I went to an academic conference over the summer. Several of the speakers zeroed in on an area of research that is finally getting some traction. The question they addressed concerned student success in college. One survey, taken at the Community College of Baltimore, discovered two primary reasons students drop out of school—They are overwhelmed by life problems. Or they are overwhelmed by affective issues, mostly centered around “fear, anxiety, and a suspicion that they are just not college material.”
In other words, ability is usually not the problem. Life is. The fear factor is.
So, how do we help these students? The suggestions given are common-sense ones—“Create a safe atmosphere” in the classroom. Find a balance between “flexibility” and “tough love”—between “compassion” and “firmness” (a lot harder than it might sound). Implement “confidence-building experiences” early on in the semester.
And be aware of mindsets—because students will have “fixed mindsets” or “growth mindsets.”
Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck says that a fixed mindset is “the belief that intelligence is fixed [which] dampens students’ motivation to learn, makes them afraid of effort, and makes them want to quit after a setback.”
So when classes get hard, students give up. Because when they struggle, Dweck says, they “feel dumb.”
Do I have students who have this mindset? Of course. But my confession is this: Sometimes I have the same mindset.
I fear failure. And in my profession, where performance is evaluated and measured each semester, I often feel like I’m not measuring up. And when I struggle, I feel dumb. This doesn’t motivate me to be better. It discourages me and makes me want to give up.
I guess the question is this: How do we establish growth mindsets? How do we establish the belief that just because something is challenging and causes us to struggle, this is not a reflection of our intelligence or ability?
I’m pretty sure that most of the speakers at the conference did not embrace a Christian world view. If there is such a thing as grace, I learned, it is merely a human grace we extend to each other. And as teachers, we know the expectations of gracious teaching. Help students to realize their potential and to be true to themselves. Encourage. Uplift. Reinforce. Reaffirm. We do this because we care about them. But we do this too because we care about retention, and we must always be looking for ways to keep students from dropping out.
But is this all there is to teaching? Just getting students to finish college and get jobs so we not only identify them as successful but ourselves, as well?
I worry a lot about leaving God out of this equation.
Do I care for my students? Yes. Do I want them to graduate? Yes. Do I want them to get good jobs? Yes. But. . . .
If this is all we are about as educators, we only address part of the need. Because each one of us has a soul. And souls don’t have expiration dates, like milk. We will all live forever.
I take education seriously. But I take eternity much more seriously.
I admit to my students that college is a big thing. But it is not the whole thing. God has opened this door of opportunity for you, I tell them, so seize it. Work hard and be successful, not to bring honor to yourself, but to bring glory to God.
And when they get scared. When they start to struggle. When the challenges seem insurmountable. I remind them that they can do all things through Christ who gives them strength. Trust Him, I say. Lean on Him. Because He is real and He is relevant.
I work hard in the classroom. I take the material seriously. But I am also serious about modeling a life that glorifies God, the author of grace. If they don’t see that life in me, I have failed. Measure me all you want. Evaluate me all you want. But I have a greater judge. And when I stand before Him, I hope I hear these words—“Well done, good and faithful servant.”
I want that for me. I want that for you. I want that for my students. Because that is true success.