​The best part of being a teacher?
No, it is not summer break. Although that’s a really good reason.
It is my former students and the memories we share.

It’s seeing former students walking down the hometown streets or
saying good morning to them as they now drop off their children to me in car riders.

It’s knowing that the student who used to sit in the far corner of my classroom – the one who drove me crazy- is now a successful pharmacist.

It’s leaving a restaurant and being greeted by a honking horn. The former students just wanted to say, Hey Mrs. Arnold. You were right. We miss high school!

When my mother-in-law Miss Polly suffered a stroke three years ago, I went with her to our local hospital. A bit overwhelmed, I was focused only on her. A nurse turned to me and said, Mrs. Arnold, do you remember me? You taught me French at the college.

I did in fact recognize her, and I literally panicked inside. Did she have good memories of me teaching her? She energetically moved around the room telling me how proud she was that she did well in my class. Her soothing voice relaxed even this tired daughter-in-law as she cared for Miss Polly.

Around every corner in the hospital, I recognized more former high school French and Spanish students now on staff at Phoebe Sumter. They reminisced and laughed about projects, portfolios, and parties- those memorable fiestas and fêtes. A few even apologized for trying my patience from time to time. I listened with a smile. It’s interesting what they remember and how they saw me. I heard about
the time I lost my temper and Lyndsey made me laugh instead of yell.
the time I began a French lesson in Spanish class.
the times they got away with stuff when they thought I wasn’t looking.

They love to remember the mistakes I made. The truth is sometimes I was looking the other way, but sometimes I wasn’t looking at all. Good for them.

Just last Friday, precious Dylan took to Facebook to tell his world the truth about a Spanish project from high school. It seems there was some confusion over whether or not I lost it and if he actually ever did it. I went ahead and issued a blanket apology to all my students who ever suffered through the process of that project. I’m quite certain it was not the hardest thing they have ever had to do, but this Facebook conversation brought me joy when several other former students joined in- mostly to say apology accepted.

Glimpsing how my former students are living out their dreams gives me a boost of confidence to keep on teaching- designing, planning, singing, and even jumping through the hoops of our educational system. I'm inpsired to create new trips to take my current students on... France, Spain, Costa Rica! One day, we will travel again.

How we teachers treat our students today matters. For me, it isn’t only about language acquisition; it is about positive relationships. I don’t take credit for their success because I’m mostly relieved when I don’t screw up my part of the process. Through years of positive connections, I am sometimes able to show my students how to embrace the potential for their futures. I am simply a witness to their possibilities, to the assets they are accumulating.

It’s called asset-based thinking.

Teachers live in this world every day. We make choices about lessons, activities, units, assessments, and projects based on…
what we have and not what we do not have.
what we want to see accomplished and not what might be too difficult.
what the kids have and what they need.

We know our students and see what is possible for them.

Unfortunately, many students also come to school thinking that it will be an impossible thing- doing a new math equation, reading a novel, or giving a presentation. Kids try to tell teachers over and over how they can’t learn. It’s particularly true when they are acquiring another language. Even parents sometimes chime in: I can’t help them; I don’t know that stuff.

We teachers try not to let them get away with it…. this deficit-based thinking.

Our jobs become harder but not impossible. Teachers want kids and parents to see beyond what they know and have experienced. We want them to see their blank slate as an asset- a treasure box waiting to be filled new words, art, music, physical activity, literature, history and science. As corny and cliché as it might sound, we actually DO want to inspire them to use their skills to help others.

We teachers love our jobs because we love our students.

We love to make them think, question, and work hard while we learn, reflect, and improve our craft because of their indelible marks on our lives.

We love to push their imagination to a higher level while we marvel at beautiful unique things they can create.

We love to challenge them to recognize and appreciate people and cultures across the globe while we accept each of them just as they are.

We love to see our students develop into incredibly gifted adults, giving back to the communities that nurtured them as children.

We love.

I had to apologize. I began a walk of shame towards yellow hall, home of our 4th and 5th grade team. I felt convicted that an appropriate I’m Sorry was in order. It wasn’t the end of the world, yet I was feeling low. I stopped by for a quick hello and explanation. I messed up invitations to a Google Meet for their kiddos.

Missing one small step can waste precious time, valuable time, and it can erode goodwill faster than I ever thought possible. Parents and coworkers need basic levels of consistency for children. They need a chance to breathe easy when something goes the way it should. They need as many tiny success moments they can garnish. It is what keeps all of us moving forward.

As I entered a classroom, I stood our requisite six feet away and quietly but purposefully apologized to two of these teachers. These angels were gracious, saying no worries and it’s cool. One teacher whispered something to me, so I leaned forward. I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I stepped a little bit closer because she had the strangest look on her face. I waited for her to gently offer up a word of advice about how to avoid this problem in the future.

Imagine me, stooping forward, eyes straining to read her lips, attention focused on what she was about to say….

when out of nowhere….

another teacher snuck up behind me, grabbed my shoulders, scaring me to death.

A good ten seconds of wicked screams escaped me as I fell forward, unable to see who snuck up behind me. I danced around, jumping like a snake was after me, trying to catch my breath.

They laughed and laughed and laughed as I hollered- You made me almost wet my pants! Yeah well… I did a little bit- every woman knows this.

Pure adrenaline hit my system, driving away shame, embarrassment, and worries. I was free of it because that is what laughter does. That is what joy does. It lightens the soul.

Then she did it again a few minutes later.
And I fell for it again.
She did it the next morning.
And I fell for it again the next morning.

Ok, ladies. I needed that. I will say thank you for laughter again in English, French, and Spanish.
While I am at it, I’ll spread some gratitude.

Merci and Gracias to every coworker, fellow teacher, who shows me
-grace when I misunderstand, when I assume, or when I jump to conclusions.
-kindness when I’m tired, temperamental, or totally exasperated.
-levity for times I screw up for never EVER in my life have I made so many tiny mistakes.
-respect for my calling and love of teaching others about languages and cultures.

Merci and gracias to each precious child who gives me
-attention during a Google Meet- that is a true miracle.
-encouragement to continue when he or she shows off during our class.
-love for the little things- a story about “Lovey” or a chance to meet the family cat.
-peace knowing that I am fulfilling my calling that God placed on my heart.

Merci and gracias and to my husband and kids who give me
-another cup of coffee while another zoom started.
-time to calm down when I forget to do something again.
-a look of warning rather than harsh words when I raise my voice first.
-another perspective when my own is woefully shortsighted.

Merci and gracias to educators across the country who
-share lesson after lesson.
-provide hacks, technology tips, and shortcuts.
-issue dire warnings about what does not work and what really doesn’t work

Bertha Delgadillo, Martina Bex, Meredith White, and Claudia Elliott- you look out for all of us language teachers and share the very best of your profession. You are loved!

Merci and gracias to parents and caregivers who
-stop me in the grocery store or church to say they appreciate that I continue to go to work even though they don’t know how teachers are managing it.
-send emails to encourage me to continue to teach, preach, seek, and provide moments of normalcy and inspiration through a camera lens an inch wide.
-ask me what they can do for me. God Bless You!
-smile but keep walking when they know they can’t say anything nice about school right now. I understand and I’m tired and I don’t know how to make you feel better either.

It’s all scary. It’s all tough. It’s a quest for peace in the midst of a storm.
We teachers are working as hard as humanly possible, praying all the way through.

I won’t apologize for that.

You think you know people.
You think you have them all figured out.
 
Grandparents, for example.
 
My grandparents Gran Jan and Papa are locked into my memory in very specific ways.
Gran Jan playing her piano.
Gran Jan scratching my back as I fell asleep on her sofa.
Gran Jan getting the jar of honey I couldn't reach.
Gran Jan sending me letters.
 
Throughout my first year of married life to Elise’s dad, I regularly received letters from Gran Jan. She kept me up to date on cousins and Vienna life. She sent me a little piece of grandparent love to fill my heart when I made a home a state away.

She sent me a little peace.
 
I kept these letters because her handwriting- her unique and beautiful cursive- can cast a charm over me each time I read them. Gran Jan's letters still bring me heaps o’ love through the intricate shapes of her letters.
 
Then there’s Papa- always pronounced Pah Pah.
Papa sitting in his chair in the kitchen and chain-smoking Winston Salem cigarettes.
Papa telling me to go to law school because he wanted a lawyer from his crew.
Papa asking Do you need a little pocket change? and slipping me  a five-dollar bill- before I left him.
Papa and the El Camino- letting me drive him around and around each tree in their pecan orchard behind the Hargrove house.
 
I recently discovered a few secrets about these two. Secrets from their youth were revealed to me in a small stash of postcards that Gran Jan treasured, notes from him to her during World War II. I discovered the absolute enchantment of knowing how Charles, this handsome Navy officer in the Pacific theatre, expressed his true love for his young and accomplished wife, JoAnne. He began each letter the same way: My Darling.
 
On October 4, 1944, Charles wrote,
 
My Darling-
Wish you could see the moon with me again tonight- it is so big
and beautiful as if it was meant for us alone-One day it will be
ours again.
 
What did you get for little “Woodruff”- I hope you could get
something nice though I know it’s hard to find such things.
 
Darling, I got the little can of cookies about a month after you
mailed them- I know I wrote you about it- They were grand-
I’m sure going to be on the lookout for the next box from Rich’s-
for I know it will be good- We have plenty of cheese but
it’s all Australian.
 
Goodnight my darling, sweet dreams, and remember
I’m always thinking of you and forever and always
I’m your-
Charles
 
My grandfather- the poet. I had no idea. I knew he adored my grandmother, but this? This is good stuff. Bob could learn a thing or two from him.
 
We all could.  We could learn to write a letter because we don’t need a world war as inspiration. Covid is enough for me.
 
You think you have plenty of time with the people you love.
You might have it all figured out.

I do not. I am reminded once again to make my list of things I am grateful for today and to tell the ones I love how much they mean to me.
 
I’m inspired to…
make the phone call I’ve put off.
send a quick text I’ve meaning to send.
write a real card and actually mail it.
say yes to the fishing trip, shopping trip, or evening out with a friend.
 
I asked Bob to write me a letter like the one Charles sent JoAnne.
He reminded me ever so gently that my grandmother was also an excellent cook.
 
Good point, Bob. 
Our conversation ended right there.
 
 
Ecclesiastes 3:1
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.

For my cousins, Robyn and Bob

I might have grown up in Cordele, but I was raised on Vienna virtue. Dooly County is my home place even if my parents didn’t settle there when they moved back from North Carolina in 1971.

Each of my grandparents as well as a slew of aunts, uncles, and cousins from the Hargrove, Davis, Mitchell, and Powers clans lived near this tiny town. God’s provision is perfect and He knew I needed my cousins Bob and Robyn Garret as much as they needed me and my sister Amy. We were always together for every big or little holiday, family celebration, and a few Sunday lunches at that restaurant by the interstate.

These are sacred memories in a small community with a relative on every corner.

I knew the Vienna First Methodist Church as well as I knew my own. The ladies of this church easily recognized my face and could tell me countless versions of my family’s history . It was in that sanctuary I sat with Robyn and Bob and learned about Jesus, faith, and a strong Christian walk.

I often rode to Sunday church, my eyes barely peeking over the car window as we drove slowly- always slowly- down a street until wide white porches of Aunt Maidie’s house signaled that we were close. The Baptist Church looks almost identical, situated on another corner a block away. I knew that church too. The other half of my family worshipped there.

A trip downtown in Vienna meant a stop at Forbes Drug Store and its magical revolving jewelry case. I memorized every aisle of Stephens Grocery Store because we went there at least once a day to pick up what we needed. Gran Jan could cook up ten different dishes and display them on ten different small plates around her kitchen table.
Always delicious.
Always eaten.
Always ready for my cousin Bob to devour whenever he might walk through the back door.

Somebody in my family still has the big recliner from our Grandmama Bessie’s house. The cousins and I would settle back in it and face her enormous console TV. She served countless peanut butter crackers and Coca Colie while we enjoyed her newly discovered luxury- a TV clicker. One big button worked the volume with just three choices and the other big click changed channels- all three of them. Unfortunately, if you clicked too fast, you might turn off the TV and need to start over. On a pretty day, we could even scoot across the street to Aunt Doodah and Aunt Weezie’s porch, too. Everyone should have relatives like Doodah and Weezie.

Yet, it was at Robyn and Bob’s house where real fun happened. We lived this southern childhood recipe of happiness and heartache complete with a side of sweet tea and dollop of Watergate salad. This includes...
-Scheming for sleepovers with cousins.
-Running wild in nearby corn fields as wet stalks obscured sunshine.
-Climbing fences, playing hide-n-seek in linen closets, sneaking food from a kitchen counter.
-Getting as far from the house as possible – but close enough to hear when someone called for us.
-Sliding super-fast down a staircase.
-Whispering secrets and laughing.

Being at Bob and Robyn’s meant being with Aunt Marcia and experiencing afternoons filled with lessons. I recall baking lessons because her cakes, pies, mints, and goodies tasted extra-delicious. There were piano lessons because her gift of music was very special. Her life lessons about love and loss were poignant and unforgettable.

Aunt Marcia loved hard and she loved long. She was unapologetic with her opinions. When she was happy, we rejoiced with her. When she was sad, we loved her through it. When she was mad, we tried to get out of the way.

Actually, we do that with all the Hargrove women.
I am a Hargrove woman.

My strongest memory of my mom’s younger sister, Aunt Marcia, is from the morning of the funeral of our beloved Uncle Doc. As she sat at a vanity, she took meticulous care of her appearance because that is how Uncle Doc loved to see her- all fixed up with no dark colors. She lived thirty-five years with her broken heart and bright colors, remembering this man we all dearly loved and still desperately miss.

Our last conversation was about recipes. Aunt Marcia was determined to share with me what she had mastered in her life- the collection of all ingredients- sweet, sour, light, hard, rich, bitter, or even extra salty.

I can learn lessons from any person if I pay attention. Why is it I always wish I had paid more attention? I have a box of her simpler recipes in my kitchen and can admit that I safely use them from time to time. She made them easy for me.

I love Aunt Marcia like I love every part of my Vienna childhood. I believe when a person dies, someone should cry for them. For three days, I have cried for her, Robyn, Bob, my mom, and Aunt Dinah. That might be the secret ingredient that finishes off any family dish- a dash of tears for the people who have loved you and shaped your life. Tears are ok today but joy comes in the morning.

Hebrews 4:16 tells us, Let us go with complete trust to the throne of God. We will receive His loving kindness and have His loving favor to help us whenever we need it. Jesus offers us what we can’t have on this earth-
perfect peace from our worries
forgiveness for our wrong choices and words
and eternal life in heaven.

I believe that last Friday afternoon, Aunt Marcia was welcomed into heaven and received a box of new recipes filled with His perfect ingredients of
rest
redemption
and freedom that comes when you lay your burdens down at the feet of Jesus.

Robyn and Bob- you will always have me, Amy, Laurie, and Adam. We love you with all the strength of our Vienna roots and Hargrove passion.