The last week of April was one of the busiest and most chaotic weeks of my life.

My son, Jason Loue ’20, Army Infantry, is deploying to the Middle East.  

My wife and I were closing on the sale of our home in Ardmore on May 1. The LM Art Show was scheduled for April 30. There was also a volleyball match that same night, and my good friend Marie, our head coach, told me she couldn’t make it and asked if I could cover the match for her.

Oh, and on April 30, I officially submitted my retirement notice to the district.

And when I retire, my wife and I are moving to Scotland.

Yes, you read that correctly.

We fell in love with a small town in East Lothian called North Berwick (pronounced Bare-ick), and we decided we want the next chapter of our lives to begin there.

That decision came with one enormous complication: we were packing not only to move but also to leave the country. We had no local place to store our belongings, which meant we had to get rid of almost everything we owned. Furniture, household items, decades of accumulated “stuff”—gone. We kept the important things: photos, mementos, artwork, and clothes. Everything else had to go.

It was a nightmare.

So on April 30, with chaos swirling around me, I headed to the gym to prepare for the volleyball match.

Anyone who knows me understands how much the volleyball program means to me. I’ve been involved with it in one way or another for most of my 31 years at LM. I started the boys’ volleyball program—it has always felt like one of my children.

As I was making sure everything was ready for the match, I got a text from my wife.

My immediate thought was: “Oh no—what went wrong at home now?”

Instead, the text simply said:

“Look in the stands.”

And strangely enough, I hadn’t looked up at the stands once.

So I did.

The first person I saw was my incredible wife, Stacey, smiling at me. Sitting beside her were my parents. Then I kept looking and began recognizing faces I hadn’t seen in years.

Former players.

Dozens of them.

Players from both the boys’ and girls’ programs, stretching all the way back to 1996.

The emotion hit me like a wave. I have never been more surprised or more overwhelmed in my life.

To be honest, I didn’t want any retirement parties or celebrations. I just wanted to quietly move on.

I was wrong.

The hugs, tears, stories, and memories made that evening one of the most meaningful moments of my career. I still can’t believe Evan Krick took the time to organize it all with Marie and my wife. Former players flew in from California and Charleston just to be there.

I don’t know how to properly express the gratitude, fulfillment, and love I felt that night.

After the match, we gathered in the cafeteria for pizza, stories, and one final team talk.

Apparently, I have a habit of taking off my glasses and cleaning them before every team talk, a detail multiple generations of players were quick to point out.

When it was my turn to speak, I struggled to get the words out through tears, but I managed to say this:

“We don’t tell the people close to us that we love them enough. And I love all of you so very much. This—you—are my legacy. This is why I became a teacher. Thank you.”

And then I couldn’t speak anymore.

To the graduates: your grades do not define you as a learner, nor do they predict your future success. Be curious. Challenge convention. Take risks. Fail. Learn. You are entering adulthood during one of the strangest and most uncertain periods. But kindness, decency, and helping others will never go out of style. Whatever path you choose, do it with the intention to help, heal, and support others. Don’t chase grades—discover what you’re good at and continue getting better.

To my colleagues: ignore the noise. Ignore the endless initiatives and performative distractions. Give paperwork exactly the amount of energy it deserves, and save your best energy for students and one another. Teach from your passions. Be creative. Be unconventional. Take risks. Let students fail—because failure is often where the deepest learning happens. You are the reason schools succeed. Never forget that.

And finally, I miss my friend Sean Hughes every day.

I know he would have been sitting in those stands with everyone else.

For those who knew Sean, never forget how deeply he cared about this school, this community, and especially our students.

For those who didn’t know him, he often said something I’ll never forget:

“Everyone has strengths. Find them, encourage them, and support them.”

I love you, Sean.

To my art family: thank you for putting up with this occasionally aloof colleague. I will miss you deeply.

And of course,

I love you.

Cheers,
Russ