What I Learned About God From SAGE Testing

This post, contrary to what you may think, is not about standardized testing.  It is not about the pros and cons of SAGE.  Nor is it about Common Core, public schools, charter schools, government conspiracies, or why you should home school your child.  It is about life, and how I am understanding it more deeply the longer I teach.

Last week, in addition to Valentine's Tea, the Teddy Bear Picnic, AND Parent Teacher Conferences, we had SAGE testing.  (And we did it all in four days, very fairly earning the four-day weekend that followed.)

For those who are unaware of what SAGE testing is, let me explain briefly.

Because education is a state right, states are given the ability to choose how they will assess their children.  Utah has adopted a test called the SAGE test.  Remember the old bubble sheet tests we used to take?  It's the computerized version of that.  It has several parts, and as part of the Language Arts portion of the test, 3rd graders are asked to write 2 essays on a computer and submit them.

That is what we were doing last week.  (Before the sugar and teddy bears hit.)

Without going into anything too nitty-gritty, the general idea of this writing test is that kids are given a scaled score based on what they write.  A proficient score is about a 406.  About. ;)

So, hoping everyone had eaten a good breakfast last Tuesday morning and hadn't played Minecraft until 2:00 am the night before, I got all of the students logged in a let them begin their tests.  They all had slightly different prompts, and began writing.

I walked around, glancing at the papers they were furiously writing on (or staring blankly at).  Some looked at the test before them and examined it carefully.  They made plans on paper and revised them before beginning to type.  Others plowed straight in, typing like mad chickens. (My old computer teacher, Mr. Asbury, called that "hunt-and-peck typing.")

Soon, hands began to go up as students whispered to me, "I'm done!"

One boy, who has honestly won every genetic lottery known to the human race from looks to money to athleticism, pointed a finger at his screen and said, "I'm finished."  I peeked at the screen.  There were three lines.  Three.  From the child who has been reading and writing since HE was three.  A child who reads about 500 pages a month.  A child who is writing an entire book in his little journal at school.  And he writes three fairly pathetic lines and says he's done?

I don't think so.  I stared at him hard.  "Is that your best?" I asked in my serious business voice.  And he and I both knew that he would not be submitting quite yet.

Why?  Because I know him.  And I know he is capable of so much more than that.  And deep down, he knows it too.

A few minutes later, another hand shoots up.  It is a student that keeps me awake at night.  He is a child I worry about every single day.  Does he have sufficient food?  Is someone putting him to bed at night?  Is there anyone to read him a story? Does he even own books?  I know in my heart that if life is a lottery, somehow this child--through no fault of his own--has already lost.

I glance down at his computer screen.  There, typed in the space for the answer, I see three lines.  Three cohesive, full sentences that actually have something to do with the prompt.  It feels like a miracle.

I ask, "Do you have anything else you want to add?"

Proudly, he shakes his head no.  "I put everything," tell tells me, and then goes ahead and submits his piece.

I imagine this test from the children's view.

I am a terrible teacher.

I am horribly unfair.

I have just high-fived one student for writing three lines while giving another a soul-searing stare for the exact same thing.

I admit, I do not treat children equally.  I never will.  Because equal does not help any of them become who they are capable of becoming.  But I do believe in being fair.  And part of fairness involves knowing and loving a person enough to do what I feel is best for him or her.

Children like the first student are--metaphorically speaking--born at a score of 220.  So when they hit my room, scoring something in the 500s, I may be tempted as a teacher to think I hit a home run.  I didn't. That kid was on third base when I got him, already stealing toward home.

Children like the second student, however, may still be at the plate, just trying to get a hit.  And if they barely make it to third, I may think that because they didn't score a run, I have clearly failed.

Both counts are entirely wrong.

Of course, we do care about the score.  Developmentally, 406--that magical SAGE number--is a benchmark for a 3rd grader.  But upon learning more about testing, I discovered there is much more to this test than the overall number.  A large majority or the test is simply about progress.

I know each of my students, and I know what they are capable of.  I also know that they cannot progress unless they reach to their own limits.

And so it is with each of us.

The test we go through are not simply to see where we are as people, but are also to recognize how much we've grown.  Whether we are trying to get to first base or are rounding our way to home plate, whether we are a 90 or a 560 on the rubric-ed scale, we are expected to progress, so grow, to somehow prove that everything we've been learning has stretched us into someone different than the person we used to be.  We have changed.

And yet, as an educator, I am compelled to recognize that education is not solely about progress.  Being a third grader with a score of 90 is not sufficient.  It is not passing. It is not proficient.

But a child will never get to 406 or 560 or 700 without first improving, and a 90 may be his or her first step on that journey.  Sometimes the realization of how far we have yet to go is overwhelming, to the point of being crushing and we feel that we will never arrive--we are already too far behind.  However,  "…a critical message of hope...is that each of us will receive the necessary time to work out our salvation." (Allan D. Rau, "Be Ye Therefore Perfect": Beyond the Perfectionist Paradigm," in Religious Educator 12, no. 3 (2011): 37-57.) 

It is simply not a race against time or against each other.

As I have contemplated this over the last several day, I think I understand a little more now than I did last week about how God must feel about us.

He knows us.
He knows what blessings and privileges and helps we have or haven't had.
He knows perfectly what we are capable of--what we have mastered, what we have previously achieved, what we have learned since then, and what we still need help with.
He doesn't expect us to be the kid in the chair next to us.
He doesn't expect us to get a 406 three months after we got a 105.
He doesn't shame us when we have given the best of whatever is in us, even if it is still nowhere near what is expected for where we "should" be or where everyone else is.

The beautiful thing about God is that he doesn't hold us up against everyone else.  He holds us up against ourselves and helps us in every way He can to make the progress necessary to be able to return to him.  And while we struggle and progress, one line or sentence at a time, He always loves us.

“He is not waiting to love you until you have overcome your weaknesses and bad habits. He loves you today with a full understanding of your struggles. He is aware that you reach up to Him in heartfelt and hopeful prayer. He knows of the times you have held onto the fading light and believed—even in the midst of growing darkness. He knows of your sufferings. He knows of your remorse for the times you have fallen short or failed. And still He loves you.”

“He knows everything about you. He sees you clearly—He knows you as you really are. 

“He loves you not only for who you are this very day, but also for the person of glory and light you have the potential and the desire to become.

“More than you could ever imagine, He wants you to achieve your destiny—to return to your heavenly home in honor.” (Dieter Uchtdorf: “Live the Gospel Joyful”)

As we muddle through this life, students stuck together, side-by-side through our individual journey, each facing our own exams and test, it is critical to remember that we are not the Master Teacher.  We do not know, truly, who our fellow test takers are, what they have been through, what they have experienced, what they have already brought to the table, and what they are capable of.

Rather than judge each other, let us help each other progress, recognizing that we are each in different spots on our journey.
Let us worry more about making our own progress--whatever that may be--than in pointing out how "unfair" our lives may seem.
Let us not become so pleased with how much "better" we are than others that we become complacent and stop progressing ourselves.

We all must take the tests of life. We can crawl under our desk and cry hysterically about it (yeah, that happened…), we can give a half-hearted, pathetic effort that we convince ourselves will be "good enough," or we can give everything we have (without being concerned by what everyone else around us is doing), thereby realizing that we have learned and grown and become better.

Thank you, SAGE testing, for so vividly reminding me of what this life is all about.