Ninth grade was a frightening prospect. Classical High, which boasted courses in Latin and Greek as well as daily quizzes in every subject, had a reputation as the most sterling—and demanding—education in the city. To make matters worse, my brother had been Classical's valedictorian a year earlier. High school would have seemed daunting regardless, but his achievement was also a tough act to follow.

I envisioned four years of never cracking a smile (only books!) and as autumn approached, my apprehension grew. In preparation, I spent that summer studying—not Algebra or history, but my brother's yearbook. I scanned its pages for evidence that high school life might not be entirely joyless. (Were those students really smiling, or did they just "mug" for the photographer?) As I perused the pages of graduates, something caught my eye—and my fancy. Under each picture was a line memorializing that senior: "Remembered for . . . "

In four years, I wondered, how would I be remembered? And how did I hope to be remembered? To my freshman mind, achievement was measured by the frequency of yearbook appearances, so it seemed obvious that scholars, athletes, and prom queens were the successes. Knowing I couldn't control social standing and certainly couldn't count on sports fame, I reasoned I could plug away for grades.

By graduation, I'd accumulated awards and titles, and my name was indeed recognized by both student body and faculty. Success? That depends on how you look at it. My friend Elliot (who is now my husband, much to reunion attendees' shock) set a different goal for high school: having fun. More interested in friends and sports than in causes of the Peloponnesian War, Elliot routinely faced suspensions and zeroes on quizzes. As a result, he, too, was well known by classmates and teachers . . . not to mention the vice principal.

Though our class ironically dispensed with the "remembered for" yearbook line, I achieved my goal of high school prominence. However, my bubble popped five years later when, as newlyweds, Elliot and I were back home for a visit. In a crowded department store, I spotted, of all people, our old homeroom teacher. As we greeted her, I anticipated a mixed reaction of delight at seeing her star pupil and dismay to realize scholar and class clown had married. Instead, she simply looked puzzled. "No, I can't say I remember you," she told me. Then, turning to Elliot, she said, "But you're Feit, aren't you?"

I was, in a word, deflated, and yet the encounter proved a valuable lesson on success: the top of the pedestal is slippery, and human accolades are short-lived. (Can you remember last year's Miss America?) Like Paul, I learned that, in the greater scheme of things, worldly credentials amounted to nothing. (Philippians 3:3-8) Even more reason to strive for what is "imperishable . . . and will not fade away" (1 Peter 1:4).

Please understand I'm not advocating my husband's approach to high school. In fact, neither would he—now a doctor, he is thankful to have finally buckled down in college. A right perspective is what's needed. Academics are key for knowledge, skills, and a pathway to career. But there's no place for ego in success. All our accomplishments are due to divinely bestowed abilities (James 1:17), so our response to achievement should be gratitude, not boastful pride. (1 Corinthians 4:7)

You may wonder, What if my academic career wasn't exactly "stellar"? Graduation is called "commencement," which nicely illustrates the Lord's attitude toward us—He is the God of second chances. (Jonah 3:1) When we confess and repent of our sins, He faithfully forgives us and wipes the slate clean. (1 John 1:9) So, while teachers may lose track of us, our Father never will; and the same God who forever remembers His children chooses to forget their transgressions. (Isaiah 49:15-16; Psalm 103:12) In other words, there's still opportunity to succeed in what matters most.

It's been pointed out that a baby cries at birth while everyone else smiles, but we should live in such a way that when we die, we are smiling, and everyone else is crying.¹ Once our earthly days end, titles and degrees mean nothing, but any positive influence we've had on others has potential to change lives logarithmically into the future.

Back in high school, I failed the lesson on true success: I was too focused on self-effort and peer opinion. But there is a make-up test. A final exam, if you will. The parameters are different than I once thought—Jesus summed them up as loving God wholeheartedly and loving one's neighbor as oneself. (Matthew 22:36-40) The test will have just one fill-in-the-blank question: "When you graduate from this life, you will be remembered for_______." This time, I know how to get an A.

¹ Grace Notes, Campolo, T. March 18, 2001

by Sandy Feit