Tributes to Ava Powell
(from some of her grandchildren)
Ryan Morgan (January 22, 2018). My grandmother was a woman of uncommon generosity. Its extension knew no distinction between family, friends, and strangers. She carried food in her car just to give to anyone she saw who might need it. She brought hot food to homebound people younger than she was, and she gave up holidays to do it. She volunteered for people with physical and developmental disabilities out of nothing more than her unwavering sense of her own fortune and her obligation to serve others. She celebrated their political successes; she took me to see the plaque that commemorated their victory in getting RTD to guarantee wheelchair access on its buses. She welcomed my friends into her home like they were her own grandchildren. When I visited, or when she let me stay with her indefinitely when I needed that, she bought my favorite things, she cooked my favorite meals. She did this without my asking. And she would've done the same for you, whether you ever had the joy of knowing her or not. She listened to your stories, she laughed at your jokes, she cared about your safety. She had a seemingly endless reservoir of decency, and of love, and she gave it without prejudice and without doubt.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon grace. Her life was marked with deep tragedy, and the depths of her suffering were never enough to dampen her optimism, or her faith, or her love for the world around her. She was composed, she was intensely, even irrationally set in her belief that there is goodness in this world. She was unshakable in that.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon resilience. She found herself alone in middle age, with her children grown. She had come up in a time that left her with the cruel expectation that as a woman, she could get married and then never have to fend for herself. She was a devoutly committed mother of four at a time when women needed male family members to sign for their credit cards. She went to college in her 40s. She bought a house. She got a job. She made it work. She built her own reputation, her own life, her own skills and her own abilities. She didn't, in doing that, lose an ounce of her devotion to her family. She grew up in a world that set her up to fail, and she succeeded spectacularly. She believed the most important thing she could ever have been was a mother, but in the end she constructed for herself an independence so resolute in a world that would have denied it to her.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon humility. Her devotion to serving less fortunate people than herself, her composure in the face of tragedy, her incredible resilience and adaptability, these were things that she considered natural. These were things she thought anyone would do. I have to believe she knew she was uncommonly generous, uncommonly graceful, uncommonly resilient, but she would never say so. Not even when I tried to prod her to take credit for her incredible life. She did what she thought anyone would have done, but it wasn't true. She was uncommon.
I never expect to meet another person with a heart so full of love. From her, I learned to look for the best in people. From her, I learned to be more patient and to give the benefit of the doubt. I am at my best when I am reminding myself of her. There are no words for how profoundly I mourn her loss, nor are there words for how profoundly I celebrate her memory. I sit here and I write this in deep gratitude for the woman she was, for the mother she was to my mother, for the grandmother she was to me. I owe her so much.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon grace. Her life was marked with deep tragedy, and the depths of her suffering were never enough to dampen her optimism, or her faith, or her love for the world around her. She was composed, she was intensely, even irrationally set in her belief that there is goodness in this world. She was unshakable in that.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon resilience. She found herself alone in middle age, with her children grown. She had come up in a time that left her with the cruel expectation that as a woman, she could get married and then never have to fend for herself. She was a devoutly committed mother of four at a time when women needed male family members to sign for their credit cards. She went to college in her 40s. She bought a house. She got a job. She made it work. She built her own reputation, her own life, her own skills and her own abilities. She didn't, in doing that, lose an ounce of her devotion to her family. She grew up in a world that set her up to fail, and she succeeded spectacularly. She believed the most important thing she could ever have been was a mother, but in the end she constructed for herself an independence so resolute in a world that would have denied it to her.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommon humility. Her devotion to serving less fortunate people than herself, her composure in the face of tragedy, her incredible resilience and adaptability, these were things that she considered natural. These were things she thought anyone would do. I have to believe she knew she was uncommonly generous, uncommonly graceful, uncommonly resilient, but she would never say so. Not even when I tried to prod her to take credit for her incredible life. She did what she thought anyone would have done, but it wasn't true. She was uncommon.
I never expect to meet another person with a heart so full of love. From her, I learned to look for the best in people. From her, I learned to be more patient and to give the benefit of the doubt. I am at my best when I am reminding myself of her. There are no words for how profoundly I mourn her loss, nor are there words for how profoundly I celebrate her memory. I sit here and I write this in deep gratitude for the woman she was, for the mother she was to my mother, for the grandmother she was to me. I owe her so much.
Eric and Aaron Riggan. (January 27, 2017). We’ve been given an impossible task: How can one possibly summarize a woman like Ava Powell? Gracious, to a fault. Kind - always kind. The epitome of unconditional love. And while all of this has already been said, to us there is a single phrase that has come to embody our grandmother: It’ll Taste Just as Good!
If the quality of a meal was in question - if someone burned a steak or forgot to add leavening to their cookies - Grandma wouldn’t (or couldn’t) worry. Instead, she’d say with a smile to melt your heart “Well I’ll just take that piece. I’m sure it’ll taste just as good.”
The phrase has become something of an in-joke, at least in our house. Not only is it a lighthearted phrase we toss around when we have done something less than ideal, it has become symbolic of Ava for a few important reasons.
If the quality of a meal was in question - if someone burned a steak or forgot to add leavening to their cookies - Grandma wouldn’t (or couldn’t) worry. Instead, she’d say with a smile to melt your heart “Well I’ll just take that piece. I’m sure it’ll taste just as good.”
The phrase has become something of an in-joke, at least in our house. Not only is it a lighthearted phrase we toss around when we have done something less than ideal, it has become symbolic of Ava for a few important reasons.
- It reminds us of how she saw the best in everyone - as the person they could be.
- It demonstrates her humility, and how she never minded taking a little less if someone else could have a little more.
- It is a perfect Ava phrase - she always had exactly the right words, even when there seemed to be none
Kayla Keele (January 27, 2018). I lived a long way from my Grandma Ava. We saw each other once or twice a year when I was a kid and once every other year when I was an adult, and every visit was a treat. She always made sure we knew it was a treat for her, and that made it that much more of a treat for us.
But most of my relationship with my grandma has been through correspondence. When I was a kid, it was picking out the cute stationery and putting stickers and drawing her a picture with a verse or something, and as I grew up, it became emails. But she always returned in kind.
She talked about TRYAD; she talked about Meals on Wheels and all the people at her church that I needed to meet on my next visit. It was amazing. I got to know her through that correspondence, and when we did visit, it made it that much more special because we knew each other. We could just start talking.
So this verse is from 2 Corinthians 3:3, but I’ve paraphrased it a little bit, borrowing from Paul, because I know I’m not the only one who has ever gotten correspondence from Ava Powell. Because I see the box and I’ve looked at her desk of notepads and cards and a notebook full of addresses.
“Clearly… clearly, you are a letter from Christ, showing the result of Ava Powell’s ministry among you. This letter written not with pen and ink, but with the Spirit of the living God whom she trusted with all her heart. It is carved not on tablets of stone, but on human hearts.”
And I just pray – because she’s part of my letter – the letter is from Christ, but she wrote a lot of it – and I just pray that I can – and you can – be an extension of all those blessings that she was always giving to everybody else.
But most of my relationship with my grandma has been through correspondence. When I was a kid, it was picking out the cute stationery and putting stickers and drawing her a picture with a verse or something, and as I grew up, it became emails. But she always returned in kind.
She talked about TRYAD; she talked about Meals on Wheels and all the people at her church that I needed to meet on my next visit. It was amazing. I got to know her through that correspondence, and when we did visit, it made it that much more special because we knew each other. We could just start talking.
So this verse is from 2 Corinthians 3:3, but I’ve paraphrased it a little bit, borrowing from Paul, because I know I’m not the only one who has ever gotten correspondence from Ava Powell. Because I see the box and I’ve looked at her desk of notepads and cards and a notebook full of addresses.
“Clearly… clearly, you are a letter from Christ, showing the result of Ava Powell’s ministry among you. This letter written not with pen and ink, but with the Spirit of the living God whom she trusted with all her heart. It is carved not on tablets of stone, but on human hearts.”
And I just pray – because she’s part of my letter – the letter is from Christ, but she wrote a lot of it – and I just pray that I can – and you can – be an extension of all those blessings that she was always giving to everybody else.
Jenn Morgan (January 29, 2018). I’ve been struggling to put into words just how much my grandmother meant. And even at her service, which was done beautifully, it wasn’t enough. Maybe there is no way to possibly convey the impact she had and the amazingly beautiful person she was, but anyone who was blessed enough to have known her can feel it.
Through her, I learned the meaning of true unconditional love. She lived a life of service without ever having the expectation of something in return. And she loved everyone she met without prejudice. Being in her presence made me a better version of myself, and I am certain that anyone who knew her would tell you the same. In a world filled with so much darkness, she was a constant light, never wavering in her belief that people were good and should be treated with kindness and respect. I have never met someone as genuinely good as she was, and I suspect that I never will.
The world needs more people like her, and the void that is left in her absence will always be felt. I suppose it’s true that there are no words that could possibly do her justice. All I know is that if I can live a life with even an ounce of the kindness, love and humility that she lived hers, that would be a life to be proud of.
Through her, I learned the meaning of true unconditional love. She lived a life of service without ever having the expectation of something in return. And she loved everyone she met without prejudice. Being in her presence made me a better version of myself, and I am certain that anyone who knew her would tell you the same. In a world filled with so much darkness, she was a constant light, never wavering in her belief that people were good and should be treated with kindness and respect. I have never met someone as genuinely good as she was, and I suspect that I never will.
The world needs more people like her, and the void that is left in her absence will always be felt. I suppose it’s true that there are no words that could possibly do her justice. All I know is that if I can live a life with even an ounce of the kindness, love and humility that she lived hers, that would be a life to be proud of.
