When I graduated from college, my plan was simple: teach in public schools and make a difference there. I took time off to earn my first master’s degree and then returned to the classroom. I genuinely love teaching. I love it in both public and private settings. I love children and youth. I love helping young people discover who God created them to be and inspiring them to walk in that purpose.
So when my parents started a Christian school within our church and invited me to join them, I did not hesitate to decline.
Public education was my calling — or so I thought.
But after watching the impact they were making in the lives of young people, and seeing the freedom they had to integrate faith openly into learning, my heart began to shift. Eventually, I left public education and stepped fully into Christian education. Within a year, I was hooked.
Over the ten years I worked in the church-based school my father founded (and my brother now pastors the church), I witnessed extraordinary beauty. Lives were changed. Students from difficult homes and communities encountered stability, love, and truth. The church shaped me, awakened my call to education, and trained me to open, lead, and design curriculum for a K–12 school. Much of what I understand about Christian education was forged there.
But I also learned something harder.
When a church and a school are financially yoked together, the relationship can become complicated and heavy.
Passion for changing lives through education can sometimes blind leaders to the strain a school places on the church. What begins as a step of faith can quietly become a financial burden. And when resources are limited, tension grows. The school depends on the church. The church strains to carry the school. Eventually, the larger ministry of the church can begin to suffer.
I learned that while churches and schools can and should partner, being financially bound together may not be the wisest structure. A healthier model is one of mutual support: prayer, volunteers, shared space, encouragement, donations — but not financial dependency that threatens the survival of either.
Eventually, church leadership separated the church and school structurally, though they continued offering resources and housing. Even so, the school struggled. Christian schools are difficult to sustain. Many people question their necessity when public schools are free. Financial support requires people to value the “Christian” distinctiveness enough to invest in it.
After ten years, my father made the painful decision to close the school. Without full financial backing and with limited resources for a Classical school serving diverse communities, there was no sustainable path forward.
Closing the school relieved pressure on the church — but it left scars.
I did not yet understand how deeply those scars would shape my own journey.
In the years that followed, I served in other Christian schools, and each one became a teacher to me.
One school was not financially tied to a single church. Instead, churches, businesses, organizations, and individuals supported it voluntarily. No one congregation carried the weight. The school created opportunities for ministry, and churches responded with prayer, volunteers, and financial gifts as they were able. The partnership was mutual, not dependent. It was the first time I witnessed a Christian school operate without becoming a burden to a local church — and I could feel the difference. The relationships were healthier because they were chosen, not required. Support flowed from shared vision, not financial obligation.
Another school I served more closely resembled my parents’ model — deeply intertwined with a church and financially dependent on it. That school had existed since 1977. It had seen seasons of strength, growth, and community impact. But in its later years, the financial strain grew heavy. Eventually, the pastor made the difficult decision to close the school in order to preserve the church. Years later, the building itself was torn down. What had once stood as a vibrant educational ministry disappeared from the physical landscape.
And yet what was done there was not erased.
These stories can sound discouraging, but I want to pause and offer encouragement to any church that has had to close a Christian school. What remains in heaven cannot be demolished on earth. Eternal impact is not measured by square footage or longevity. It is measured in transformed lives.
At the same time, I believe God invites us not only to celebrate the fruit of those schools, but to learn from their journeys. I have reflected deeply on what happens in those final years. Leaders pray for the right enrollment surge, the right donor, the right breakthrough. Sometimes it comes. Often it does not. And year after year, the church stretches itself thinner trying to rescue what began as an act of obedience.
I have come to believe that churches who close their schools before total collapse are not failures — they are discerning. Closing a Christian school is not a spiritual defeat. It can be an act of stewardship.
Because of what we have witnessed, my husband and I have made a promise to one another and to our family: the moment we see that the school is no longer sustainable, we will not fight to keep it open. We will close it.
That promise has shaped the way we lead. The school carries very little debt because we have committed to paying only for what we can afford in cash. We trust God’s provision, but we also choose to operate within the boundaries of affordability. We do not assume tomorrow’s miracle will cover today’s deficit.
Our desire is simple: if and when God makes it clear that a season has ended, we want to close with peace — owing no one anything and carrying no unnecessary burden into whatever He calls us to next.
At the end of every school year, I pray the same prayer: “Lord, if You are calling us to open another year, provide exactly what we need. And if You are calling us to close, make Your voice unmistakably clear.”
For eleven years, He has said, “Open.” And as long as He continues to provide, we will continue to say yes.
My past experiences have taught me that when the jar of oil is empty, it is time to stop. God has accomplished what He intended for that season. Continuing to struggle for something He is no longer providing for can cause immeasurable strain — financially, emotionally, and spiritually — on everyone involved. There is wisdom in recognizing when a season has ended, and courage in releasing it with peace.
Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” The desire to start a Christian school flows from that heart. However long a school remains open, eternal work has been done. Children were discipled. Families were strengthened. Seeds were planted that will bear fruit long after the doors close.
Christian schools are not merely businesses. They are ministries with eternal purpose. Many begin with faith and calling more than with capital and airtight business plans. And God honors faith.
But faith and wisdom are not enemies.
When my husband and I began The Living Water School, we carried both reverence and resolve. We honored the schools that came before us and the sacrifices they made. But we also made a conscious decision: we would not run our school on faith alone. We would run it with a sustainable financial model, clear governance, and strong business practices. Calling would lead us — but stewardship would sustain us.
The stories of those earlier schools were not cautionary tales of failure. They were classrooms of wisdom. And we have tried to build differently because of what they taught us.
When we started The Living Water School, we were affiliated with a church organization for spiritual covering, but we were not financially yoked to any church. In fact, we rented space from my home church, which graciously offered us reasonable, all-inclusive rent. My dad ran before care every morning for five years, opening the doors at 7 a.m. to greet students.
The first six years of the school were successful in part because of that support — but it was structured support. We paid rent. We were not a financial responsibility. The relationship was mutual.
The books and resources from the first school were donated to us, and I sold what was left and returned the proceeds to the church. Our students earned volunteer hours by preparing the church building each Friday for weekend services. By paying rent instead of receiving funds, we were able to be a help rather than a burden. Yet, there was tension, though. For a time, there was quiet distance between the church and the Living Water School. I mention this for people to understand how important it is for churches to really think through starting a church supported school, because it has the potential to really hurt a church and its members.
It took me years to understand that our presence was stirring old wounds. Through Christian counseling, I began to see more clearly the depth of the hurt left behind by the first school’s journey and even the role I played in that hurt. I had to recognize that my passion for that first school — which for me holds so many meaningful memories — could feel very different to those who carried the weight of its existence and its closure. What felt like vision and hope to me could feel like reopening a scar to someone else.
In the beginning, I actually wanted to rent space away from my former church. I thought distance might make things easier. But I firmly believe God used that season for something deeper. Somehow, through time, consistency, and humility, He began healing what had been fractured and restoring trust.
And slowly, trust did begin to rebuild. Members started enrolling their children. Church leaders prayed for the school during church services. Individuals began giving financially. We paid rent faithfully and honored the space entrusted to us. Over time, people came to see that this school was not there to drain the church, but to bless it — not to compete with its mission, but to pour back into the very community that had once sacrificed so much for Christian education.
Those first years were our cocoon.
When COVID came, it became clear it was time to take flight. We moved to Virginia. Our ministry evolved into what God designed it to be: a school that partners with home and family to provide a Christian, classical education rooted in a love for diversity and reaches students all over the USA.
In 2024, my husband outlined a church tour, where we visited other churches, hoping to find a few that might support the school in ways that were healthy and sustainable — support that would never feel like a burden to anyone. What we discovered instead was far greater than we imagined: a church community filled with individuals genuinely eager to join the work.
We found not only encouragement, but resources, relationships, and renewed strength for growing this ministry. What began as a search for support became a sense of belonging. We ultimately joined the church, and that decision has continued to bless both our family and The Living Water School in immeasurable ways.
Pastors agreed to serve on our board.
Members committed to pray for the school weekly.
Families showed up to fundraising events.
Individuals began giving generously.
Other members stepped forward to form advisory boards to support various aspects of the school’s growth and development.
There was an atmosphere of excitement and openness that felt both refreshing and healing.
Within the church, there is also a classical homeschool community that desires to see more diversity represented in classical education — a vision that aligns beautifully with our own. What we found was not just financial support, but shared conviction.
There is no financial yoke — only shared vision.
This relationship represents the relationships we are now cultivating, marked by openness, prayer, and mutual blessing. Churches, businesses, organizations, and individuals support the school voluntarily and sustainably. No one’s existence is threatened. Everyone participates from calling, not obligation.
As I reflect on nearly eleven years of this journey, I see two distinct seasons.
The first half was the cocoon — painful, formative, and necessary. It was formative because watching my parents take that step of faith planted something deep within me. Their obedience gave birth to the faith that would one day lead me to start The Living Water School. As I embraced that same faith, I also inherited the lessons that came with it — some beautiful, some hard, all shaping me.
The second half has been flight — clearer in vision, stronger in structure, and steadied by wisdom. The lessons from the cocoon became the wind beneath my wings. The Living Water School would not be here without the miracle-working hand of God, and without the wisdom He gave my husband and me to faithfully steward what He entrusted to us.
The Living Water School now stands independent yet deeply connected. We welcome churches, organizations, businesses, and individuals to partner with us — not in financial bondage, but in shared mission.
And that distinction has made all the difference.
Dr. Anika T. Prather 