November 2025

One afternoon in mid-October, I stood along the edge of St. Lucy Field and watched our PTA Fall Festival take shape. The turf was crowded with games and hay bales. The trees along Forbes dropped leaves that gathered in small drifts near the fence line. Children ran between stations with painted faces and sticky fingers. Parents formed loose circles near the entrance, reconnecting with old friends and learning new names.

Teachers moved through it all with an easy rhythm. One leaned toward me and described, with the seriousness reserved for major diplomatic crises, the inner drama unfolding inside the bounce house. A Kindergartner had launched into an earnest negotiation over turn-taking, complete with hand gestures, counteroffers, and a moment of silent reflection. The entire debate lasted no more than thirty seconds, yet somehow revealed the full range of childhood politics. Even in a bounce house, children work their way toward fairness.

A few days later, on a bright Thursday morning, sunlight filtered through the stained glass as our youngest students entered the Chapel two by two. Their small hands linked with an instinctive tenderness. Their burgundy blazers brushed the wooden pews as they lifted their voices in song, filling the room with that fragile mix of courage and joy only young children can summon. When Niken Astari Carpenter rose to answer our guiding question, “How do our differences make our community stronger?”, the children leaned forward, drawn by her warmth. She began with KPop Demon Hunters, a movie nearly everyone recognized, and reminded them that what makes them different is their superpower. Soon she led the school in a spirited sing-along of “Golden.” Laughter rose from every corner as students recognized the opening notes and joined in. The moment that lingered came at the close, when the entire Chapel joined in the Alma Mater. At the line “So loudly the chorus raise, sound off with a cheer,” their collective “HooRay!” lifted into the rafters. Pride and belonging filled the room. Strength in difference found its sound.

Inside our classrooms, this spirit grows in quieter ways. Teachers tell me about moments that never appear on a calendar. A Preschool child waiting at the top of the slide because “he was first.” A 1st Grader leaning toward a classmate and saying, “You can do this. I’ll help.” An 8th Grader pausing in seminar to say, “I still disagree, but I want to understand how you see it.” These moments are small in scale yet large in impact. They reveal the slow, steady shaping of character.

The work teachers do is measured not only in the moment, but in the long arc of the children who return. This fall, an alumna stopped by campus and lingered in the doorway of my office the way former students often do, half stepping in, half taking in the memories held by the hallway behind her. She told me that when she thinks of St. Edmund’s Academy, she remembers the feeling of being held to high standards before she had the words to name why it mattered. Two years of Latin that asked for precision. Math that demanded she show her work and defend her reasoning. Literature that widened her sense of the world, including the moment she first read All Quiet on the Western Front. She laughed softly when she asked if we still read it. I told her our 8th Graders would take it up in a couple of months. Her smile carried the quiet recognition of someone tracing her confidence back to its source. “SEA was the first place I felt like I was becoming myself,” she said. Time had done what time often does. It revealed the meaning of experiences she once took for granted and reminded me that the reach of a teacher’s influence is measured in years, not days.

Our Core Values name this work as the worthiness of service to others and the importance of taking responsibility for one’s conduct. Children learn those values in countless daily decisions. Their teachers model them with a steady hand. They hold high standards while they kneel beside a desk. They correct and comfort at the same time. They know each child well enough to see who they are and who they are becoming.

Another layer of service supports all of this from behind the scenes. Trustees have spent this year studying financial models, aligning policy with mission, and asking careful questions about the future. Their work is patient and steady. It allows us to say with confidence that the school we hand forward will remain worthy of the children who are just now learning to write their names, and worthy of the teachers who guide them with such devotion.

When 97 percent of families joined our Day of Giving, I did not see a statistic. I saw a community stepping forward with conviction. Parents, alumni, grandparents, and friends chose to serve the school their children love by investing in its future. Their generosity was an expression of trust. Their trust is something we carry with care.

As I think about Thanksgiving, I return to these images. A field full of families under an autumn sky. A Chapel alive with song and courage. A classroom where a single act of care reshapes a hard moment. A board table where volunteers carry the long view so teachers can carry the day-to-day. And in the corner of a bounce house, a Kindergartner practicing fairness with the solemnity of a future civic leader. Gratitude grows in those ordinary places. It lives in how we notice one another, how we serve one another, and how we hold this school in trust for the years ahead.

Thank you for the many ways you give yourself to St. Edmund’s Academy. I am deeply grateful for your partnership and for the children who bring our Core Values to life with such hopeful energy every day.

With appreciation,
Chad