I’ve been in the offices of many people, and I’ve seen some really interesting trophies. As you know, a trophy is a prize awarded for victory or success. It usually represents an individual achievement or something its owner collects. I’ve been in offices of big-game hunters, filled with animals and mounts from around the world. I’ve seen photos of the people with famous celebrities, athletes, and musicians. I’ve been in the home offices of professional athletes and seen their championship rings. Once, I was in the “ultimate man cave” of a car-dealing magnate who had a football on display from every Super Bowl ever played, as well as one version of every trim pattern Chevrolet made for the 1959 Corvette (he needed a garage adjacent to his cave for those!).
I don’t really have any trophies that are as grand as any of these because, well, I’ve never really accomplished anything on this scale. Memorials of the things I have done in my life—what few plaques, photos, or trinkets exist—are all in a closet locked away for my kids to see someday when I’m gone, together with an note attached telling them to have a look and then throw them away (I’ve seen too many of my friends cleaning out their parents’ houses, and wondering what to do with all that stuff).
But I do have four precious trophies that occupy treasured real estate at the end of my desk at home, placed where only my family and I can see them. I love them not because of their value (they don’t cost much) or because they represent some great achievement (they don’t). When I sit in my leather chair by my desk early every morning, spending time with the Lord, offering up the day and everyone in it in prayer, I stare at these trophies and reflect on who I love and what matters in my life. In short, they remind me of you.
If you’ve ever led anyone spiritually—served as a Bible study leader, or a youth group volunteer, or lay pastor—you know that God gives you a heart of love for the people you lead and serve. Even when they aren’t particularly easy to love—like a group of rowdy middle school boys, or a group of needy people struggling with something terrible—you still love them in ways and to a depth you don’t quite understand and can’t quite quantify. Over the years, I’ve developed this kind of love for the people of Grace, for kids, parents, and families. And, these trophies signify that love and hours of prayer.
The first trophy on my desk is the most recent one I received. My wife gave it to me this past Christmas, and it is precious to me. It’s a small statuette of Abraham Lincoln.
I’ve always been a Lincoln fan. I admire the depth of his character. Lincoln faced a great deal of adversity early in his life—losing his mother as a child, having a difficult relationship with his father, losing most of the elections in which he ran, marrying a woman he loved but who was almost certainly mentally ill. He probably dealt with some form of depression himself (which he called “melancholy”) and lost not one but two children. There were times in Lincoln’s younger life when his friends removed sharp objects around him for fear he would hurt himself. Yet, despite all this pain, Lincoln was incredibly self-aware and integrated tragedy and illness in his life not to break him but to yield great fruit: tremendous compassion and empathy for everyone, including political and personal rivals. This quality enabled him to work with all kinds of people in collaborative ways and yet maintain a steely resolve on issues that mattered.
The statue on my desk shows Lincoln standing, the 13th Amendment grasped firmly in his hand. His head is bowed, and he is clearly bearing the weight of a nation torn apart, of a people he cares for deeply, as he makes decisions of tremendous import. The artist, Gib Singleton, says he modeled Lincoln’s countenance on that of Christ on the cross, in that both men suffered greatly for many. I see the weight of responsibility reflected in the faces of both men depicted in this statue. I feel it, as well. When a child is sick, a student or teacher is struggling, when we’ve lost a school family member, or we’re making a big decision that not many will love, but that is necessary for the future well-being of the school, I know something of that weight.
And, while I wouldn’t compare myself to either this great man or my Lord, and while I freely acknowledge my weight is nothing compared to theirs, this statue comforts and inspires me each morning as I pray for wisdom, courage, and love as I lead our school. It reminds me that I’m not alone and that others far greater than I have walked this lonely, weighty path of leadership and loving, and done it well.
The second trophy is actually a “real” trophy, a plastic cup given to me by a four-year-old student of mine who God placed in my life and across the street, together with his mom, dad, and three siblings. They have become family to us, and the kids have become our “practice grandchildren.” The cup reads, “You’re the best!” with “Mr. Jay” scrawled in four-year-old script along its base. It is not meaningful because I am “the best.” Unlike The Office’s Michael Scott’s self-purchased “World’s Best Boss” coffee cup, it’s not an ego boost. I’ve lived long enough for hard-won humility to show me I’m not “the best” at anything.
What I love about this cup is that every time I look at it, I see this kid’s face–all of life ahead of him, just starting to develop a fledgling relationship with the Lover of his soul, just beginning to unwrap the gift of all he is and all God has made him to be, newly-developing mind, heart, body, and spirit. This kid and his trophy represent every child in our school and our responsibility, God-given, to help them in that journey. God has entrusted each of your kids to us to love them, encourage them, teach them, equip them, and prepare them for life and eternity, and that little trophy with “Mr. Jay” at its base inspires me to pray every day that we will all take that sacred trust seriously and fulfill it well. For God’s glory and their good.
The third trophy is a jar containing about 150 coins. Two years ago, at our Leadership Team Christmas party, we had a gift exchange where we drew names. But rather than a funny, white elephant-type gift, I asked my team to give an inexpensive yet meaningful gift to the person whose name they had drawn, describing a quality or characteristic they admired about that team member. My admissions director, who has been on my team for a long time and has known me for nearly 30 years, gave me this jar full of coins. And she talked about how this jar represented that she had seen God transform me as a leader and man, that she had seen “a lot of change” in my life over the years. Get it? I did, and it was incredibly meaningful to me.
The purpose of this life with Jesus that we enjoy is to fall in love with Him, to allow that love to transform us, by the power of the Holy Spirit, into all He has created us to be, and to fulfill His purpose and plan for our lives as His disciples. Every morning, I sit in silence and stillness before Him; I read and meditate on His Word, praying through it. I offer prayers for all the people God has given me, including you. I confess my sin and my weakness (there’s a lot). And I enjoy being in His presence. Through all of this — and, frankly, maybe at times more slowly than I would like —He is making me into a different person—kinder, more patient, less angry, more forbearing, more grateful. The jar of change reminds me that I’m one giant work in progress and not to give up but to keep pressing in, even on the many mornings I’m anxious, or distracted, or discouraged, or just tired. God is always faithfully at work, always changing us.
The last trophy might be the most important to me. It’s a framed leaf, given to me by a friend’s widow. The leaf comes from a tree standing over my friend’s grave. He was a board member and a pastor. I loved him; I still do. He made me think and laugh. We debated theological ideas in a way few have done with me since. He sharpened me as a follower of Jesus, and I’m a better lover of Christ because of him. I think I miss that about him most of all.
And, when he took his life, his widow bestowed upon me one of the greatest kindnesses anyone has ever shown before or since by letting me preach at his graveside and memorial service. It was the end of the school year, and I was exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. The Lord met me there in a way I’ll never forget and gave me strength and words that I think encouraged the family, his church, and our school community.
That moment, and the pressed leaf that commemorates it, reminds me that the head of school role is a pastoral gig. Yeah, it involves casting vision, holding people accountable to the mission, working with the board, managing a budget, leading people, and raising money. But, first and foremost, it’s shepherding people in their walk with Jesus. Standing, sitting, laughing, crying, and praying with people through the most beautiful and tragic moments of their lives—marrying, burying, graduating, having babies and teaching them—all of it—is how we connect learning with living and why Grace is so much more than a school. It’s an awesome responsibility and one of the greatest joys of my life.
These trophies on the end of my desk are just metal, plastic, glass, and a dried leaf, but to me they speak of leader, educator, disciple, and pastor: a life that is all for Jesus and all for His people. In the midst of my weakness, selfishness, and brokenness, these things represent everything I hope I am and will one day be.
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