The School, the Stage, and the Story In Between

In 2010, I followed a vision that had been stirring in my heart for years—I started a K–12 school. It wasn’t just a job or a dream project; it was a calling. I poured everything into it: my time, my creativity, my faith, and my heart. The school became a place of learning, growth, laughter, and music. I can still remember the joy on the little ones’ faces during our preschool plays, the way their voices lifted in song, and the pride in their parents’ eyes.

But the story didn’t stay on the mountaintop. Life got complicated. My marriage was struggling. I made decisions that hurt people I loved and compromised the integrity of what I had built. Before the consequences unraveled completely, I made the painful decision to resign. Not because I didn’t love the school—I did with all my heart—but because I wanted to protect it. I couldn’t let my personal failures cast a shadow over what had been built. Walking away broke something in me. I lost not just a position, but a piece of my identity.

Years passed. Healing has been slow and layered. God has been faithful, even in the mess. Grace found me—not the polished, churchy kind, but the gritty, tender kind that meets you in the ashes and quietly says, “Let’s begin again.”

Today, out of the blue, a teacher who once worked with me at that school called. She asked if I would make a piano recording for the preschool plays. My heart jumped. She could’ve asked anyone, but she asked me. I knew she couldn’t ask me to come play live—maybe out of respect for the past or a desire to protect the present—but still, she asked. Without hesitation, I said yes. I even offered to record all three plays if she brings the music.

It was such a simple request, but it carried so much weight. It felt like a full-circle moment. I won’t be standing on the stage. I won’t be directing the show. But I’ll be there—in the music, in the memories, in the gentle return to a place I once had to leave.

It made me think of Little Bo Peep—the nursery rhyme we all know. She lost her sheep and didn’t know where to find them. But the story says they’ll come home, wagging their tails behind them. I used to think that line was just about sheep or silliness. But maybe it’s also about grace. Maybe the things we lose—whether they’re roles, relationships, or parts of ourselves—aren’t always gone for good. Maybe, in time, some of them circle back to us. Not in the same form, but in a redemptive one.

This is what redemption looks like sometimes. Not flashy. Not headline-worthy. Just one quiet note after another, a thread of grace weaving through the story.

And I’m learning that God doesn’t waste anything—not even our worst chapters.

Welcome to The Open Chair. This is my story. What’s yours?