The Big Picture

I think today had a definite theme to it, and it's only starting to reveal itself to me now.

First, there was my student who pulled off an A+ on his math retest, after having failed the first test. As I handed it back to him, I said to him privately, "Well, I think we've learned that there are some battles worth fighting and some battles you ignore. For example, I am not even noticing all of the scribbles on the front of your notebook there, and I have totally missed the fact that that pile of stuff just fell out of your desk." I tactfully stopped short of also pointing out how he had knocked over our Christmas tree earlier in the day. "Because YOU JUST GOT AN A+, MISTER. That's the battle worth fighting. Now - do you think we won or lost that battle?"

"We won it," he said. And the look on his face was priceless.

Then there was the student who got a D- on this same test. He too failed the first test. He tried his hardest. His D- was at least worth the other guy's A+. He sobbed his eyes out, heartbroken. I sat beside him and fed him chocolate kisses and told him how wonderful he was (because he is). I said to him, "I know something about what you will be like when you're eighty."

"What?" he said.

"You won't be thinking about this test."

He was somewhat interested in this argument, I could tell. So I pressed on. "I also know something about what you will be like when you're twelve."

"What?" he said.

"You won't be thinking about this test. Because do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Don't tell anyone," I said, "but THIS TEST DOESN'T MATTER AT ALL. It definitely doesn't affect the way I think about you. I thought you were great before and I still do. What matters is who you are, what kind of person you're growing up to be. That's the big picture. And you need to know I'm very proud of the person you're growing up to be." I said other stuff, but I'm not sure what. Mainly I wanted to obliterate that momentary horrible blip in his life and restore a little of the optimism that an eleven-year-old, goodhearted kid should have.

Two totally different big pictures. Both growing out of the very same situation, and both utterly valid.

And now for the "freaky" big picture moment of the day. It really happened, really, really, really.

I was driving home in the car thinking about my students and of course worrying about my young guy having an existential crisis about his self worth...and feeling rotten that I was indirectly the cause of it by giving him a crummy, horrible test. And I was wondering about my value on the planet and stuff like that.

And an ad came on the radio for Atlantic lobster--the first I think I've ever heard on the radio. And I said out loud, "Oooh, I'd LOVE to have lobster for supper!" And then I started laughing darkly at the thought of trying to convince my hubby to take us out for lobster (maybe after a ride on the space shuttle).

And I got home, and my husband said, "Look in the fridge."

And in the fridge was a bag. And in the bag were four lobsters, along with smoked salmon and
some sort of potato dish.

And I was staring at it, feeling awash in The Big Picture.

"It came to the door," he said. "Fed Ex brought it. I'm not sure who sent it to us. I think it might be my sister though."

True. It's TRUE. A freaky-deaky bona fide gift from the universe. Kind of like a little nudge along the road, to encourage forward movement, a message that it's the right direction even if it doesn't always feel like it. More big picture stuff.

....And Spilly's big picture moment? It came at supper. She was watching us eat the lobster (she did not care to partake), and asked, "Are lobsters dead?"

"These ones are," said my hubby.

"Were they alive before?"

"Well, they were. But you wouldn't want them alive now, because they'd be running around the table."

Spilly stared at the lobsters for awhile. Then she said, "I've never seen dead animals before."

My hubby and I looked at each other. The big picture. Should we tell her or not?

Finally my hubby said slowly, "What's that on your plate?"

She looked at it for awhile. Then she said in a grisly, Halloweeny kind of voice, "A...dead....chicken."

I waited for what I thought would be an outcry of disbelief and horror at the unfairness of the way things are.

But after a moment she said, "Let's all pretend to be dead chickens, Mommy." Which suggested to me that the big picture had not quite infiltrated her tiny, happy world. Either that or it had, and she had managed to put it into perspective quite happily.

...Which is a gift, it seems to me. Because I grapple with the big picture daily. And I can guarantee that I know something about what I'll be like when I'm eighty. I'll still be up to my shoulders in it, still grappling.