There's a gentleness to eighth grader Owen Goodman that's impossible to miss—an ease in the way he talks, a sincerity in the way he thinks about other people, and a kind of old-soul steadiness that doesn't usually show up in someone his age. High school is just months away, but he doesn't seem rattled. "I think so, honestly," he says when asked if he's ready. And then he adds, with simple conviction, "As long as I've got Jesus with me, I think I can do it."

That mixture of humility and confidence threads through everything Owen does, especially in the two areas that have shaped him most deeply at Vandalia: music and track.

He's the only mile runner in his grade—one of just two in the entire junior high—and he treats the event like a personal refuge. "It gets all my nerves off," he says. Running helps him decompress. Right now, he's chasing a 5:30 mile, down from a current 5:50. He knows the eighth-grade school record sits near 4:50, and he laughs softly when asked about it—not dismissing the goal, but recognizing the difference between ambition and pressure. "I'll try my best," he says. He means it.

But it's music that reveals the fullest picture of who he is. Owen plays alto saxophone in Vandalia's band program—a passion that started in fifth grade. What sets him apart, though, is that the saxophone is just one part of his musical world. He also plays ukulele and acoustic guitar, and he learned the way many great musicians do: by playing alongside someone he loves.

His grandmother bought him a ukulele for Christmas one year. They began learning together, practicing until they were confident enough to play at long-term care facilities and Brookstone. From that foundation, guitar came naturally. After a year on the ukulele, he taught himself the six-string, practicing on his dad's guitar while saving up to buy his own. He hopes to add an electric guitar next.

And in the most Vandalia kind of way, his musical gift has already found a home in the community. Owen plays gigs. Real gigs. His last one was at the Pink Elephant's café space, where he earned more than $150 in under two hours—an eighth grader with a tip jar and a growing local following. His next dream venue is the Copper Penny downtown.

He gravitates toward the Beatles—"Let It Be" and "Yesterday" are his favorites—and he talks about their imperfections the way a seasoned songwriter might. He points out something most casual listeners never notice: the intentional mistakes left in recordings. "Humans make mistakes," he says. "And we all need to realize that." It's the same philosophy he brings to friendships, to faith, and to his sense of responsibility toward others.

His church, Bethel Baptist, has shaped much of who he is. He's been there his entire life. His grandmother is the worship leader. Owen plays guitar in the worship band. And in the wake of tragedy—the loss of a local high school student, Kylie—the role of faith has grown even deeper for him. The grief shook his grade, reshaped conversations, and pulled the community closer. "It hurts me really bad," he says. Though he wasn't close friends with her, he knew her, and the loss left a mark. It strengthened his conviction that "at this point in our world, we need Jesus the most."

The community rallied—fundraisers, memorials, prayer, and support for Kylie's siblings. Owen talks about it with the same grounded sincerity that colors everything he says. Vandalia cares for its own, he explains. People show up.

His future feels wide open. He wants to be a worship leader, releasing albums, writing songs, and sharing the kind of music that helps people feel less alone. He's already imagining the day he returns for his ten-year reunion, talking with classmates about the memories made here and the lives they're building. For now, he tries to treat everyone with kindness. If he sees someone sitting alone, looking down, struggling, he moves toward them. "Stay positive," he says. "Love people."

It's not complicated for him. It's not abstract. It's just how he believes the world should work.

And in the quiet, powerful way eighth graders sometimes surprise you, Owen's philosophy becomes a simple truth that feels almost like a calling:

Just love people.