Little Man

School, for a first-grader is experienced just like you and I experience life as adults, only they are pint-sized and perhaps cannot express themselves, generally speaking, as accurately as adults because their vocabulary is limited, their writing skills are only beginning to sprout...  Yet they look each other in the eye and share information as though it is all that matters in the world, and it in fact IS all that matters in their little worlds.  Their stresses are life-sized to them, just as adults' stresses are indeed life-sized to them.

Specials at school are fun because they mix things up a bit.  They happen once weekly and are therefore more of an event.  We have wonderful special teachers.  The librarian can tell a story that can be hypnotic, the phys ed teacher is so skilled in her directions that each and every gym class is filled with aerobic-type activity which leaves the students panting and wanting for more.  The art teacher artfully (pun intended) directs the students, and each one creates a masterpiece he or she can be proud to take home.

One particular art class involved painting a hand and using it as a stamp.  Before anyone could stop it, one six year old had used her pants as a paper towel.  She cried and shook as though she could no longer face life, her pants to her had been ruined.  I assured and reassured and reassured again that the paint would come out in the wash, her pants would be good as new, but she would not be comforted.

Then there is Little Man.  It was not during a special, but at the onset of recess, early in the school year when his inner fortitude would be tested.  Little Man patiently awaited the arrival of recess for he had brought with him to school his very own baseball and glove.  Walking on the path out to the playground, a playground aide spotted that he was toting this base-ball, which was far too dangerous for throwing on a playground painted with six year olds.  She moved in like a member of the secret service to inform Little Man he was not allowed to bring such a ball out to play!  When I saw the tears beginning to flow, I moved in swiftly, bowed low and told him how big he was inside to take this shocking disappointment like such a grown-up.  How big it was of him to accept the fact that his ball could not be thrown during school.  How proud I was of him to be able to wait until he was home to have a toss with that incredibly special ball.

It worked.  He could handle the disappointment.

I once heard a poem, I forget the entirety of it, but it began with, "Disappointment, His appointment..."

God help me understand a "no," and to know it is going to be fine, for I am in Christ.