I finished one homework assignment, uploaded a study guide for another class, and completed a three-hour zoom review. All the while, Bob and Ella laughed in front of a fire as they programmed a phone. It doesn’t matter that Bob had to open doors and turn the AC to 60 in order to accomplish this. We were overdue for our first fire of this season. My big plan was to enjoy the rest of my evening with them and this soothing fire.
I closed the computer and picked up my phone to see if I missed any messages. I scrolled over to my Auburn account feeling pleased that I had made it through the day without screwing up my plans for a lovely evening at home. The horror. I discovered a kind reminder from a professor that I had not turned in an assignment that was actually due at 5:00 p.m. Making a classic college mistake, I had forgotten to double check due dates. My scream of frustration was met with Ella’s calm and Bob’s sigh. It’s ok. We’ll just put another log on the fire. I’ll stay here until you finish. I don’t deserve them. I despise making stupid mistakes. I prefer to see my whole week ahead of me, knowing in advance how most events are spread out so that I can avoid stupid mistakes and make a good plan. Plan for work and meetings. Plan for my family. Plan for graduate school deadlines. Plan for sleep. Plan for whatever need may or may not arise. I generally make plans for Bob. There is a subtle difference in planning for something and having plans for someone. I’m very much aware of how lucky I am that he doesn’t mind too much. I do not plan for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I never understood how people could be so busy that they forget to eat. Once my regular senses of smell and taste somewhat departed with my case of Covid, food is not as much fun. I can literally forget to eat until Bob asks. You think I’d be smaller by now but I’m not. Once I start, I keep on stress eating. I can’t stand the new smell of coffee yet still crave my caffeine. I devour chocolate but only because I already know how much I love it. My holiday plans don’t usually involve cooking either unless it is Thanksgiving at the Duck Pond. I’m in charge of pear salad for lunch. A Duck Pond Thanksgiving is a finely-honed strategic series of meal planning and duck hunting that bring people together from all corners of the United States. Even though the big DP Thanksgiving was not in the cards this Covid season, we still worked THE PLAN and simply made it more appropriate for a smaller group. Sam Powers takes his Thanksgiving seriously. The numbers and faces may change, but his plan remains the same. It’s a treasured family tradition. While most of America plans a huge supper, the Powers-Hargrove-Burns-Garrett clan prefers a duck hunt and Thanksgiving breakfast. My sister Amy stays up all night preparing four pans of sausage and egg casseroles and cheese grits to send to the Duck Pond. I wake up at 4:00 am so I can be on time to serve hunters at our cabin. I’m in charge of yummy coffee creamers and not burning biscuits. I stir grits while hunters skillfully maneuver boats across murky water. I put biscuits in the oven as gunshots echo off the pond. It might be one duck or a hundred. It doesn’t matter because they all shoot. They also laugh, tease, and carry on. Each hunter understands just how special this tradition is to my dad. He is beloved. Unpredictable South Georgia weather also means we never quite know if it will be hot or cold, rainy or clear. One thing is for certain, our Duck Pond is prettiest when a layer of fog and mist settle through cypress trees just as day breaks. I looked out over the pond a little differently this year. One of my devotions last week was about how God can intentionally place me in a fog. Thick haze will obscure my view so that I can’t watch my twisted, complicated plans intersect and overwhelm me. Fog can be disorienting, frightening, and beautiful all at once. The dense nature of fog can make it difficult for me to breathe if I keep on pushing through on my own. Enjoying that Duck Pond fog reminded me of the power of enjoying His peaceful presence. From time to time, God wraps me in a peaceful fog so that I have to walk with Him rather than trying to see all my plans at once. When I hold His hand, I can find the path He gives me. I can find peace on my journey. This fog doesn’t separate me from Him, but my stubborn need to follow all those plans can. When He is my focus, I remember to find joy in little moments of my imperfect world. I didn’t burn the biscuits. My pear salad was a success. Time with family was priceless. My precious cousin knew how much I was missing our traditional Thanksgiving fire. I fell asleep in my great-grandmother’s green Naugahyde recliner with AC running and doors open. I woke up from this late afternoon nap as he was putting another log on the fire. photos below by Shirley Powers
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![]() I have used the term cohort in education for years. I divide my world language groups into rotating cohorts of French and Spanish. In the past, I have only heard it at academic meetings or read the term in voluminous reports about testing and special initiatives. It might have been considered one of those terms that separated a regular conversation from a fancy one. 2020 changed that too. Suddenly, even my littlest of students throw around cohort like it is just another sight word. How did we get here? How could the term cohort so easily replace table group or study buddy? You ought to hear those kids: He’s not in my blue cohort. He can’t sit with me. She’s in our green cohort, but she is absent today. Not Covid-related though. When can I change my cohort to red? I like red better than yellow. Señora, what color is your cohort? I am always amazed at how easily young kids adapt. I started to think about all the wonderful cohorts I belong to these days. I quickly settle on my first one. The Powers Cohort- my simple, precious unit of four that has defined my life for nearly (sigh) fifty years. Mama, Daddy, my sister Amy and me. Orginaly, the term cohort represented a Roman military unit. That sounds about right. My father is the one in charge. Now, it can be defined as a group of people banded together or treated as a group. I agree. We naturally seek each other out wherever we go. We protect and care for one another, even if we are fussing as we do it. Or it’s a group of people with common statistical characteristics. Actually one could put Powers fam together from a mile away. We all look alike and act alike. And there is my favorite definition of cohort: a supporter or companion. Isn’t this the way family should cherish one another? Always and forever. As my fifth graders finished our lesson on how to say “I am grateful” in Spanish, I caught a cohort talking about this Thanksgiving assignment. One girl said something about her Daddy, and another girl asked why she didn’t just say Dad. In fact, she thought Daddy was what rich girls called their father because they spoiled them. She heard it on T.V. Well, I guess that is one way of saying it. I was quick and happy to explain that it is also a Southern tradition, a term of endearment for the man who means everything to his daughter. If fact, if it is pronounced as “Diddy,” South Georgia folks will also understand. Money has nothing to do with it. So, here’s to the leader of my first cohort- the one who teaches me to have a million dreams and then talks to me each morning as I drive to school. He patiently listens and counsels me about whatever my day holds. He is the one who takes care of all of us all the time- especially Mama. Happy birthday to my Daddy, Sam Powers. I am grateful for each hug and smile he gives me when he sees me. I never quit wanting them. I am grateful for how he models how to work hard, work smart, and "make an A"! I wouldn’t want it any other way. Daddy, Thank you for always believing in me or at least acting like you do when I tell you where I am headed and why. I crave your words of wisdom on how to handle life. I love your whistles, duck pond fires, and cups of coffee. I am blessed to be your daughter. I absolutely respect you. Most importantly, I listen. I’m always listening, hugging the child in front of me, and trying my best to honor what we have as a family. Love, Jo ![]() Nothing ministers to my soul at work better than Julie Scott’s banana bread. It’s a winning combination that this beautiful lady has perfected. It’s agape love at its yummiest. Julie’s homemade banana bread is her own special recipe for transferring peace to others. It will mysteriously appear on days I need it most and in moments I don’t even know I am going to need it. It always makes me smile. Always. I can’t eat enough of it. I am obsessed with its delicious sweetness that only brings joy. Even if I want more, I never ask her to make it just for me. I am content to wait because that is how much I love the surprise of discovering her magic tin foil that holds a slice or two of heaven in my box. This rule does not apply when the platter of banana bread appears in the teacher’s lounge. Julie Scott understands agape. Agape is love expressed by will or steady intention to do or say something for another’s good. It is rooted in choice and is an ongoing compassion; it’s pure kindness and joy in giving. Agape love means that we look for what is good for another person and what is pleasing. This love is unselfish. I receive all this in one bite of her banana bread. My unconditional adoration for banana bread is no joke! Did I mention she puts chocolate chips in it? I think Julie Scott has perfected the very best gift for nurturing the teacher soul. I’ve never seen anybody accomplish what she can accomplish with banana bread. It’s just beautiful! She offers the love of Christ with every kindness she imparts around her. Here’s another interesting secret about Mrs. Julie Scott. She is incapable of using profanity. This is always a plus if you teach kindergarten. A few years ago, I discovered her special talent for turning an “uh oh” into laughter. I went to her room to gather the kiddos for Spanish class because we were all running a bit behind schedule. When I stepped into her room, she suddenly remembered and shrieked, CASSEROLE! The children looked up at me in surprise, and I honestly didn’t know what to do or say. This was all new to me. I was as spellbound as they were. People have yelled a few things in my direction before. You don’t get to live in Birmingham as an Auburn fan and avoid a confrontation or two with fans from that other team. However, this was a first. No one had ever belted out casserole as I walked into a room. It didn’t stop there. The class was on high alert; we all waited for what she might say next. She exclaimed, Casserole! Broccoli and Cheese Casserole! We are late for Spanish! She gave a series of simple instructions, and before I knew it, these precious itty bitties were lined up. Pure genius. Casserole for level one. Cheese casserole for level two. Broccoli and cheese casserole for level three. Who knew the word casserole could hold such power? The kindergartners simply adore her. Actually, everyone adores her because her agape comes in all forms- banana bread, chicken salad, or a child sized thank you note full of signatures by your door. Sometimes, it is the faint echo of CASSEROLE coming down her hall. Julie is agape love at its finest. She is an inspiration to pass some love along to others around me- with intention to selflessly share kindness. with a moment of choice for compassion. with whatever is good for the person in front of me. I wonder if agape love comes in a pizza? I appreciate a surprise every now and then. Thursday, I opened a Spanish textbook I haven’t taught from in years and discovered a card from my MeMama. Written at least ten years ago, my grandmother’s distinctive handwriting surprised me as I quickly read her words- that she loved me and hoped I would feel better soon.
I’m guessing she included a bit of money because she also mentioned me going shopping when I felt like it- to get myself a little something special. Yes, I cried. It really caught me by surprise. I don’t remember seeing this card before. I had just dreamed about her a few days before this. MeMama and I were walking around her old house in Richwood. I will forever hear swooshing sounds of that backdoor opening, me yelling for MeMama and her calling my name. That door-that sound- connects me to a thousand memories, especially those of MeMama and Daddy Sam dancing in their den. In my dream, no one had lived in this house for years. I was sad that this special place was in disrepair. MeMama wasn’t. She said, “JoAnna, this doesn’t matter. I don’t live here anymore.” I love dreams. Even though this house was empty, we sat in two recliners that used to be in her den and talked. I wish I could recall everything we said. I woke up with such peace. It was a little something special to start my day. For years, I’ve taught my students about how people around the world celebrate holidays. We study traditions, food, music, dance, decorations, and customs. I host cultural studies events and kids compare and contrast how things are done across the globe with how they are done in their lives. While I could not host a big event this year, my students still learned. Lucky for me most every kid has seen Coco or Book of Life, but we talked about remembering and why this is special to people who speak other languages. Remembering loved ones who have passed away. Remembering their favorite foods. Remembering things that we used to do with them. Remembering the joy of having them in our lives and celebrating the beautiful legacy they left us with. Remembering and understanding why people in different countries celebrate or honor their loved ones in different ways. My kiddos learned how different people remember and how they celebrate that memory. Is it any wonder that I dreamed of Memama? I had thought about her constantly throughout this past week. People ask me why I like to travel, and I can always talk about MeMama. Even if I travel the rest of my life, I will never see all the places she and Daddy Sam visited. If they weren’t on a plane or a cruise, they were in the car with family or friends going to Athens, Macon, Atlanta, a Florida beach, Missouri… somewhere … anywhere. They were living. MeMama was one of the wisest people I have known. As my grandmother, she understood the value and power of love. A writer Henry Drummond once said this about love, “In the Book of Matthew Chapter 25, where the Judgment Day is depicted for us in the imagery of One seated upon a throne and dividing the sheep from the goats, the test of a man then is not, "How have I believed?" but "How have I loved?" The test of religion, the final test of religion, is not religiousness, but Love…… not what I have done, not what I have believed, not what I have achieved, but how I have discharged the common charities of life.” MeMama knew when to give, to care for, to hold, to cherish, to forgive, and to nurture. MeMama’s carried a fierce love for her family. When she talked, we all listened. Always! She didn’t quote scripture to me or carry on self-righteously, but she was more Christ-like than she probably even realized. She lived her testimony powerfully. Just like Jesus showed his disciples the full extent of his love, MeMama showed her three sons and their families the full extent of her love. Matthew 25 also tells us that Jesus said- “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me. I was in prison and you came to visit me… I tell you the truth, whatever you did to the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” Don’t you see…you can’t give a person something to eat unless you are there. You can’t hold them when they are hurting unless you are there. MeMama’s calling in life was to be there for her family. When I was hurting, she was there. She would not let me hate. Even when I felt justified, she would not indulge me. She expected me to get my education, to work for what I wanted, and to honor my family name in all that I did. She told me to get myself to church. And she taught me to dance, to celebrate! To her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, MeMama will always be... Butterflies and big blond hair held tight with White Rain. Christmas and macaroni and cheese- extra cheesy. Bright yellow and orange lantana. All My Children and pool room hotdogs. And of course – diamonds, lots and lots of diamonds. We call it MeMama love. One of my favorite things in life is being a granddaughter. That is a love that has not changed. Finding MeMama’s card was a great big hug from her, filled with the hope and power of His love, an anchor for my soul. A little something special. ![]() **southern waters off the coast of Haiti, 2017 Some might say I like to stay busy. I’ve been in over my head a few times before and caught in deep water. That’s nothing new for me. I love a good plan. I love a good challenge. When I get to layer a few plans and a few challenges on top of each other, I am right in my zone. I relish my time in this happy soul place because I believe I’m right where God wants me to be. Just ask Bob, my dad, or a few of my friends who see past “busy” to know just how far I’ve let myself float from shore. I might choose a mission trip, a language program, a symposium, or a wedding, but it is usually all at the same time. It’s my undeniable addiction of swimming in the deep end. I believe it’s where God gets my attention the best. Let me put it this way. Have you read about water in Ezekiel 47? 3 As the man went eastward with a measuring line in his hand, he measured off a thousand cubits[a] and then led me through water that was ankle-deep. 4 He measured off another thousand cubits and led me through water that was knee-deep. He measured off another thousand and led me through water that was up to the waist. 5 He measured off another thousand, but now it was a river that I could not cross, because the water had risen and was deep enough to swim in—a river that no one could cross. 6 He asked me, “Son of man, do you see this?” This is a picture we can have in our minds about the life-giving nature of water-the gospel. Water means life and blessings from God. God’s grace can transform us, no matter how useless, overwhelmed, or frustrated we may be. We just have to get in the water. From time to time, I try to swim in this water without prayer. I lean into my understanding of how things should go. I miss church. I skip church. I forget a day or two of devotion. I walk away from conversations with people I know might give me the perspective I need. I want to do it on my own. None of my plans work without Him. For much of 2020, I have had this mental image of myself standing on a large rock in the water, standing on His promises that no matter how high the water might get, I have a firm foundation of His grace. Next, I found myself swimming out from this rock over and over trying to fix things, trying to understand what was expected of me, and trying to help others. Kicking or dog paddling and a few times flailing in waves, I make it back to the rock. His grace brings me back. Last week, I realized I had had enough. I just stood on this metaphorical rock and waited as water got higher and higher, and I did not have the endurance to swim out any more. My head was just above water. I was scared my choices had created all this chaos-that maybe none of these things were His will. I thought I was screwing it all up. I stood still. Water up to my chin, I was caught looking up- like I had wanted. What would God have me do? Do I choose a safe zone or a faith zone? I opened my mouth to ask my family for patience, my co-workers for understanding, and my friends for a glass of wine. I just did not realize I needed to ask for His help because I felt confident on His unmoving rock. I wasn’t afraid of drowning. I was certainly confused about how to proceed, how to get back to the shallow end- the safe end where life is easier- as soon as possible. No rescue boats, no buoys, and not one solitary floatie passed my way. Just me and God. Just how He likes it. If I can no longer swim on my own, what would He have me use? Scuba gear. It was time to stop swimming the way I thought might work best. When you put a regulator in your mouth to breath, it means you are unable to talk. It immediately regulates the amount of damage I can do talking, fussing, complaining, or yelling. Yes, I can yell. I can swim boldly with a mask to see clearly, with fins to move faster, and on a full tank of His air so that I can give thanks for each changing moment God takes to shape me into his servant- again. This scuba gear and a fresh vision God’s renewing grace and power are just what I didn’t know I needed. When the water is high, I can put on the scuba gear He provides until the craziness of life subsides. I swim, I breathe, I help, I do what He asks of me, and I return to Him in prayer each time. I am grateful when I look around and see others swimming with me. I'm not alone. Actually, I love the deep end of whatever ocean I find myself in because I know He is there, too. This water is His gospel filled with grace that is greater than any of my faults. I just have to stay in the water. |
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JoAnna Arnold
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