Callin' It Like I See It: Eighth Grade Graduations

Kalina at her 8th grade graduation with friend Danielle

Kristiana at her 8th grade graduation with friend Alauna

  

Lately I have given a lot of thought to eighth grade graduations—perhaps because my son is over halfway through his seventh grade year, so it seems that his eighth grade graduation isn’t very far off. But the other part of my pondering is a more general opinion I’d like to share.

I’ve heard it argued, (in part from those who’ve lived or worked in gang-ridden environments), that if you reward kids with a graduation after eighth grade, what’s to motivate them to go on in school? Well, in my mind, if the absence of a graduation ceremony is the only thing that motivates a student to move forward in his or her education, there’s a serious problem! If that’s the argument, we’d be seeing a bunch of kindergarten drop-outs, wouldn’t we (tongue-in-cheek there)? And high school graduates surely wouldn’t need to go on to college once they’d received their diplomas and walked to “Pomp and Circumstance.” Isn’t that pretty much the icing on the cake? Okay, now I’m being a bit sarcastic—but my point is…the argument is flawed.

I support the idea of eighth grade graduations for several reasons:

1)      Instead of a way of rewarding students for a job not yet complete (high school graduation), I see it as a reward for completing a pretty monumental decade of life (yes, for those who attend preschool and kindergarten, it’s a decade of school). We celebrate other less-tenured achievements—why not this one? These ten years represent huge developmental changes and social challenges, not to mention increasing academic expectations. In my kids’ school experience, academic training—critical thinking skills as well as the basics of counting and coloring—began in preschool. In kindergarten, they learned to read. In first grade, they wrote books and/or book reports! And it went uphill from there. No, not everyone’s school experience is the same—but whatever negatives there may have been (switching schools, poor attendance, good or bad teaching, getting picked on, family crises that affected school performance, etc.), ten years is worth some kudos. But what of the kids who made bad choices? Well, no one makes all bad choices in life. There was probably something somewhere along the way that was worth celebrating…sure, if they’re pulling failing grades across the board, well then they probably shouldn’t be a part of the celebration that year. But that doesn’t mean eighth grade graduations are a bad idea. The reality is that some kids are going to join gangs, drop out, get pregnant or get someone pregnant—and those choices can either be their descent into life in the dungeon or a springboard to making better choices in the future and not allowing their pasts to dictate their futures. There are always going to be both. But that shouldn’t determine whether the reward is offered for those who’ve earned it.

2)    It’s an encouragement. To me, eighth grade graduation says “look how far you’ve come; and it’s only the beginning.” In my way of thinking, it is motivating. It’s like that drink of water after a long stretch in a marathon or that piece of chocolate cake when you’ve made it halfway to your final weight loss goal. It’s like a much-earned pat on the back that says “I’ve noticed, and I’m proud of you.” At least, that’s the message I have always wanted to send to my kids. I mean, we celebrate birthdays based on no other achievement but existence! Elementary school can be hard enough, but middle school—well, that can be brutal—let’s give some credit where credit is due. Sometimes in a race, the encouragement of those cheering one on can come at just the right moment. Eighth grade is the right moment. 

My school didn’t have eighth grade graduations, but I can assure you that it would have been a boost to my already diminished self-esteem if it had—I might have seen that I’d actually done something worthwhile, even praiseworthy. There’s something wrong in our thinking if we make a bigger deal out of a kid losing a tooth than a kid finishing eighth grade. If we can share so enthusiastically in nature’s achievement (losing a tooth), how much more should we be inclined to cheer on those who’ve reached such a pivotal crossroads?

3)      Eighth grade graduation represents an “ushering in” or “crossing over.” For those who do, it is a waving-goodbye to more childlike pastimes and ways of thinking and beginning to embrace more grown-up responsibilities and pursuits. Students enter high school as middle-schoolers and leave it as, for all practical purposes, adults. At least, beginning ones. It’s a transition from growing up in the physical maturation sense to growing up in the character-testing, future-thinking sense. It’s a time in which parents become more like guides and tend to fade more into the background as their kids take the reins of life more purposefully. It’s the end of one phase of life and the beginning of a far different one. Why must we split hairs over what constitutes a worthy accomplishment? Both (finishing eighth and finishing twelfth) represent grand adventures; we have an opportunity to celebrate with our youth the crossing of the threshold from one to the next. 

I guess my overall point is why does it have to be a choice between eighth grade graduation and high school graduation? I see validity in both, and both celebrate very different but nonetheless admirable achievements, thus making the graduations themselves very different in nature. I believe that saying eighth grade graduation is unnecessary or that it somehow “jumps the gun” on high school graduation reflects a short-sighted view of child development, nurturance, and may even indicate an emotional lack in one’s own upbringing regarding recognition of achievements (though certainly that’s not true in every case).

I look forward to my final eighth grade graduation ceremony as a parent, in June of 2015. I plan to let my son know—in some (hopefully) significant way how special he is and how proud I am of all he has accomplished thus far. I see it as one of many not-to-be-overlooked milestones, the reaching of which will make lasting memories. I intend to do my part in making sure they’re good ones.

An Alphabetical History of My Childhood

Devil's Elbow State Beach

Foods of My Youth

Apple sauce, burgers from Tasty Freeze, Cheese ‘n Crackers, doughnuts, egg salad sandwiches, French Toast, Graham crackers, hot dogs, ice cream (yum…bubble gum), jerky, Kix cereal, licorice (red), Mexi fries, nasturtiums (from Aunt Lorraine’s house), orange juice, pecan pie, Quaker oats (with butter, salt, and pepper), Russian tea, Spanish rice, tuna sandwiches, Uncle Ron’s specialty (homemade hash browns with mayo), Velveeta, watermelon, x-centric concoction (made one time in a blender by a cousin of my dad’s I’d never met before—never will forget it), yogurt (fruit-at-the-bottom, baby!), Zingers.

What I Played With

Anagrams, Bubbles the Bear, cardboard box creations, doctor’s kit, envelopes for playing “secretary,” Fisher-Price people, glasses (to look like a different person), Holly Hobbie, I Took a Lickin’ From a Chicken (it was a lot like Simon), jump-rope, King’s Corner, Little Professor, Mitzi (a doll I named after dancer Mitzi Gaynor), nude Barbies (I changed their clothes a lot, so half the time they were naked), Operation, Perfection, quilted baby doll blankets, Rubik’s Cube, scratch ‘n sniff stickers, Trapper Keeper binder (yeah, it wasn’t technically a toy, but it was purple and I loved it), underwear (I made an old pair—along with some upholstery material—into pillows for my Barbies), Viewmaster, wind-up animals (I loved watching them walk), xylophone, yo-yo (though I was never very good at it), zoo animals.

Places I Liked to Go

Aunt Elsie’s beach house, Brooklyn Park, Cleawox Market (where I bought my first glass floats), Devil’s Elbow, Eunice’s house, flying with Bill Kernowski, Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant, Harbor Theater, Idaho (age 13), JC Sentry Market, Circle “K” (burritos and pinball…good times), Laughing Clam, Mode O’Day (got my most favorite shirt ever there), North Fork, Old Town (Florence, Oregon), Petersdorf’s Food Town Market, quiet streams of the Siuslaw National Forest, Reedsport Pharmacy (where I got my Viewmaster slides), Sand Dunes Frontier, Taco Time, U.S. Route 101 (at one point, we lived right on the highway), Visitor’s Center at Cape Perpetua, Windjammer Hair Salon (where I got my ears pierced!), x-ceptional tide pools (the Oregon Coast is famous for them), Yachats, zoo (especially the time a giraffe tried to steal my Great Aunt Pearl’s hat).

When Your Plate Runneth Over

Picture a dinner plate. It has plenty of room for an entrée, a couple side dishes, and maybe even a roll. The entrée is served—and it’s pretty substantial—but okay; after all, you’ve got a healthy appetite. Then the first side is served, but you notice that it seems to be spreading out and taking up more of the plate than you had anticipated. You decide to squeeze in another item, which unfortunately begins to ooze over the side of the plate. Forget the roll—this plate is full.

Now picture this same unarguably full plate is suddenly snatched up from your dinner spot—you look up to see that your table is now fully surrounded by people who weren’t there a moment ago (Did I put those extra leaves in there?); suddenly your plate is being  passed around the table from one person to the next, and each one is piling a large scoop of some food item onto it—green beans, jello, mashed potatoes, rice, cole slaw, fried chicken, deep-fried shrimp, tacos (Wait—where’d all this extra food come from?). You want to say something, but you can’t. As if in a dream, you are unable to speak. You want to cry out, ‘Stop! I can’t handle all that!’ But it just keeps piling…to your great horror.

Now the plate is piled high, gravy running into jello, and cole slaw merging with cottage cheese. Picture everyone watching as though they expect you to sit down and somehow consume this monstrous mound of mush—because now it’s truly impossible to tell where one cuisine ends and another begins. It’s a mess, it’s distasteful, and it’s simply too much!

This is the picture of our lives sometimes. Our plates are, by all reasonable standards, full—financial responsibilities, children’s sporting events, maintaining a household, cars breaking down, fall-out from your kids’ poor choices; keeping laundry clean—dinners made—schedules on track. Perhaps a relative dies, a family member becomes ill—or some other unexpected crisis hits at the worst time ever. Just when you’re trying to figure out how to deal with one trial—and the accompanying stress—another is right on its heels. Stress builds until something has to give, one way or the other. Circumstances have to change—conflicts have to be resolved—your heart cries out, ‘No more!’ And just then…another calamity hits, filling your proverbial plate to the point of near hysteria. What will you do?

If you’re like me, you will first feel guilty. Why can’t I handle this? You’ll begin to panic, but a perpetual state of panic feels a bit too much like a heart attack, so you’ll switch gears, taking you on a quick, full-body slide into depression. Like a criminal regretting his crime, you sit in your would-be cell and retrace the steps that have led you to this point. How on earth could this have happened? After all, you were doing so well. Sure, life had thrown you some curve balls, but you were coping. What’s more, you were praying to the Lord—and even trusting him. Others had noticed that He was obviously strengthening you, giving you grace, carrying you. So just how did you manage to plummet into this pit?

You looked at the plate.

And knowing there was no way to deal with it, you ran from the banquet of life…just as Jesus showed up at the table. Forgetting to be a gracious host, you instead left your most important guest to get his own drink. Which is okay, because He came not to be served but to serve. Those uninvited guests—those that would fill your plate and keep filling it—fade into the shadows at the presence of the one who has the power to redefine the entire meal.

If you are wise enough to return to the table, you’ll find that your plate has been returned to its original full state. As you sit down, you have a silent fear that it will overfill again. You look into Jesus’ eyes, and He reaches out and places His hands on yours. When you look back at your plate, you see it as not “full” but abundant; just look at all you’ve been given and how wonderfully good it is!

Embarrassed to ask because you showed up late to the meal but too curious not to, you look into Jesus’ peaceful eyes. “Lord, what of the extra things on my plate? Everything was piled together.” He waves His hand, and now you can see that in front of Him are all the unwanted things that were piled on your plate; now they’re on His. He slowly, miraculously separates them, placing them on separate smaller plates and arranging them carefully on the table. “But Jesus, why are they still here?”

He lovingly and patiently smiles. “Child, these are the circumstances of your life—they are still a part of your table, but I have arranged them in a way that is good.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They are still a part of your life, but you are no longer bound by them. You could never manage that entire plate, nor were you ever expected or designed to. Now, as each circumstance is passed your way, you will realize that I have taken on the burden of the matter—and you’ve only but to ask me what your part is. You don’t have to put it on your plate.”

“But I still have to deal with these things. How can they not be on my plate?”

“Because—though they may be a part of your life—they are not your portion. I am the one who will give you beauty for ashes and turn your mourning into dancing. Allow me to be the master of your banqueting table.” (“ And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who^[a] have been called according to his purpose”  (Romans 8:28)).

And therein lies the key. If Jesus is our true master, we won’t see an ever-piling plate—but as He touches our vision, we will see Him orchestrating the circumstances of our lives to an ultimate good. We will no longer need to question, ‘How can I take any more?,’ because He has taken it all. Do you see the difference? It’s not that He will remove the circumstance—though sometimes He may—but it’s that He bears the burden of what to do with it so that we don’t have to. He reorders and redistributes the contents of our plates so that we can learn, grow, and not lose sight of the abundant life He has given. Because of His great love for us. When truly our lives belong to Jesus, it is no longer our table but His. No longer our burdens to carry but His.

“ He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love” (Song of Solomon 2:4).

“Give your burdens to the LORD, and he will take care of you. He will not permit the godly to slip and fall” (Psalm 55:22, NLT).

May your plate be ever-abundant, running over with the blessings and wisdom of the one who knows all things—and redeems all things.

                “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever” (Psalm 23:5-6).

Rocky Recovery

I’ve always had a weakness for burritos. Bean and cheese. Beef and bean. Crisp. Soft. With chiles or without. After a long day subbing, I had a hankering for a simple, good-tasting, tortilla-enclosed mouthful of burrito yumminess. There weren’t many choices at the store, so I purchased a package of eight put out by a reputable company—Reser’s. Baja Café Beaf and Bean.  I was already envisioning two steaming bundles of savory, somewhat spicy beef and bean beauteousness with a side of taco sauce and sour cream.

Thank God for microwaves. Within minutes, I was ready to sink my teeth into those babies. Masterpieces of processed fast food fodder that I knew I would thoroughly enjoy. Anxiously throwing caution to the winds, I plunged the side of my fork into the malleable, tortilla-swaddled delicacy.

The first bite was heavenly. The second bite was delightful. By the third bite, I became a little sad that it was disappearing so quickly. So I made an intentional effort to savor the next bite—the flavor, the texture…the…the texture! What in the world had I just detected? It was somewhat cushioned by pieces of tortilla, but between my teeth I could easily distinguish something solid—as in rigid and inflexible. A piece of bone? An uncooked bean?

With a furrowed brow I extracted the item from my mouth, grateful that I hadn’t broken any teeth. It was clearly a small, brownish, relatively triangular rock. This burrito possessed a “boulder” consistency for sure. My brush with reparative dental work was over. But what to do in this moment of stunned surprise?

I cautiously finished my burrito and decided my new motto would be “Dodge a rock, don’t expect a quarry.” One small rock in one out of eight burritos ended up in my dinner. It could’ve happened to anyone, I suppose. It won’t cause me to stop eating burritos, just as multiple falls off a bike doesn’t cause a determined child to permanently flip down the kickstand. There’s risk in everything we do—it doesn’t mean the worst will happen. It may, however, mean that we sometimes need to chew softly.