Well, my Dad did. You haven’t heard of it? You will. It is only a matter of time. Have you ever seen puppies bounding around, knocking each other over, and biting at ears and paws? It’s like that, but for humans. The etymology of the word “ruffling” is a clever amalgamation of the phrase “rough housing” with the word “wrestling.” It’s a unique brand of horseplay, which includes tackling, jumping, climbing, and tickling. Growing up I can remember ruffling with Dad and honing my escape skills to the point where I had a near Navy Seal-like efficiency. He would pin me down in a classic MMA ground and pound position, and as a 6 year old I could always pull my legs in, push them against his chest, and kick out. Inevitably it sent him flying across the room. I’ve always had incredibly strong thighs. I think it’s from soccer. Continue reading Everyday I’m Rufflin’
I was in high school when I had an epiphany about the story of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife from Genesis 39. I even wrote a song about it. The song wasn’t any good, but I remember that Dad was predictably impressed. (He was always impressed by his kids and grand kids, and he wasn’t shy about praising them.) The story spoke to me because Potiphar’s wife represented any sin or temptation that I was struggling with, and Joseph’s response illustrated one way to deal with that temptation. He fled. That isn’t a very manly thing to do, to run away and not even face down your enemy. It seems to show weakness in the face of temptation. However, throughout my adult life I’ve applied the tactic multiple times. Continue reading Potiphar’s Wife
My family loves to joke around. My Dad, my brothers, and now my kids. We have thick skin. We insult each other. We laugh. It’s good fun. Our church has name tag stickers. Davin gets a kick out of discreetly placing them on people after the service. He’ll collect a bunch of stickers from folks and then unleash his quirky mayhem. It’s particularly enjoyable to put a sticker on a baby’s hand, or on their forehead right between the eyes where they can’t reach it. Free comedy at its best until they start crying. When Davin is really on top of his game, you’ll see name tags on people’s stomachs, in their hair, the back of their legs, on their arms, and if you look around you’ll see Davin nearby with his hand over his mouth shaking in silent laughter. That’s the backdrop for our recent trip to the Olive Garden, where they’ve got a brand new addition to the kids’ menu … cute little Olive Garden stickers. Continue reading Stickers and Shirt Wedgies
