Morris Earl Powell

Dr. Morris Earl Powell, 96, dedicated husband, father, and grandfather, went to be with his Lord on June 30, 2023 in Sandersville, GA. Morris was born on February 20, 1927 in Douglas, Wyoming, where he was raised on a ranch by parents Homer and Beulah (nee Hart) Powell. Although it would bode well for his future career as a doctor, Morris was a terrible rancher because he insisted on washing his hands thoroughly between each chore growing up. He left home to join the U.S. Army for World War II. When he returned home, Morris attended Ottawa University in Ottawa, Kansas. Over the summers, he served as a (young and confused, but kind and intelligent) pastor at Golden Prairie Baptist Church in Burns, Wyoming. He finished his degree in chemistry at Oklahoma Baptist University. Even at this point in his story, he offers major influences: his daughter Shalu and grandchild Rory both also graduated from Oklahoma Baptist University, and his grandson Seth now majors in chemistry.

Bachelor’s degree in hand, Morris made his way to Bowman Gray School of Medicine at Wake Forrest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina to earn his MD and become a family practice doctor. His studies took him to all sorts of places, such as Newfoundland, Greenland, and New York, before he was commissioned with the Conservative Baptist Foreign Mission Society (now called World Venture) in 1958. His missions carried him even further than he’d been before, and this small Wyoming rancher found himself in India by 1960.

It was there that he met his wife of 50 years, Norma Lavon Powell. She was a nurse on the mission field, and they kept in contact via letters when one or the other returned to the U.S. In fact, it was in one of these letters that Morris proposed. They were married in the U.S. on March 3, 1967, and they stayed happily and lovingly married until Lavon’s passing in 2017. Their story and their visible love were an inspiration to many, and we know they are happy to be reunited now.

The couple had one child, Shalu Taylor nee Powell, and spent the next five years from 1968 to 1972 in Zaire, Africa (now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo) in continued mission work. Finally, they returned to Bullhead City, Arizona to raise their daughter in the U.S. and join a medical practice there, where Morris worked as a beloved doctor for more than twenty years. Morris and his wife had been called to missions when they were young, though, and the Lord wasn’t through with them yet. The couple returned to Africa, to the Ivory Coast, in 1994 and stayed there until 1996 ministering through the hospitals to the people there before moving on to Pakistan in 1999, where they stayed for another six months.

Morris finally retired in Tucson, Arizona, where he spent his time reading and studying. Even in retirement, Morris loved learning and growing his knowledge, most notably of the Bible. His knowledge of it almost rivaled his intelligence, and he was often the one his friends and family turned to when they had questions. His favorite preacher was C. H. Spurgeon.

Morris was an active member of every church he attended, teaching Sunday School classes, helping his wife with children’s ministries when called, and even preaching. He attended Riviera Baptist Church during his time in Bullhead City, then First Baptist Church in Tucson until he and Lavon joined Sabino Road Baptist Church in 2009. When he moved to Sandersville with his daughter, Morris became a member of Sisters Baptist Church, where he made many friends and even continued to discuss with and educate those around him.

He is predeceased by his parents and his siblings Dallas, Lorraine, Irma, Frederick, Bobby, and George. He is survived by his younger brother, Billy Powell and wife Linda of Lovington, New Mexico; his sister-in-law Patricia Powell of Minneapolis, MN; his daughter, Shalu Taylor of Sandersville, Georgia; and three grandchildren, Rory Taylor of Aurora, Colorado, and Brynn and Seth Taylor of Sandersville).

In lieu of flowers, the family would like to suggest memorial gifts be made to the Christian Medical and Dental Association in honor of Dr. Powell’s lengthy medical and missions careers.

Remembering Dad's Hands

By Linnea Boese, daughter of a missionary alongside whom Morris served

When the Creator was planning things out,
way back when, before, before,
he put much thought into Dad's hands --
he knew that he would make them strong,
with clever fingers, able to hold on
to his own hand while always busy
doing the work he would give him to do.

He watched him grow up in Michigan,
grabbed his heart and made it his,
filled it with love for Barbara so
that they could become true coworkers,
holding hands, reaching out as one
to invite many into his embrace,
God's love pumping from their hearts
into their arms that hugged the world,
the sick, the poor, the marginalized.

And so he put a scalpel in Dad's hand,
taught his long, gloved fingers how
to carve with skill and careful purpose,
piercing the layers to cut out harm,
to save a life or bring new life

out of the womb into the mother's arms.
He learned to let God move his hands
to do the surgery that was needed
especially when facing the dark unknown
of tragedies he'd never seen before.

He was a surgeon, yes, but I remember
when I was just a little girl
his long fingers grasping mine,
tiny as they were, lost in his grip,
warmed and safely held in place
while my short legs ran to match his strides.
I remember his hand letting go
to reach into his pocket to dig out
his short black comb, then pull me close
to tenderly untangle my wild hair.

I remember watching his smart hands
as we worked together making toys
for my baby sister and the little boys.
I remember learning to love art,
copying his deft fingers to paint images
of Africa, the land he loved so much.

We took for granted all his hands could do:
they crafted lovely tables, chairs, bookcases
out of wood, God having gifted them
to be as skilled in carpentry
as in those subtle surgeries.

I could go on and on, telling how
he rescued monkeys, antelopes,
even a baby crocodile,
all animals that might have died
without the hope that  his hands gave.
He treated plants in that same way,
digging into earth to leave
a legacy of the diversity
of flowering bushes, towering trees.
His hands found joy in all creation care.

In Dad's last days, after Mom had gone,
we were all back to holding hands.
He reached for mine, or for his son's,
finding in our willing grips
the solace of accompaniment
that gave him peace inside the trial,
that lengthy stretch when his aged hands
had lost all their dexterity, their skills,
their artistry, their healing ministry,
their generous giving of life.

He wrestled with "inadequacy,"
the countless hours of doing nothing
while he moved oh so slowly towards
the hug of his beloved Lord.
But he never let go of his Father's hand,
and his Father never let go of him.
He took him quietly Home.

Dad lived for the praise of God's glory
and now he has walked into it,
that majesty and beauty that
makes all the struggles worth it all
because he now sees Jesus, who
has held his heart and his hand.

I will so miss Dad's loving hands
that modeled what it is to live
entirely devoted to one's Guide.
But I am thrilled, because I know
he did the work planned out for him.
And his tired hands have been made new
to keep on serving his Beloved One
forever and forever in the Joy.