Shannon Costello

scene:  on the playground, er slab of asphalt (this is middle school, remember).  A knot of kids are pushing each other around.  I walk over to break up the fun in time to hear a kid saying, "Let’s have peace in the Middle East!"

Shannon: If you guys don’t stop pushing each other I’m going to send you (pointing) east and you west.

Kid:  Snap!  She’s going all Social Studies on us!

I had the boys racing against the girls in taping words on the blackboard to form sentences.  I haven’t split up girls and boys like that for an activity in, well, a long time.  It reminded me of my private school days when we split up our sixth grade class into all girls and all boys.

The girls were typically very organized.  There was always someone standing at the board handing out little pieces of tape, and the words were neatly taped up, evenly spaced apart.

The boys, on the other hand, were not as intense in their organization.  After awhile there were just lots of pieces of tape left at a desk, but no one manning the desk.  Whichever boy was taping up his sentence would put tape on one word, run it to the board, run back to the desk, put tape on the next word.  Fun, but inefficient, of course.  My favorite was early on, when the boys all seemed to think it was necessary to tape the words together first and then put the whole thing on the board.  Only it would never be quite straight, so by the time the entire sentence got on the board the sentence was decidedly bowed rather than straight.

Meanwhile, the boys were getting into the activity in other ways.  Proper nouns like “Hannah Montanna” and “The Abominable Snowman” were appropriated and taped on various boys.  No one was allowed to talk in English, so they resurrected a song we had sung way back in September and sung all they could remember of it.  They turned it into a dance number, too, actually.  And any expression they knew that could possibly be useful, along with any new expressions I happened to mention, were promptly pressed into service.

Back to the girls, all intent on copying down the sentences, very little talking….

The boys lost the game both times, but really didn’t stress about it.

Putting this activity into this format meant that everyone ended up writing down 30 sentences, which is a huge number.  I kept expecting complaints at all that writing- even gave them an opportunity to do so- but nobody did.  And the sentences were written with few of the usual errors.

So the kids had fun, got lots of practice, and I had SO much fun watching.

He’s best known for writing The Little Prince.  The beginning part, when the narrator is stuck in the desert because of a plane crash, is based on a real incident in Saint-Exupéry’s life.  He almost died in a desert before being rescued.

He had a good friend, Leon Werth, a writer.  When dedicating The Little Prince to Werth, Saint-Exupéry described him as his best friend in the world. At the time, Werth was having a rough time in France- in fact the entire country was suffering from the impacts of World War II.

Saint-Exupéry disappeared while flying over the Mediterranean in 1944.  He was 44 years old.  When peace finally came, Lean Werth said that “peace without Tonio isn’t entirely peace.”

Tonight in French class we listened to the first few chapters of The Little Prince.  There’s something about knowing all that background and thinking about how close to reality it all is- the reality of death- that made me tear up a little.

I like the ordinary silver paper-clips, large and small.

I cannot stand the plastic-y looking colored paper clips.  I don’t even want to touch them, and when somebody gives me papers fastened with them I get rid of them as quickly as I can…which is kind of hard because I am horribly reluctant to throw any paper clip away.

I have said that I struggle with doubting God’s goodness and love because I don’t have children.  I don’t think that is quite accurate.  The pain I feel because I don’t have children has helped uncover my theological problems- I let that pain become a factor in my relationship with God, and it became anger, bitterness- a sinkhole that was frighteningly deep.  In the past couple of weeks I had wondered if my faith was too small to make it.

I can say that I held on.  Kept praying, reading…read a little C.S. Lewis, kept trying to work out my salvation.  The pastor said a cool thing at the end of two of his sermons- something about how it’s not about us holding on to God, but that He holds onto us.

I went to a concert given by the family of one of my co-workers.  I didn’t want to go- had a lot to do, and doing something like that is a lot of effort.  But I was sure I should go, and I went.  It was gospel music, a kind that I really like.  Not to knock contemporary Christian music, but it often does not get to my heart the way hymns and gospel music often do.  Sometimes very simple words make me cry- God is an “on time God” and “God has smiled on me.”  It hit me in a way that it hasn’t lately that God has been good, and that He does keep His promises (have I really forgotten about Noah all this time?).

I grabbed an offering envelop from the pew and ripped it open so I could write some stuff down (that’s when I discovered I was in a Southern Baptist church…).  God has kept His promises with me (children not being one of those promises):  promises of the Spirit, promises of preservation, hey, even promises not to send another flood…promises of spring.

That leads into specific examples, stuff to be thankful for.  Growing up in a Christian home is a whole lot easier than not, of course- I am thankful for that.  God got a hold of me early…I haven’t had to deal with all the consequences of the ways young people can be lead astray.  There was one time a buy offered to hold hands with me…wasn’t God there when I thought about it and said no?  Or the time I wanted to go to the Council Ring at camp at night and sit there by myself- I only didn’t go because it was against the rules, even though I was pretty sure my objectives were not what the rule was aimed at.  That night a guy and a girl were caught there and sent home.  I told the director’s wife that I almost went and didn’t…”that was the Holy Spirit” she said.

Then there are all the times I ran into people with unusual/heretical theological views.  The guy at college who said baptism must only be in the name of Jesus (can’t be Father, Son…)…the preacher at camp who thought both the sheep and the goats in the parable would eventually be saved…

And I can’t help being convinced that God has directed my steps in certain ways, not always in ways that I wanted.  Roberts when I wanted Houghton, sticking with a straight math major when I wanted to add music (there was a moment, sitting in church, when I knew I shouldn’t), getting rejected from the master’s program at College Park that I was interested in…and now, not getting children when I want them.

God isn’t like governments and organizations that change things around without really considering or caring or being able control the impact on individuals.  He can change things around while still caring for the individual.  Salvation may be the biggest demonstration of His grace and mercy, but it is not the only one- He will do all the lesser things, too.  He not only promises, but He promises strongly (thinking of covenants here).

God has smiled on me…/ For He has set me free…/ He is the cause of my joy today…

After a rash of package theft complaints, our local post office stopped leaving packages on people’s doorsteps.  The mailman comes at around four, knocks on the door and, if no one answers, leaves a slip saying when one can hope to collect one’s package.

Now, our post office has never had a reputation for moving at the speed of light.  Imagine those lines, doubled because of all the people standing there with salmon-colored post-card sized slips, waiting to pick up their packages.  Every now and then a worker will come out one of the doors and say, “anyone here just for pick-up?” and look startled when half the line starts toward her.

Don’t want to blame the post office, by the way.  I think the people that work there are doing what they can in a frustrating situation.

Have I mentioned that I have done a lot of book ordering since I started studying French?

CJ was home sick Tuesday when the postman knocked on the door.  He assumed it was somebody hoping to fix our roof or take down one of our trees and did not answer the door.  AAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!  That night I dreamed that I went to the post office and got my package, and it was only part of my order so I knew I’d have to go back again.

I realized the next morning that a) that dream was an expression of my frustration and b) my frustration in those types of situations is aimed at God for not working it out so I didn’t have to go again.  (CJ got only the tiniest edge of my frustration.)  So I guess I’d better not whine too much about the post office.

I stood in line there for what felt like a long time today.  Probably about 20 minutes.  There was an interesting woman there- full head covering and long dress with an unexpectedly American accent and a very well-developed sense of humor, which came in handy because she had three young kids who got tired of waiting in line very quickly.  I was personally worried about whether or not the youngest was going to be able to wait until she got her package- he seemed to feel a bathroom would have been a nice addition to the post office.  Come to think of it I remember an adult male in that same line commenting earlier about how one should always go to the bathroom before standing in the post office line.

Anyway, I got my package.  It was only part of my order.

Kiki asked if I ever wrote about not having children.  It shows up on this blog often enough, but not really (at all?) in my fiction.  I wondered if it would be helpful to try.  I feel like it would be easier to write about if I had it all neatly processed and packaged up, but of course I don’t.  In any case, this is what I came up with.  I expect it’s not very good, but it did capture some feelings…

Sunlight brushes the treetops, melting down through irregular spaces, creating complicated ethereal lace on the forest floor. It wavers gently on a thick carpet of pine needles, brushes a fallen log, is nearly lost in the rushing torrent of a stream in springtime. Pale yellow amongst the fresh green of the clusters of ferns, a glowing sun in its own small universe, a perfectly-formed mushroom peers out, standing on tiptoe to see without itself being seen. Its cap is shaped like the thatch on a round hut, rising smoothly up to a rounded top and curving gently back down the other side. Light creamy spots are scattered on its surface, the final detail in a tiny masterpiece. Underneath the stalk is white and smooth, rising firmly out from beneath the leaves and needles. Its gills sit close together, and yet each remains perfectly distinct, their light creamy-brown contrasting sharply with the darkness that defines these spaces on the mushroom’s underside, where the sunlight will never make its lacy pattern, where indeed the touch of light and heat would make an end of the damp delicate balance that so perfectly preserves it.

Amongst the gills they gather, whispering softly, expectant. The mushroom grew up during the night, and they are glimpsing the outside world that they do not often see. Tiny transparent wings, making the delicate gills feel like a groundhog next to a ribbon snake, slender limbs, delicate like the stalks of the tiny pink and white flowers that turn dark and limp when they are plucked, their voices strains of music as hard to hear as it is to see the finely spun webs that are spun overnight only to be torn away when something stirs the tiny anchoring branches.

It was warm and dark and pleasant underground, but it is not where they belong. Thus their joy at being up, at seeing the patterns of sunlight play on the forest floor, at anticipating a happy plunge into glorious light and endless dances in the breeze. The moment approaches and they gather themselves, poised, ready.

Amongst the crowd are two who say nothing, but their hands are linked. Their longing looks are directed on each others’ faces. They know each other as they know noone else, are utterly familiar with the feel of each other’s hands, yet they have never before looked into each others’ eyes, and the beauty of the this moment is beyond what they can express with words.

The promise is in the way they stand side by side, in the way each drinks in the sight of the other, in the way their tiny fingers are softly entwined, organically, as if they had grown that way.

The sound all eagerly strain to hear comes at last, the sound of a breeze rustling across the needles. A moment more and it will be time…the enclosing ferns part before it, bowing deeply, and with a sigh all step softly into its arms, letting it twirl them lightly about, like dandelion seeds dancing in the wind. There is joy all around, surrounding, upholding, growing the laughter that tinkles like a brook that is too exquisitely tiny for human eyes.

The laughter and joy swirls around those two, those two who had been so closely linked, those two who so drank in the sight of each other’s faces, those two whose dawn of joy was so bright. Breezes are tricky, many-fauceted things. One carried him, while another caught her up, and their agony has gone unnoticed, diluted in the swirling joy of their companions, dancing and twirling in the happy breezes.

Let’s see.  Monday was Halloween.  A ten-year-old boy dressed as a basketball player knocked at the door, wild with enthusiasm.

boy:  Can you guess who I am?

CJ:  You’re on strike!

boy:  No!  I’m a college player!

An hour later the girls show up, and this time I answer. Girl #1 informs me that she can’t have the reeses, since she is allergic to nuts.

Shannon:  Oh.  Well, how about an almond joy?

Girl#2:  She can have the kit-kat!

Girl #1:  Do you know how I know I can’t have the almond joy?

Shannon:  How?

Girl #1:  It has the word “almond” in the name.

Shannon feels mighty stupid as she closes the door.

I had French class on Tuesday and Thursday night.  My average is slowly sinking through the low As toward a B.  But I’m learning lots.  And the professor is a first-time professor, just like I’m a first-year French teacher.  So weird sometimes, to be on the teacher side and the student side of that on the same day.  C’est la vie?

Struggling to cope with all the changes this school year has brought.  And we found out on Wednesday that there are more changes coming next year.  Emotionally difficult moments ensued. I grudgingly admit that some of the changes might be good…but change, particularly change one doesn’t initiate oneself, is hard.

And then I saw an infant, just two weeks old.  So many emotions:  curiosity, longing, jealousy?, fascination…

And so I got all depressed…cried quietly in church while the pastor prayed for all the pregnant women.  Actually, that crying was mostly final drips.  Friday night I got in the car to get take-out, sobbed all the way to Qdoba’s, got our salads, got back in the car, sobbed all the way back home.

Now of course, standard cheerfulness is nearly fully resumed.  I await this week with baited breath…