The Rain Barrel

I remember riding in an old Ford pickup with my dad down a dirt road that carved through a field of knee-high ryegrass. It was one of those southern mornings where the dew clung to everything, the sky was just beginning to warm with color, and the world felt both simple and infinite. As the tires crunched over gravel, Dad said, “You never spend every dollar you earn, son. You save for the drought before the clouds disappear.”

At the time, I thought he was talking about farming. But years later, as I sat in boardrooms discussing budgets and tuition models, I realized those early lessons on the backroads were about much more than weather.

In the world of independent schools, financial reserves are that saved-up rainwater—the silent strength that sustains an institution through dry seasons and surprise storms. These reserves, built intentionally over time through careful stewardship—operating surpluses, wise budgeting, and the generosity of donors—aren’t just about dollars and cents. They are about resilience, opportunity, and trust.

When enrollment dips unexpectedly or a facility demands an urgent repair, reserves are the cushion that prevents a school from spiraling into panic or short-sighted cuts. When a once-in-a-generation opportunity arises—a new program, a strategic land acquisition, or a critical hire—reserves give leadership the freedom to say yes without sacrificing the future.

But here’s the hard truth: when those reserves start to dry up, it’s like that field I once watched turn brown in the August sun. It’s a warning sign. It means the school might be spending more than it brings in. It could mean something deeper is out of alignment—mission drift, enrollment trends, unsustainable growth. That’s why consistent growth of reserves must be more than a financial checkbox; it’s a reflection of the school’s long-term health.

Just like farmers walk their fields to understand the soil, school boards and leadership must regularly review, question, and guide the use of reserves. Sound governance requires not only clear policies about how reserves are built and spent but also vigilance in ensuring they remain a reliable foundation. Without that, even the most promising schools can find themselves vulnerable.

And yet, how we talk about reserves matters too. To the broader school community, the idea of sitting on funds can be misinterpreted—why save when there are immediate needs? Why not spend it all on today’s students? But with careful framing, we can help families and faculty understand: reserves are not excess—they are preparation. Not hoarding, but hope. A sign that the school they trust with their children’s future is being stewarded with care, caution, and courage.

Out there on those backroads, I learned that strength isn’t always loud. It’s in the quiet patience of planning. In the discipline of saying no today for a better tomorrow. And in always, always preparing for the unexpected—even when the skies are blue.

Independent schools that honor that wisdom—building, protecting, and communicating the purpose of reserves—are not just surviving. They’re growing deep roots. And they’re making sure that when storms come, the learning doesn’t stop, the mission doesn’t falter, and the community stays strong.