This past Monday was a beautiful day on the soccer field. It is officially spring in Americus, and the grass, stands, and cars were lightly dusted with a unique yellow that only pollen can claim.
 
During high school soccer season, families and students brave the pollen to support a team of dedicated girls who run up and down that crazy field a million times in two hours. That’s how much they love it. Most of us parents just love them so much that we keep trying to figure out this confounding game.
 
Hanging back from the crowd, I stood awkwardly apart from my friends and family while I tried to listen to my class that I have every Monday night for three hours. There I was-
holding my phone,
earbuds in,
zooming, multitasking, and regretting every minute of this dilemma.
 
I despise regrets and go to great lengths and great prayer to avoid them. Yet here I sat because I refuse to miss one of Ella’s soccer games for a zoom. This was part of the business that God has given me, so I make the most of it.
Maybe it’s because the kids didn’t get a season last year because of school closures.
Maybe it’s because she is our youngest and time is more precious to me.
Maybe, just maybe, I am obsessed watching her play.  
 
My professor wasn’t fooled or happy. This class requires my full attention, so I eventually moved my car, and parked where I could watch them play. I switched on the A/C and my computer.
 
My eyes stayed on the field. My body literally swayed with the team, and my face was covered in scowls, grins, and sometimes confusion.
 
Yes, I love watching my girl. I’m no different than any other mom who supports a child through a sport. I recognize commitment, effort, and enthusiasm with every block, kick, and sprint. Ella is tougher than me, but I pray more than she realizes. It’s me and God throughout each game. Ella doesn’t like me to yell, but sometimes I yell just because she doesn’t like it.
 
All these emotions and a spectacular sunset were captured and recorded on that class zoom.
 
I felt ridiculous as I tried to navigate my commitments as a professional and my commitments as a mom. Neither my professor nor my child got my full attention, but they both got all I had to offer. I felt weary, fatigued, and a little frustrated because I did not intend to put those two things in competition with each other. I thought I set aside sufficient time and energy for both. When we finished the game, I raced home to finish my class. It was an exhausting day.
 
The next morning, I found myself standing in front of fifth graders explaining (in French) the pyramid of basic human needs. The French feel that one’s physiological needs come first. They list food, water, sleep, and breathing clean air as fundamental human needs that go at the bottom of a pyramid that charts this hierarchy. From there, they move on to security of shelter, medicine and health care, employment, family and social needs, esteem, and personal accomplishment. 
 
How about that? Rest before clothing on the scale of basic human needs. I concur. I’m exhausted, but I have plenty of clothes. Graduate school ranks up at the top of the pyramid with personal accomplishment. Rest is at the bottom. I think I now officially live on all levels of that pyramid all the time. No wonder I’m a bit tired.
 
You know what is not listed on any level?
Faith.
You know what is definitely on my personal pyramid of human needs?
God- because I simply cannot do any of this without Him.
 
God’s pyramid of basic human needs reminds me that there is a time for everything. In Ecclesiastes, King Solomon recorded all these times and all these seasons that matter under heaven.  King Solomon doesn’t mention zoom, but he does mention toil and working hard for something. He said to be careful that it does not become vanity. It’s in chapter 2 that he tells of his own struggle with toil and gives insight into how to find enjoyment in the business of living that God has given him.
 
King Solomon wrote,
What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time…there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil- this is God’s gift to man. Ecclesiastes 2:9-13.
 
I appreciate King Solomon for this warning against vanity. I found encouragement to keep on with the business that God has given me...
to take pleasure in my graduate school work and zooms,
to search for joy in my lessons with some awesome kids,
and to savor each beautiful chance I get to see my daughter play soccer.
 
It’s this season of my life after all.
And I thank God for everything beautiful He has made for me.

Photos of Coney Grove by Beth Adams

I sing my own version of John Denver’s song every single time I drive past Coney Grove on the way to my sister’s house. Of course, I changed the lyrics. I do that sometimes to make a song fit a particular memory or situation I find myself in. Doesn’t everyone?

As I turn off Hwy 280 outside of Cordele and head towards Arabi, I will begin to sing these words. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes to myself. I’ll look over at that country road lined with pine and pecan trees that take me to a memory from a long time ago- from the legendary Coney Grove Bluegrass Festival. I always look for the cut off. It always brings me the simple pleasure of a good smile.

I was only a small kid, so my memories of Coney Grove are somewhat more simplified compared to the undeniable fun experienced by those grown-up kids. There was enough friendship and music to fill an entire weekend of campers, campfires, and laughter. It was early 1970s in all its glory spread out all over this grassy grove. Music lovers settled in to listen to amazing music- tight harmonies of old-time songs and gospels played in off-beat rhythms and always at incredible speeds.

Bluegrass and banjos at Coney Grove.

It was the place I learned to appreciate the power of music and memories that come with it.
It was the place I learned to walk out on my own, find my voice, and use it.
It was the place I learned to serve others even if it was only asking if they wanted some boiled peanuts. Even if I was only six years old.

An old country cabin held concessions and sat up the hill from the rows of people. They gathered around a stage covered by southern shade of pine and oak trees. My dad sent me out from that concession store, telling me not to be afraid.

Just speak up.
Smile at folks.
Don’t be shy.
It will be ok.
Everybody likes boiled peanuts.

How can I now be fifty but remember what it felt like to be a kid holding that tray while I walked through the makeshift aisles? Through a myriad of those wooden benches and old-fashioned metal chairs that swayed on uneven ground? Through a crowd of familiar faces and my childhood heroes?

I’m not sure if I believed him, but I have always done what my dad asked. He usually gave me pretty good advice. I was really young, but I realized even then that he was trying to teach me something.

As I made my way towards sounds of banjos, harmonicas, and harmony, I carefully balanced brown bags of boiled peanuts on a makeshift tray. Without looking back, I knew my daddy was watching over me. He gave me that little extra push I needed to speak up, but he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight.

I walked out on my own with a task in front of me. I learned to just get on with it. To this day, I remember what it felt like to overcome my nerves and speak up. To greet people and thank them. To feel good about just being there.

Within a few minutes, the tray was empty, and I returned with a proud grin to my dad. I still hear the music behind me and loose change bouncing around in that makeshift tray. I still remember what it felt like to tell him I did it! I really did it!

He filled that tray up and sent me out once again to use my voice to talk to people. I haven’t shut up since.

I don’t remember all the lyrics to John Denver’s song when I drive down that road. I just sing Country Roads the way I like. I have rather enjoyed my version over the years.

Here’s to John Denver and here’s to hoping his song gets stuck in your head. I bet you have your own memories of this song.

Coney Grove, take me home, to a place I have known.
Good music.
Good memories.
Good country roads that take me home.

Every now and then someone asks me to explain how in the world I embarked on a career teaching French and Spanish.
 
Next, this someone might pipe up with extra-curiosity wanting to know which one I like better. Do I like French better than Spanish or Spanish better than French?
 
There are so many ways to answer this question.
 
My response goes something like this:
It’s a like having two kids. I’m trying to raise them right, give them each enough attention that meets the needs. Sure, these two are related, but they are still very different and have specific requirements. Thank goodness, both like to travel with me!
 
Short version- I fell in love with French in college, so I kept taking classes. I fell in love with Spanish when I was offered a job that would pay me enough to live on my own. This desperate 29-year-old was divorced, living with parents again. I quite literally learned another language and began teaching it so that I could secure my freedom. That is some serious motivation.
 
Teaching is my career choice and one I’m very grateful for every day; however, teaching French and Spanish is a God thing. I’m blessed that I know I’m doing what is fulfilling to me even though it’s some of the hardest stuff I’ve ever done in my life.
 
Most teachers will agree that to teach, we must recognize the intrinsic value of a human potential. We must value respect and kindness. Teaching is its most gratifying when we watch kids grasp the simple lessons we offer them. We teachers see this transformation in its beginning or middle because we rarely get to see the end result. Teaching is most rewarding when we invest in the process, not for the final result.
 
I love all the tiny teaching moments.
 
Sometimes, teaching is like waiting for the cows to come home. It is a long, somewhat indefinite process, and kids have their own pace.
 
Most days I’m exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Crying and laughing in the same minute.
With relief.
With pride.
With concern.
 
So many of you- my teacher friends, parents, and family- are hanging in there.
Hanging on by a thread.
or
Hanging your head in exhaustion.
or
Ready to hang up your teaching hat because IT.HAS.BEEN.A.YEAR of crazy stress as we all learned how to teach virtually.
 
The pandemic profoundly altered our lives.
 
You may be tired. Skeptical. Frustrated with circumstances beyond your immediate control but still trying to walk in faith. It’s an inch by inch, hold your ground existence. Yet you’ve kept walking despite the uncertainty about why things happen the way they do.
 
This stuff shakes even the strongest of believers.
 
Corrie Ten Boon reminded me of something important in her devotion, and I’ll pass along to you:
God is real. I talked to Him this morning.
 
Christ the Lord is fighting for you.
You are only asked to remain faithful.
to not rely on your own understanding.
or your own wisdom.
or your own strength.
 
You are asked to not rely
on anger
or bitterness
or envy of others to carry you through the day.
 
You are asked to rely on Him.
 
In this time of struggle and pain, we sometimes need to be reminded of how beautiful we are. Look how He made us to choose Him despite everything around us that says choose differently. His peace passes all understanding.
 
There are days that I don’t understand much. There are days that He reveals wonderful things to me. I don’t ever know which day it will be, yet I hang on to His word and my faith.
 
Corrie’s devotion was a good reminder for me. I’m a mom, wife, teacher, daughter, and friend by the grace of God. I try to be quite original about the calling God has given me. We can each see our calling even when everything else seems dark and terribly difficult. My job is to teach and live out my calling with all of God’s mysteries that come with it.
 
God is fighting for you.
Use His strength when you don’t have the answers.
Be kind to yourself first. Be kind to each other.
 
We’ve been fighting things that we can’t overcome on our own.
 
I’ll be praying for me and you-
Till the cows come home.

​
photo by ella

It could have been worse.
I mean, it really could have been worse.
 
When I fell, I didn’t break my glasses.
Or my hip.
Or my face.
Or my phone.
 
It was my happiness that shattered for a precious few minutes.
 
As I lay looking up at the beautiful blue sky - from the ground-  behind my car- two very kind men raced to my rescue. I tried to catch my breath, inventory the pain, and remember the exact words I had screamed out as I catapulted to the ground.
 
I believe in putting a 100% effort behind all my endeavors. This moment was not an exception.
 
I sat up as gracefully as I could and looked at my hands. What a bloody mess. Ok-not that much blood, but my left hand took the brunt of this fall. In an effort to save my glasses, my hip, face, and phone that I dropped so I wouldn’t crack the glass, I sacrificed my hands.
 
I tripped, hopped, and scrambled, but I still couldn’t stick that landing. For nearly a week, my friends have tried to think up a better story than….
JoAnna fell pumping gas.
 
Friday, February 19, 2021, marks the last and absolute final time that this wanna-be gymnast will jump over the hose while pumping gas. It’s a skill the left leg can no longer handle. Besides, isn’t it easier (and some would argue smarter) to just walk around the pump? Why yes, yes, it is.

The last time this happened I SWORE I would never do it again. Why yes, this has happened before. Last time, I was just able to stick the landing, recover my balance, and look around real fast to see if anyone had witnessed my craziness.
 
As I lay on the ground last Friday- mortified and a bit dazed- I heard a man yell into his phone, Oh no! I gotta go. A lady just fell. Another kind man refused to let me stand on my own. I asked him if I had yelled out anything inappropriate as it happened. He told me I earned the right to say whatever I wanted if I was going to take a fall like that. He finished with, You better get that hand looked after real soon. It don’t look so good. These men- to whom I’m totally grateful- helped me up, made sure I was going to make it, and left me alone with my mortification.
 
My left hand isn’t broken- just swollen and bruised, and a couple of fingers pull to the left. It needs to be wrapped up for a while. I keep saying, it will be ok. I know this because I’ve hurt before, and from experience, I know it will be ok.

Just like the time I fractured my foot running in the rain wearing Steve Madden platform sandals.

Just like the time I tore up my shoulder getting thrown from a tube behind a really fast boat on the lake. It was eventually ok.

Just like the time I hurt my other shoulder opening a door as someone else was pushing it open from the other side.

Just like the time I tore my ACL opening a closet door. To be fair, the door was really stuck and my knee was torqued in the wrong direction.
 
It will be ok. Eventually.
 
If I face facts, I’m going to continue to trip over and over again. Some accidents will hurt worse than others and some will require more attention.
Sometimes it is my heart that breaks.
Sometimes it is my pride.
And sometimes it is my joy.
 
What I realized last week was that there were blessings in this experience. My hand won’t agree, but my glasses, my face, hip, and right hand will.
 
As a child of God, I can trust in His love, his peace, power and wisdom. I may go through another crisis- big or small. I will fall short again or I may fall hard. I could fall from grace. Who knows what I will hurt next or perhaps my spirit will suffer. Obviously, I am not always the most graceful of girls.
 
When I can’t stick the landing, I can still hold firmly to my faith, to the hope He gives me.
 
God will be with me as I move or tumble through it all. God will provide me with the strength I need to trust Him. He will remind me of His command to rest, call on Him, and hold on to Him with whatever bit of dignity I have left.

Thank you, Lord, that your grace is greater than any of my mistakes or miscalculations.
 
Hebrews 23-24: Let us hold firmly to the hope we claim to have. The God who promised is faithful. Let us consider how we can stir up one another to love. Let us help one another to do good works.

Costa Rica has the best ziplines. Strap in. Hang on. Talk with Jesus. That kind of zipline. Not just one tree to the next. It’s more like one mountain to the next. 
 
I can’t get enough of it. I would go back to Arenal today just to fly. That is some serious altitude addiction.
 
Maybe I could convince Bob to take me back for my Goose-iversary.
One year of I’m Still A Goose.
A lot of words.
Over 9,000 hits. Merci and Gracias!
 
This goose project has reached a cruising altitude. Not too high and not too low. Just perfect for me.
 
I have learned a lot about altitude. As I look back over the year of this goose and read through my first posts, I realize that His love lessons sustain me. His grace keeps me on course, no matter my altitude.
 
I’ve learned a few things about geese, too. They are
-loyal, caring, amicable.
-protective, elegant, purposeful.
 
These traits with which a goose is identified remind me of the person I aspire to be.
 
Nature provides geese come with incredible instincts. Instincts to protect, soar, and travel to the ends of the earth. Instincts to choose its gaggle, its group of friends or family. They choose to live in unity.
 
Each bird flies stronger and with more purpose than it could if it were alone. The V formation is nature’s design to most help geese whatever altitude they choose. They fly low or they fly high. They fly together. They depend on one another.
 
One goose gets tired, so it rotates back giving another goose the front position. There’s lifting power in that formation! It ensures group support- group survival. That familiar honk we hear is actually encouragement. The loving power of geese is quite impressive.
 
If one goose becomes sick, wounded, or hurting, its group will not abandon it. A few will follow the ailing goose to protect him. This enchants me.
 
The goose is never alone to fight its battles. Never alone to rest and restore. Never alone in its struggles or its victories. We geese need our tribe. Our friends. That gaggle of precious souls that God sends us-
to keep us straight,
to remind us to be humble,
to forgive us,
and to lift us as we fly.
 
I love to fly with my crew under the radar, but sometimes I don’t get my way. I love to feel His air lifting the wings of this tired traveler. He sometimes will let me fly on to see how far I might get when blue skies turn dark. I even knowingly fly into storms when my instincts cringe against this flight pattern. 
 
There is one thing that can prevent geese from flying strong.
From reaching His destination for us.
It's air pollution.
 
We fill up our own skies with toxic rhetoric, insufferable encumbrances of insecurities, and contaminated chemical reactions of fear, hurt, and jealousy mixed with pride. It’s our human nature. Sometimes it’s a deliberate choice, but more often we don’t realize what we are doing until we are in the middle of an inescapable weather pattern. We hunker down, searching for safety in our squalls that are too terrible to bear. We have to wait for them to pass.
 
A goose can’t fly if it’s weighted down. I have surrendered my fear and doubts just to pick many of them back up again. It depends on the day and on my journey. We geese need to clean and clear the air from time to time.
 
The only air pollution solution is forgiveness.
It’s the only way to keep flying.
Forgiving yourself and forgiving others as He also forgives us.
 
The altitude may change, but He doesn’t.
 
I’m still a goose and I kinda like it.
 
Sky Trek is a unique zipline circuit that stretches across canyons, going from one mountain to another, and in between treetops. It truly is an exhilarating adventure of zip lining down the mountains. Arenal, Costa Rica.

​For years, I have read countless articles, books, papers, essays, poetry, and daily or weekly inspirational posts. I saved innumerable maxims of encouragement and teacher humor while I snapped pictures of people who inspired or motivated me. I took notes in church, during devotions, and when listening to podcasts. I jotted down song lyrics-diligently and because it gave me joy, I filled journal after precious journal with quotes by authors, my favorite characters, and verses from my Bible.

I wrote lovely things, stupid things, and painful things.
 
I collected it all because it gave me joy.
 
Next, I prayed for direction and words. His words. Not mine. I prayed for God to place people in my life who could guide and encourage my next steps. I struggled for a name for this endeavor because it seemed almost impossible to create something original.
 
God sent wonderful help: Tom, Polly, Laura, Jeni, Sanah, and Chris. Each of these writers gave me different pieces of my puzzle. Simple instructions swirled around my mind and forced me to deal with one irrefutable revelation:

I cannot care what other people think.
I cannot change the way I write to please others.
This journey is to challenge myself, to satisfy something that God placed on my heart. To glorify Him.
 
Ironically, this is easier to write than to do. I hate making mistakes, wasting my time, and missing out on what He has planned for me. I worry about what others think entirely too much.
 
Fear kept me from doing something important for myself.
Fear keeps us in knots, Fear keeps us from glorifying HIm when He wants to give us the desires of our heart. I need God to sing to my heart. To sing words of encouragement. 
 
This occurs each time when we talk ourselves out of that something we have
Always desired to do.
Always craved to see.
Always needed to try.
Always fancied to hear.
 
Last year, I met Sanah Jivani at the We Are Family Foundation Gala in NYC. I got to wear that fancy dress again as I went somewhere and did something I never imagined for myself. It was incredible.
 
As I sat at my table, I looked around the room at all the fancy people having fun. When I spotted Sanah, my first thought was how incredibly beautiful this person looked. I didn’t know we would soon be dancing next to one another. I didn’t know that a beautiful friendship would begin.

Sanah Jivani is simply amazing. She talks to teens about how to love themselves in spite of bullying, pressure, and a culture of social media. To do this- completely do this- Sanah challenges kids to make a list of what scares them the most and then to create a dream board of all they desire. The story of her foundation inspired my students to use the best words, the kindest words to fill their heads so that they were their kindest to themselves.
 
International Day of Self Love is February 13- the day before Valentine’s Day. Sanah challenges people to look for what holds them back from doing something they want to try and to take a step of faith. We find inspiration from this amazing story. The foundations’ goal is to give people courage to act and to love ourselves before we celebrate loving others. 
 
Sanah tells her story.
Sanah shares all the beautiful and dark parts of her soul with others.
Sanah makes herself vulnerable over and over and over again because she has learned the value of turning the darkest parts of pain into something that shines light for others.
 
I invited Sanah to come to Americus last year. She spent the weekend with my family. Through our conversations and her testimony, I was inspired to act with purpose- to publish this blog.
 
Jeni and Laura helped me name it.
 
I launched I’m Still a Goose on February 13 in honor of Sanah and the International Day of Self Love. This deadline put everything into focus, and I had a goal I understood. I faced up to the fear of what might happen if I dared to write.
 
I decided to straight up love my crazy self and this crazy goose name and this crazy idea. I just needed the encouragement. God was singing to my heart. 
 
My question of love for you is this:
 
What is it you want?
What is that thing that has been sitting on your soul that you have pushed away because of fear, timing, or energy?
 
Be encouraged to do it.
To try it.
To fail.
To not fail.
To fly like a goose with a million honks driving you forward.
 
Be encouraged to do it now- to move forward in faith.
Let me remind you today:
You may be afraid of something.
You have nothing to fear.

Ask God to sing to your heart.
 
Psalm 31:24
Be strong and let your heart take courage,
All you who hope in the Lord!
​

Poor is the student who doesn’t surpass the teacher. Leonardo da Vinci said this first but he used fancy words. Poor is the pupil who doesn’t surpass the master. Here’s to hoping da Vinci won’t mind small changes.

I really like this quote though. These are teacher words to live by especially when I run across a student who is simply awesome.

Like Jared.

I have a picture of me and Jared on my bookcase at school. We were on a foreign language club field trip to Habitat’s Global Village. I think it was 2014.

It’s a great picture of him. Terrible picture of me. Those who know me best know that I never put out bad pictures of myself. It’s a life rule. If I see a bad picture, I only obsess over how I looked. It’s a mental self-preservation thing. Many will understand.

Yet, I have broken my own rule for this picture. I only see Jared when I look at it. I only remember how much fun that field trip was with a great group of kids. I’d take them anywhere.

Jared, my awesome student, was enthusiastic. Gracious. Helpful. Cheerful.
He started in ninth grade with French and enjoyed languages so much that he signed up for Spanish. I think he overlapped them. Sometimes students who like learning languages will do that. They figure out the patterns and the teacher.

Jared was using his languages, not just learning about them. That is what I remember.

I glance at that picture on my bookshelf throughout the day to be inspired to make the classes fun for my kids. I don’t have to look at the picture to remember Jared.

He works with me now. I get to see him every day…
down the hall,
across the lunchroom,
in classrooms of kids waiting- virtually waiting to learn something new,
or at my door wishing me a happy day.

I love me some Jared!

Jared soaked up all that learning in high school from all of his teachers. He is more than capable of pouring it back into his students today. I love to hear Jared with the kids, especially when he can teach my lesson better than I can. He can impart a love of learning languages with smiles and enthusiasm, not a drop of dread or confusion.

With every kindness, he reminds me to be kind.
With every smirk and wink, he reminds me to lighten up. To laugh. I always need to lighten up.
With every thread of energy and purpose he weaves into his day, he teaches and inspires.

He inspires me to pay attention to my threads. I can’t let them unravel, no matter how old or frayed they might appear.

He inspires me to create some language magic with those lessons that captivate, not confound.
Jared is finding his own way in a really tough job, and I don't think he needs my help much.

Maybe.. just maybe.. I can still teach him something.

Maybe I’ll teach him to recognize
how he is getting it right- his planning, his nurturing, and his creativity.
how he imparts the best of himself to all of us.
how to thank God for students who love what you give them.

Blessed is this teacher who can witness that student surpass it all. It’s time for a new picture!

​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.