Graduation Photos

I received an advertisement in my mailbox the other day. It was an offer from a photography company, telling me that for only (insert preposterous amount of money here), I could buy a framed photograph of myself shaking hands with Bobby B at graduation, receiving my empty diploma case, and making the headlong leap into “life after undergrad.” After snorting and throwing the paper into the recycling, my second response was to laugh at the thought of how ridiculous my face would probably look. I’d most likely have an expression of bewildered shock, similar to the one I had when I was baptized as an infant, which probably reads something like, “What did I do to deserve this?”

Now that I think of it, “graduation action-shot” photos sound a lot to me like those pictures they take on roller coasters at whatever point the engineers have decided is the scariest one of the whole ride, the place most likely to yield awkward or hilarious facial expressions. They couldn’t pick a more awkward time to take pictures of college grads, I’m sure. Imagine the expression of someone who is just leaving the womb of pre-paid rent and perpetual slumber parties, someone who has realized for the first time that life doesn’t take three months off for the summer, someone who is terribly afraid that she will never find a job that she wakes up excited about. Now stuff her in a polyester graduation gown, stick a categorically unattractive cap thingy on her head, and *snap* you’ve got a Kodak moment she’ll want to treasure forever. Right.

No, I’d rather have a picture of me camping out on Caf Lane with my friends, five of us squashed together in my three person tent, our mouths wide with shock as jets of water from the sprinklers spear the thin material and wake us at four in the morning. Or a snapshot of me hunting on the beach below Young Hall for beach glass and interesting shells, seaweed wrapped around my neck like a string of slimy green pearls. Or maybe a picture of my roommates and me in our living room, dressed in hideous sweaters for the Flex 45 H first (and last) annual Christmas Gala. Perhaps a photo of me peeking my head into Dr. Lodahl’s office, as I do every time I see his door open, just to say hello. Maybe me wandering past the crowded international line with a half-eaten cookie in either hand, me serving communion to the student body in chapel, me on the stage of Crill with tears glistening in my eyes as I sign the words to “The Lord Bless You and Keep You.”

With only eleven days until graduation, the end is fully in sight, and I’m most assuredly ready to fly the coop and take on the great wide world. I’ve got dreams, I’ve got plans…and heck, I’m going to be a camp counselor this summer! But I’ve decided that the picture I want framed in my memory is not one of me getting my money’s worth out of my college education. To conclude my college experience looking only toward the future without taking careful stock of everything Point Loma has been to me, or to leave without genuinely mourning what a loss it will be to leave this family, would be nothing short of greedy. Take ol’ PLNU for all she’s worth, and jet out? I don’t think so.

Before I graduate, I plan to spend an afternoon walking the campus, remembering, laughing, probably crying, and most definitely praying: for those who are leaving, for those who remain, and for those who are yet to come.