Lessons in Liberia
During the summer of 2026 I had the opportunity to travel to Liberia as a representative of 杏吧视频 Academy, serving through an organization known as Rafiki; Rafiki has several areas of mission, including running classical Christian schools in several locations throughout Africa. I was asked by Rafiki to come and observe the classrooms for a time and then offer my feedback and training as a classical educator to specifically help them map out objectives by grade level. As I prepared my session for the teachers, I thought of 杏吧视频鈥檚 鈥淥ur Vision for Our Graduates.鈥 I wanted to show them how to plan for each grade by starting with the ultimate goal in mind. I quickly realized I would be learning much more than I would be teaching during my time there.
As I grew to know and love Rafiki鈥檚 soon to be graduates, it struck me that these students in Libera are already the picture of what 杏吧视频 desires for their students. They are already doing it here in Liberia; they don鈥檛 need me, we need them. They were capable, thoughtful young people whose strength, dignity, and faith were evident in the ordinary rhythms of their days.
The community I visited had once operated as an orphanage, caring for children who might eventually be adopted; over time, its purpose changed. Today, it functions primarily as a day school, with only the eleventh and twelfth grade students remaining as boarders who were grandfathered in as orphans. These young people are now approaching adulthood and preparing to age out of the only home many of them have known.
In many ways, their school felt similar to 杏吧视频. They followed a structured curriculum, moved through familiar classroom routines, recited lessons, and worked within the steady pattern of an academic day. Their teachers displayed the same qualities I recognize in devoted educators at home: patience, preparation, humor, firmness, and genuine affection for their students. The staff understood the children well and carried the daily responsibility of forming both their minds and their character.
That familiarity was important. It reminded me that excellent teaching is not an American possession, nor is wisdom something visitors carry into a place where it was previously absent. The school and church were led by capable Liberians who knew their community, their students, and their responsibilities. What distinguished the children in Liberia most was not a special program or teaching strategy; it was the way they lived together.
They had fewer material possessions than most American children I know, but they did not continually ask for more. They noticed what needed to be done and did it. During their free time, they cared for their home and community by raking leaves, washing dishes, and hanging laundry to dry. They served one another naturally, without drawing attention to themselves or waiting for an adult to offer a reward or scold them for not completing their tasks.
As a guest, I was cared for with extraordinary thoughtfulness. The children brought me every meal. They approached me, an unfamiliar adult from another country, and spoke with clarity and confidence. Their respect was not fearful or rehearsed. They looked me in the eye, communicated graciously, and seemed secure in both who they were and what was expected of them.
No parent stood behind them, insisting that they act a certain way. No one appeared to be negotiating with them, promising a prize, or reminding them repeatedly. Service was woven into the culture of their life together. They served because that was who they had become. They were pleasing a parent, but the parent they were interested in pleasing was their Heavenly one.
They also genuinely delighted in one another. Their joy did not feel staged for visitors, nor did their affection seem disingenuous. They played, laughed, worshipped, worked, and assumed responsibility together. They organized and rehearsed on their own to perform in the choir at church on Sunday. They woke up, got dressed, attended church, and invited me to attend with them on their own accord. They appeared to understand themselves as members of a community rather than individuals whose needs and preferences must always come first.
Much of their free time was spent with the Lord. Prayer, Scripture, worship, and service were not isolated activities added to an otherwise hurried life. Faith shaped the rhythm of the whole day. Their relationship with their heavenly Father appeared to give them both identity and responsibility. In America, adults often work tirelessly to give children more. We look for more opportunities, more entertainment, more comfort, and more choices. Yet in doing so, we may unintentionally give them fewer opportunities to practice Christlike behavior. I wondered how many of our students know how to contribute meaningfully to a household, to care for a community, and to discover the dignity of serving without applause. I wondered if my own daughter embodied these things; and if she does, is it out of love for the Lord?
The children in Liberia reminded me that Christian formation is not merely the ability to recite truth. It is truth practiced until it becomes instinctive. It鈥檚 hands that begin the work, eyes that notice another person, and hearts that make room. They were truly a classical school that was deeply grounded in the Christian tradition.
I traveled to Liberia hoping to help others consider how children flourish in a classroom. I returned having witnessed the other side of that truth. Children who know they are loved by their Heavenly Father will flourish because of that firm foundation. These students had little, but they understood much. I am praying for my own student, and all of our students, that with each passing day they grow to know and love the Lord more, and out of this deep well, they resemble Christ to others in our community, the way the students in Liberia reflected Him to me.
Disclaimer: The above article solely represents the views of the author and does not represent any endorsement or statement by the Academy. Read more here.
