There are moments in life when we are convinced God is leading us one way, only to find that He gently but firmly redirects our path. I’m reminded of Jonah, who resisted God’s call to Nineveh because it did not align with his own desires. In His mercy, God allowed Jonah to be swallowed by a great fish (the Bible never said it was a whale)—not to destroy him, but to turn him back toward the calling he was meant to fulfill.
The Living Water School has always welcomed athletes, particularly basketball players. From the very beginning, however, I resisted creating a sports program. I feared how all-consuming competitive sports can be for a school community. Instead, we chose to support our students playing for other teams while keeping our focus on academics. This allowed us to create a peaceful, nurturing environment where students could grow without the pressures of a traditional school culture dominated by athletics.
For years, I often wondered why Sudbury schools only offered intramurals or why St. John’s College in Annapolis—one of the most unique liberal arts schools—did the same. Now I understand. There is a rare peacefulness in a learning community unburdened by the intensity and tribal nature that competitive sports can bring.
When I founded The Living Water School, the vision was clear: to provide a Christ-centered, welcoming, and nurturing space for all students to learn and grow into the person God had called them to be. An educational consultant once told me never to compromise that vision—not even to recruit more families—because the moment I did, the school would fail. For nearly ten years, we held to that wisdom. But when we launched our basketball program two years ago, it was in response to the very real needs of our student-athletes, many of whom had been mistreated while playing elsewhere. After one particularly painful incident, I said, “That’s it—we need our own team so we can protect our students.”
What I didn’t realize was that stepping into the highly competitive basketball culture of the DMV would test our school in ways we were not prepared to handle. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. We had an amazing and dedicated athletic director and assistant AD, wonderful coaches, and supportive parents. The young men on the team were some of the sweetest, most respectful and brilliant young men I have ever worked with. But competitive basketball is its own world—financially, socially, and culturally. For a small school like ours, it was simply too heavy a burden.
From the outside, last school year looked like a great success. We had a winning season—almost champions!—moved into a new building, celebrated with a beautiful graduation banquet, and the partied the night away at a magical Gatsby Ball. But as the founder, I could see what others could not. The financial strain was immense, and it became clear that if we continued on the same path, the very existence of the school would be at risk. Students who weren’t part of the team began to feel invisible, drifting away from community events. The time and energy required to build a program like this can easily consume a school. A basketball program of that scale really needs its own dedicated staff, a team of people focused solely on running it. Instead, it fell on our teachers and staff to carry the extra weight on top of their regular duties. We simply didn’t have the resources to pay them for the additional hours or to hire extra support.
As a leader, one of my deepest commitments is to ensure that none of my staff feels overworked. I value them far too much to allow that burden to continue. Yet I could see the toll it was taking. The family-like closeness that had always defined our school was beginning to fade, divided between those involved in basketball and those who were not. Beneath the joyful photos and outward signs of success, I could see cracks forming in the foundation of what God had called us to build. We genuinely tried to find a way to keep the program going, but in the end, we had to step back and look at the bigger picture. After much prayer, careful deliberation, and genuine effort to find a way forward, in the end it became clear that if we continued, this program could eventually lead us down the same destructive path that has closed the doors of other private schools (I used to work at the now closed Montrose Christian School, where Kevin Durant attended). Before allowing that to happen, my husband and I knew it was time to pause the basketball program and seek God’s direction anew.
For now, we are focusing on sports that build community and welcome everyone—bowling, track, soccer, and flag football. These teams mix grades and genders, and no one has to try out to participate. Over the years, our greatest strength has been walking alongside student-athletes academically: keeping records, supporting college applications, and cheering them on wherever they play. Many of our students enjoy the flexibility of our online program, which gives them the freedom to compete with other schools while still thriving academically with us. Though we hope one day to offer a basketball program that is both nurturing and competitive, we cannot allow it to draw us away from the mission God has given us.
On a more personal note, I carry wonderful memories of growing up watching my brother shine as a star basketball player. I loved it so much that I volunteered as the team’s manager—running for water, towels, or whatever else the players needed. Our parents never missed a game, so it became a family affair to support my brother, and I absolutely loved it.
To grow up and then see my brother coach my school’s team—a school birthed out of the one our parents founded—was an indescribable joy. And to watch his son, my nephew, rise as one of our star players filled me with a sense of pride I can hardly put into words. Seeing my parents’ faces beam with joy as they watched their grandson play, surrounded by their other grandchildren in the stands, was a moment of legacy and love that I will cherish forever. To top it off, grabbing food from the concession stand run by my sister-in-law—my brother’s high school sweetheart from the Christian school we all once attended—felt like a beautiful continuation of our family’s tradition of building community through Christian education.
I will miss running onto the court to hug my nephew and my brother after a win. I will miss shouting, “Let’s go, nephew!” every time he made a shot. I loved joining in the cheer my sister-in-law and the other moms created: “It’s the STORM! It’s comin’! It’s comin’!” Those moments meant the world to me.
But Luke 14:33 reminds us: “In the same way, those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples.” As hard as this is, I know this is the path God has called us to take right now, and knowing that is enough. Many of our students will go on to play for other teams, and I will be right there supporting them and cheering them on. Auntie Nika will still be yelling, “Let’s go, nephew!”
Once I made the decision to obey what God was telling me, He opened my eyes to see other ways we had drifted from our original mission of being a democratic school—where every voice matters. One of the clearest signs was how we began the basketball program. At the time, I didn’t pray over it, nor did we hold a community vote—not even for something as meaningful as the team’s name. Instead, a few staff members and I simply chose “The Storm.” I imagined a team that would be strong and powerful, like a storm. And in those moments, as the team grew beyond anything I had hoped or dreamed, it felt exciting. But looking back, I realize that in the process, I lost sight of both our mission and our community.
Later, as I reflected, I asked my husband, “Why are we called the Storm when Jesus calms the storm?” That simple question reminded me of who we truly are: a school where all students, families, and teachers share in shaping our community together.
So, this time as we paused the basketball program and began to rebuild, we returned to our mission and invited the whole community to nominate new team names, and then as an entire community of parents, teachers and students, we voted. The name that won was one a student who is not even one of our athletes nominated, The Wave Warriors. Even this little vote, drew in ALL other students to help us build something together. I found great comfort in this name, because it reflects resilience: a warrior does not surrender to the waves but overcomes them. After 11 years, I can testify that through the mighty power of God, we have overcome every single wave—and I believe we will overcome this one, too. He is able to bring us back to this in His timing or reveal an even greater purpose for us.
I also chose a theme verse to go with the new name, because it spoke so deeply to me:
Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea—the Lord on high is mighty. —Psalm 93:4
Just as Jonah’s time in the belly of the fish was unsettling, pausing our basketball program has been deeply disappointing for our community. My heart aches because personally I enjoyed our time seeking to build this program. I loved going to the games every Friday and connecting with these amazing young men and their families. I also feel that I have let some people down who were looking forward to us growing the program in the years to come. As I step into a new year without this program, I am praying for grace and understanding as we walk this new path. Yet I must trust and believe that, like Jonah’s trial, this redirection is only temporary—a necessary step toward fulfilling God’s original plan. This season will soon pass, and I believe God will guide us into a future where a competitive basketball program can thrive in full alignment with His purpose for our school—and be financially sustainable as well. Until then, I pray our community will extend grace and stand with us as we work for our little school to endure. With God’s help, may we remain faithful to our mission: a school that is welcoming and nurturing for every student, and a true democratic community where every voice is heard and valued.
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