Commencement 2026 Speech (Full Text): ‘Two Buckets’ by Shannan Martin

Shannan Martin, a best-selling writer and speaker from Goshen, was the speaker at Goshen College’s 128th commencement ceremony on April 26, 2026. Read more about her here.

Photos from the weekend:

• Commencement Ceremony
• Academic Department Receptions (available soon)
• Baccalaureate

Two Buckets

Shannan Martin’s Message to the Class of 2026

Thank you to President Stoltzfus for the invitation to be part of this special day, and to the faculty, staff, students, and support systems that helped make today possible. Thank you, Goshen College, for being a steady anchor in this community, enriching our culture, and basically making us all a little cooler and kinder. It is a tremendous honor to join you today, Class of 2026.

We are all here for you, to recognize your gritty commitment, your grueling climb, your fierce passion. You dreamed, and then you worked. Today is the exhale. You did it, and in so many ways, you did it together, not in isolation, but as a connected part of a brilliant, sturdy whole. It takes a community to raise up a graduate. You are cause for celebration.

I graduated from college in… the nineteen hundreds. The late-late ones, the last gasp, but still. Those four precious years left an indelible mark. I can assure you, years from now, you will still dream about this place, these people, this special, formational moment in time.

Place has a way of shaping and even changing us. So, let’s take a minute to reflect and bear witness to the fullness of your college experience.

The b-roll footage of this quirky indie film that is your collegiate experience is stitched together with dorm rooms, long commutes, dining halls, libraries, labs, clinicals, procrastinations, rehearsals, games, and too much lake effect snow. The soundtrack is a train whistle, the laughter you would recognize in the dark, and the reminders pinging from your phone.

Most important are the relationships you cultivated and sustained, letting your roots braid together as you consistently showed up for one another. This was a season of intense intellectual and spiritual growth as your mind held hands with your heart and soul and you soared. There were late nights, 8 a.m. lectures, caffeine-fueled exams. The internships that helped you discern where you were headed, or where you weren’t. There were probably heartbreaks, disappointments, and times when you missed the mark — “character building” moments that are uncomfortable but necessary. All the while, amid your ordinary lives and your daily routines, you were becoming.

We are always becoming.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus promises his followers an abundant life — rich and satisfying. For a long time, I thought this meant I was promised only good things, like safety, security, comfort, happiness, and success. In reality, richness is achieved through complexity.

In addition to being a writer, I have been on staff at The Window, Goshen’s community kitchen, for over seven years. I can tell you from experience, the best flavor often builds from near-disaster. A good cook knows not to sweat the heat. It’s in the scorching, deglazing, and scraping that magic happens. The same is true for us. The abundant life we were promised arrives with everything — the things we want and the things we would never choose.

The salty, the sweet, the bitterness, the heat. We get it all.

The question your life is asking you to consider is this: How will you juggle it all? Or, if poetry is your thing, how will you learn to carry the cosmos?

I grew up in a tiny village in Southwestern Ohio, the daughter of a German Baptist dad and a Catholic mom who, together, carved out a third way to live faithfully. My dad was a blue-collar laborer, the builder of houses and bridges. He went to work before the sun ascended, wearing a shirt with his name stitched over the pocket. He came home dirty, at dusk. I was young when he taught me what became a foundational life lesson — carrying something heavy becomes easier, more doable, when you carry something equally heavy in the other hand.

At the time, he was carrying 5-gallon buckets filled with something heavy, probably fertilizer or grain, when he delivered this wisdom. He demonstrated as we walked together across the barnyard. When we carry something heavy in one hand it can leave us lurching to the side, dragging the ground. But when we add something equally heavy to the other hand, it grounds us, pulling us back to center, so we can find our momentum and move forward.

As improbable as it seemed that doubling up the weight could make it easier to bear, I couldn’t argue with it in practice. It proved itself true time and again.

Dwight Garber, my dad, was — and is — a practical man. No one has ever accused him of inciting poetry. I’m sure he was just trying to raise kids who could be more helpful around the farm. But because I was wired less for farm life and more for metaphor, I found myself reaching back for this “dad wisdom” in adulthood, when it became clear that life would consistently have its way — flowing in goodness — like bonfires, marching bands, the four seasons, and the silvery moon — and ebbing in catastrophe — like illness, betrayal, past due notices, and loneliness.

I began to wonder, what if I chose acceptance, acknowledging the unrepentant reality of being a human in this blistering world? Life would reliably load up a bucketful of grievances and griefs. What if I chose to fill the other bucket — the one I have some control over — with heavy goodness? As the poet Rainer Rilke wrote, “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” In other words, expect it. Accept it. Just be sure to keep filling that other bucket.

The goal is not perfectly calibrated balance. Few things are ever truly balanced. How many breathtaking sunsets would it take to cancel out a crushing breakup? How many novels should be devoured to offset the twenty-first century urge to chug the internet in one long gulp? Life never happens in equal measure. But with every moment of beauty, rest, and relief, every counterweight we reach for and add to the other bucket, we are lifted a bit higher off the ground, pulled closer to center, where we can regain our momentum and keep going.

Right now, as we gather to celebrate, wars rage. People are understandably terrified. Injustice seems to be winning. So much feels uncertain and unstable. It is right to honestly name our griefs.

But also…there are tulips blooming. There are maple trees leafing out in clusters of chartreuse, hazelnut lattes, paper plate cookouts, and beloved cousins visiting from out of town.

There are cakes waiting to be cut.

Dancing awaits.

The world feels precarious and we still have a mandate to joy. All of it deserves our sacred attention.

As you step into the thrill of your future, may I humbly remind you that this is your precise, particular life. This moment, right here. Far-sightedness can become a tempting habit — searching for our real lives somewhere up ahead in the hazy unknown. One day, I’ll do that. Someday, I’ll be better. I’ll be settled and satisfied. Eventually, I’ll figure it all out.

But I am here to suggest that the good life is found in the rub, in the discombobulation, even in the disappointments. These things will always be part of the deal as our teachers and guides. Required ingredients in the recipe for a rich, satisfying, abundant life.

One of my favorite scriptures is from Jeremiah, Chapter 29. Here, God offers his people a road map for enduring an exile they did not choose, far from the comforts of their homeland. I’ll paraphrase the to-do list God hands them: build homes and plan to stay. Plant gardens. Share the harvest. Let the juice drip from your chins. Cultivate family.

Work for peace. And finally, at the end of the list, pray for your neighbors — because their welfare determines your welfare.

These words were not written to us, but I believe they are still for us. Woven into the subtext of God’s instructions for carrying on are two buckets, one weighed down with the heaviness of exile and oppression. The other sloshing with the heavy goodness of being alive — shelter and connection, resilience and sun-warmed figs. Because even in the hardest times, the Israelites still had a job to do — the work of justice. Creating safety and belonging for everyone.

Goshen College Class of 2026, that is your job, too. Especially when the stakes feel so high and the solutions feel far from reach. God only knows, if you’re going to continue building a better world where everyone belongs, your fuel will be the core belief that despite all that is wrong, there is still so much to love about life.

No doubt, you have already been battered by life. Sadly, that reality will persist. My hope is that you will remember the other bucket — every day, forever. You’ll commit to adding small moments of beauty, grace, humor, rest, delight, and maybe a Taco Bell chalupa from time to time, as life delivers them from the crumbs of your ordinary, tedious lives.

Often, you’ll find these counterweights in surprisingly humble places, as you care for the people near you, as you serve rather than lead, as you embrace the necessary awkwardness of building a community that will thrive for the long haul. You will stay watchful and ready for the heavy goodness that is always happening in the raw materials of what you’ve been given.

One of the truest things I know is that no one can love your life for you. It is up to you to reckon with life’s inherent complexity. It is up to you to remember that multiple things can be true at the same time, and that sorrow and joy pair quite well together. It is up to you to not settle for a flimsy, fabricated joy, a “silver linings” situation. That doesn’t tell the whole story. It isn’t honest enough. It’s also up to you to stubbornly refuse to tip fully into despair.

We have a duty to one another, and that duty requires hope.

Today, taste the bittersweetness. All of it. Tomorrow, and for the rest of this one, precious life you’ve been given, bear witness and live. You’ll carry on by carrying the cosmos. The weights and counterweights. Two buckets brimming with abundance.

My dad would be so proud of you.