Sometimes I pick up Ava from school after work. It’s a bit of a drive, and I usually leave around 4pm, so I have to deal with traffic. I like to use Google maps to help me route around traffic and on this particular afternoon it was taking me in a new direction. I’m glad it did.
Instead of getting on the interstate I went straight onto Route 165. I drove about 14 miles on this road, from Norfolk down to rural Virginia Beach, and while driving I relived some of the most impactful moments of my life. So often I go about my day without perceiving the people and the world around me. While in the car I’m listening to a podcast, or to the radio. My mind is always engaged. By chance, on this day I didn’t turn on my radio, and since it was a beautiful Spring day, I had my windows down. This allowed me to notice things I had never noticed before.
Pastors, financial planners, and self-help advocates are encouraging us to create margin in our lives. We tend to pack every minute with activities, and every penny gets spent. When we do this we don’t have the flexibility to make use of our time and money when the opportunity arises. When a neighbor needs help we can’t offer a hand because we’ve got to take the kids to volleyball practice. When the church wants to raise money to build a clean water well we can’t donate because our entire paycheck goes to pay for our lifestyle. In the same way, our attention is always consumed. Our eyes, ears, and mind don’t have any downtime. We fill our attention with entertainment, communication, work, something, anything. There is no margin on the side of the page for us to fill in notes, no blank spaces left in the journal of our lives. As a result, we fail to connect with the world around us, and we can’t hear God’s still small voice when He speaks. Our senses are blocked off from experiencing the deep and profound connectedness that we were designed to experience. We need to create margin in our attention. We need to turn off the distractions, and allow time to see the elderly lady who needs help loading groceries into her car, or to notice the beauty of blooming azaleas firing off their brilliant colors in a testimony to the Creator. While driving down Route 165 I created margin in my attention, and here is what I saw.
Around the bend from my office. Lake Taylor High School. The first location of Acts 2 Church. It was Easter Sunday 21 years ago when we had our first service. I was 21 years old. We met there for about 6 months, and it was an incredible time. I remember the excitement of starting a new adventure. I felt like we were continuing the work of the apostles in the Book of Acts. We got to the school early and had to set up the sound system and the Sunday school classrooms, every week. We had the camaraderie of fellow laborers joined together for a common purpose. The goal was to build a church based on relationships and community, much like what we read about in Acts chapter 2. It was the birthing of a new thing, and births are always special.
A little further up the road. Sentara Leigh Hospital. Our children were born there. The hospital has large birthing rooms and our midwife worked there. Jaron was born on a Sunday afternoon. A big crew from church came to the hospital after the service. We decided not to find out the sex of the baby, and everyone was excited to hear the news. There may have been some wagering going on. When Jaron was born I walked out to the waiting room to tell the crowd the news. “It’s a boy!” The thunderous cheers were heartfelt. Lianne smiled from the birthing room when she heard it. I have an image in my mind of Nathan, the drummer in our band at the time, leaning over and pumping his fist in exultation. Four years later Ava was born so quickly that our parents hadn’t even shown up at the hospital yet. Once again we did not find out the sex of the baby, and up until this point, Stevenson girls were few and far between. My Dad didn’t believe me when I told him over the phone that he had a granddaughter. A short 18 months later we were back in that same hospital with Davin. Lianne gave birth to all three children without any drugs or pain intervention. However, Davin’s birth was a little tougher on her. What I remember most is that Davin was a strapping, 9lb 3oz baby and that Lianne nearly passed out afterward from a loss of blood. I cried when each of my children was born. Those were some of the happiest days of my life. They were tears of joy for the fulfillment of the love that Lianne and I had for each other. These were precious lives, and they were our gift and our responsibility.
Route 165 becomes Princess Anne Rd. The old location for Savior Martial Arts. Our kids spent 3+ years in karate, and they grew physically and spiritually while there. Jaron went from a chubby middle schooler to a lean high schooler. They all still have Scriptures memorized that they learned during their training.
Beyond the Kempsville intersection. Church of the Ascension and St Andrew’s United Methodist Church. Two former locations for Acts 2 Church. We met at those churches on Sunday afternoons for a few years. There are a lot of good memories housed in those two buildings.
Princess Anne expands out to 4 lanes. Sentara Princess Anne Hospital. Where Dad spent the last few days of his life here on earth. He was unresponsive when he was admitted due to a chemical imbalance caused by extreme dehydration. They got him on an IV and within a couple of days, he was talking again. It was a miracle. I cried when he looked at me with rheumy eyes and I saw a flash of recognition. I spent many hours in that hospital room with him. We talked about the bees. We talked about the kids. We talked about Mom. Those were some of the saddest days of my life. I helped him stand up every once in a while. The nurses were surprised one time when they came in and saw him leaning against us and standing up by the bed. He really wanted to put in the effort to stand so that he could work toward getting better and going home. He never got better. He did go home.
Just beyond the hospital. Colonial Grove Memorial Park. The cemetery where Dad is buried. The little spot of earth that represents the end of the most painful journey of my life. I’ve only been back once since the funeral, and I’m glad I went. It was a poignant moment of reflection. Maybe I need to create some margin in my life so that I can go more often and take some time to remember the man who shaped me as a child and who became my best friend.
The end of the road. As I sat in the parking lot of the school and saw Ava walking toward me, I was overwhelmed by the fullness of the life I’ve lived as expressed by my journey down Route 165. The birth of my children. New life brought into the world. The death of my Dad. Exuberant life taken too soon. The highest of highs and the lowest of lows passed before my eyes during a 30 minute, 14 mile trip on a strip of asphalt. My emotions were scrubbed raw, but I also felt clean, like after a nice, hot shower. Ava hopped in the truck, my Dad’s truck, and as I pulled out of the parking lot she started telling me about a day in the life of a middle school girl, as only a middle school girl can. She is growing up so fast. I got back on Route 165 to head home. The cleaned canvas of my emotions ready for something new. I saw the road stretching out ahead of me for miles and miles. I saw the future stretching out ahead of me for years and years. I’m looking forward to seeing where this road takes me.