My suitcase sits at the end of my bed. I rarely put it away because I like to be ready for the next adventure. It’s not reckless travel behavior during Covid. It is an integral part of my emergency preparedness act. It’s a response mode for how I operate just within this family of mine. I go to them. I go with them. I go for them. I despise going without them, but I will. They know this. A suitcase waiting at the end of my bed is symbolic of this willingness to go. Travel this holiday season was different, and if I was going, it was on fumes provided by the grace of God. I couldn't slow down to fuel my soul. Unfortunately, I did not get myself to church for any Advent Sunday sermons. Between work, finals, and family obligations, I allowed my fellowship and worship to suffer. For the first time in my life, I did not see the Advent candles or sing the songs or hear about Mary’s journey or the angels. I could try to boast that I read devotions each day, but I didn’t. I lost my footing on the firm foundation of His word. Covid and fear robbed me of my ability to feel the guiding presence of God the way I have in the past. Only by the grace of God and my family's help did I manage those four weeks. I did not watch our Advent traditions at church, but I was blessed to still experience it. The hope, love, peace, and joy of God sustained me even though I did not always do my part. God is good like that. I continued to pray even if I didn’t go to church. Christmas music was unusually special. Thanks to my work neighbor Tasha, I heard Christmas music each time there was a break in her schedule. God found me where I was working hardest and wrapped me in beautiful music. During the first week of Advent, I prayed for whatever was on my heart, and God would send O Holy Night at different times during my day. I heard the line thrill of hope over and over. I was only hoping I could survive with grace during the stress of papers, grading, and meetings. God reminded me to seek more- to seek the thrill of hope. The second weekend of December, I felt amazing love from all corners of my universe as I celebrated my birthday. My daughter brought extended family together for a birthday zoom. I finished taking final exams, decorating my house for the Christmas season, and glimpsing the end of extra responsibilities. I treasured every special moment with my people. His everlasting love was revealed to me in big and small ways. On the third weekend, one of Peace, I was in Clayton with Mama and Daddy. Our time was spent just being with them and helping however they needed. I saw peace reflected in two parents who are proud to share blessings with their girls and their families. The fourth weekend, the Sunday of Joy, the bags rode to South Carolina to see my daughter, her husband, and their coastal home decorated for Christmas. We enjoyed the joy of laughter of sisters and cousins and daughters. Elise and Matt created an incredible Christmas dinner. I sat at her table and wanted to cry with joy mixed with relief. I had dreamed this future for her, a future of her own home full of her doing her thing and doing it beautifully. Thrill of hope is our Christmas promise for 2021. I don’t necessarily need normal again, but I do need something to hold on to that makes sense. 2020 taught me lessons in faith I’ve never imagined-lessons that humbled and redirected me and made realize it was time for me to say I’m sorry, Lord. On this New Year’s Eve, I will remember my faith. I will say thank you for good times and tough ones. No resolutions. Just faith. The thrill of hope is realizing that God’s provision is perfect. I have missed that thrill of hope. My response to this unprecedented season of Christmas is simple. I will go forward with the thrill of hope. I will hold fast to His promise of Christmas and tell of His goodness. I will continue to pray for my family, for my friends who are struggling, for my students, for forgiveness and determination to go to church to hear His word and have wonderful conversations with others. I did manage to get myself to church the Sunday after Christmas. I believe I will take Keith Parks’ advice and say each morning of 2021… “Lord, I give You this day. Use it for Your glory.” Happy New Year to you all!
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Our Christmas tree came from Lowe’s this year. The artificial arbre is tricked out with LED and Bluetooth. We rock around that Christmas tree every night thanks to Spotify and Ella’s playlist. We have the choice of purple, green, multi -colored, or all white flashing lights that pulse in time with the beat. When I complained that it didn’t smell like a real Christmas tree, Bob bought us a diffuser and Ella plugged in our magical Christmas scents. Elfie joined our Arnold circus many years ago. I really wish someone had told me to read the book before Elfie appeared. I’m pretty sure we were the only home in Americus in which the Elf was allowed to play. In fact, Ella loved her Elfie so much that she hooked him up with Barbie and they had kids. We built them a house. Seriously. These days, Elfie hangs out on this new fancy tree. He can because the tree is fake, and he won’t get dirty. I miss my real tree with the fresh scent, tree needles, occasional bugs, and sap. When we live in the South during December, we must tolerate sap- that sticky substance seeping out of our Christmas trees. It is a vital part of any tree’s life but particularly annoying as we try to cheerfully decorate. My kids argued over who would string twinkle lights because they hated getting sap on their hands and clothes. According to my brilliant brother-in-law Charles Hardin, this gummy substance carries important nutrients and water through the tree. It is essential for its health because all that cutting and pruning damaged it like a disease or infestation might. In effect, the tree leaks sap to help heal its scars. My mom faces routine procedures of skin cancer removal. Scar after scar reminds me of her determination to not give in. To not give up. This unfortunate side effect of kidney transplant medicine gives her no rest. Her scars are beautiful to me, but only because I see the hope in them. I also see my Dad doing whatever he can to help Mama find purpose and joy in each day. From my left knee to my big toe, my seven surgeries have left their mark. These scars are fine lines now- only reminders of my skiing accident in college and a subsequent run in with a closet door at work. The door won. When my sister was sixteen, a swinging door at Pizza Hut tore the back of her ankle, leaving a raised and painful wound. Anything that touched her scar hurt. It was surgically removed so she could get back to normal living. She says she doesn’t think about it anymore, but she knows it’s there. If only all scars could be surgically removed. Under the right conditions, scars pull and hurt, stinging with pain of past mistakes and misfortunes. Some ache and others itch. They might burn or tug. There are so many kinds of scars. Sometimes they hover near nerve endings that fire off with sudden, astonishing pain. This unanticipated anguish can recede as fast as it hits, leaving its owner stunned, reeling, and probably cussing. Some people pick at an old scar until it bleeds again. Unable to leave it alone, they let the bitterness fester. Many of my older, deeper scars sometimes become irritated during the holidays. While it is supposed to be a festive time of year, I know dear friends who find it unusually harsh. Christmas cheer for people who suffer loss is impossibly difficult to bear. I can intentionally leave old scars alone this time of year; I make a choice for peace. My heart hurts for friends who bear their tragic pain until this season passes. I’ve also made peace with how some people might not appreciate my eternal optimism rooted in faith and life experiences. I drip sap from my words just like a cut-up Christmas tree. People might only see my twinkle lights and miss the story flowing beneath. Overtly sentimental. Odorous with sweet memories. A bit corny. Pardon my sometimes gushy writing. I’m like everyone else trying to heal old scars. One sappy word at a time. pictures below from Reeve's Hardware Store, Clayton, Georgia After I finished my five-hour final on Assessments, my Dad asked me what I had learned this semester in graduate school. At that tired moment, I could only recall the term aptitude. Basically, my class focused on measuring a person’s aptitude for learning a foreign language. This term aptitude pretty much sums up my current dilemma: Do I have the aptitude it takes to do 50 successfully? Or will I be a silly woman? In my early twenties, I attended a training seminar in Atlanta called Becoming A Master Student. It was a pivotal life moment because I received a road map for setting life goals. The writer of the program showed me how to prioritize plans for every ten years and then break them down as much as needed- even to the day if I needed. I still have those oversized notecards I set up with dreams, deadlines for fulfilling those dreams, and who would help me realize those dreams. Next, I prioritized. It’s not a bucket list of experiences; it is a set of highly achievable goals. At age 39, I decided it was time to go on mission trips and use these languages I loved. Other goals like cooking and gardening are specifically assigned to later years when I have more time. Only two goals have rolled from my twenties to my thirties to my forties without being fulfilled. #1 Get a doctorate. #2 Buy a boat. I’m headed in the right direction with the degree thing even though I won’t complete this one by my birthday- tomorrow. I have had the name of a boat picked out for thirty years. Perhaps it is fair to say that I like the idea of having a boat more than the idea of paying for one. In this recent college class, I learned that aptitude is a construct and a construct is something you can’t see. The construct is defined by its behaviors that are tested. When you get all the pieces or components named, you test to see how well you respond to these points. You infer some degree for success. It is important to note that testing for aptitude does not measure tenacity or motivation. And that’s all I’ve got some days. What behaviors are associated with aptitude? Memory Perfect. The band width in my brain has officially expanded to capacity. I’m like a squirrel trying to capture something important to remember. I literally snap my head around attempting to recall what I wasn’t supposed to forget. Auditory Alertness I no longer hear the cars as they pull up to the house. I drive my kids crazy when I am talking because I might stop in mid-sentence. I’m like Nicholas Cage in the movie NEXT, always trying to split myself in different directions to analyze what might happen next as a consequence of what I may or may not say. Sound to Symbol Correlation The sound of my hands on the keyboard of computer signifies that I’m hard at work. The creak of my front porch swing, a sign of rest, reminds me that there’s always a good place to take a nap. The beep of the oven instills a certain level of fear that I have let something burn. I must have serious don’t screw up issues if toasting bread requires that much attention. Vocabulary While my personal vocabulary has significantly improved in the last few years, the only words that I can manage to get out of my mouth are quite simple. I’m sorry. I don’t know. Whatever is easiest. Thank you. Where are my glasses? I have still not learned how to say no. Sensitivity to Grammar I’m that person who can’t text without typing out every single word. Yes, I proof read text messages. I can’t with the ttyl, btw, and bc. The only charming one is LMAO, and I do use it quite frequently. So, I’m screwed if these are the measurements for aptitude as it pertains to growing old. It doesn’t look like much fun. The best thing about personal assessments is that I can simply change perspective and redefine my parameters. This new set of behaviors may invalidate my scores, but it will just be ok. I’ll take that chance. How about this: Memory Remembering joy and fun to be had in life. Remembering to be kind. Remembering to laugh. Auditory Alertness May my senses be opened to every act of grace. May I hear each person’s story as I make time for what is truly important- the relationships with those who love me. Sound to Symbol Relationship I will sing praises to His name for every blessing in my life. The cross is the symbol that reminds me of the One I need. The sound of Coucou Madame in the hall as my elementary students greet me brings me happiness and sense of purpose. (Coucou means hello- not crazy!) Vocabulary May my lips be slow to use words in anger and quick to share words of peace. Sensitivity to Grammar It will be ok if “I” isn’t the first word in most of my sentences. What is my final analysis? What did I learn from this assessment? Turning 50 might be a little scary. But being 50 is going to be one hell of a ride. Bob should see my new ten-year plan! #imstillagoose #onceagoosealwaysagoose #justletitbefun |
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JoAnna Arnold
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