As an example, one of the schools I have been studying is too

The words of James S. Coleman, spoken with the quiet authority of one who has studied the ways of human communities, reveal a truth that shines brighter than mere statistics or trophies. He tells us of a school, too small to triumph in the grand arenas of sports, yet unbroken in spirit, turning instead with fiery devotion to the noble field of music contests. In this image lies a timeless lesson: that greatness is not always found where the multitudes strive, but where the soul discovers its own path to glory.

For what is the worth of a people, or a community, if they measure themselves only by the standards of others? The small school cannot hope to stand against the giants in football fields or crowded stadiums, yet they do not weep, nor do they bow their heads in shame. Instead, they lift their voices in song, and in that act they declare to the world: “We, too, shall be heard.” The vigor with which they enter the state music contests is not merely for medals or acclaim, but for the affirmation of identity. In their song is the cry of resilience, a refusal to be silenced by size or circumstance.

This is the way of the ancients, who taught that each man and woman must find their strength where it lies, not where another commands them to search. Consider the story of the Spartans, who, though small in number compared to the vast Persian hosts, did not attempt to outmatch them in sheer multitude. Instead, they fought with discipline, strategy, and valor at Thermopylae. Though they fell, their stand echoed through the ages as proof that destiny favors those who fight with their true gifts, not those who pretend to possess what they lack.

In like manner, the small school does not pretend to be a mighty athletic powerhouse. Instead, it nurtures the talents of its youth in the harmonies of voice and the mastery of instruments. And there, in the halls of music, they taste victory — not merely over rivals, but over despair, over invisibility, over the tyranny of comparison. The sound of their triumph is not the roar of a crowd at a game, but the rising swell of a chorus that touches the hearts of all who listen.

From this we may learn that to live with wisdom is to choose battles that suit our nature. Too often, men and women waste their lives competing on fields where they cannot thrive, chasing crowns that were never theirs to wear. But the wise discern where their true gifts lie and pour themselves into those pursuits with undying energy. For in that path lies both fulfillment and honor. To strive where you are strongest is not cowardice, but courage of the highest order.

Let us also remember that victory is not always measured in numbers or in the vanquishing of enemies. Sometimes it is measured in the joy of expression, the unity of community, and the pride of doing what one loves with excellence. The small school may not hang sports banners upon its walls, yet its songs fill the hearts of its students and the ears of the state. Its triumph is quieter, but no less eternal.

The lesson for our lives is thus: seek out the contests where your spirit burns brightest. Do not mourn the arenas where you are too small to stand tall, but instead march boldly into the fields where your gifts may flourish. Whether it be in art, in music, in craft, or in study, let your vigor shine where it is most alive. In so doing, you will leave behind not only victories but legacies — melodies that linger long after the games of others are forgotten.

And so, Coleman’s example becomes our charge: do not measure life by the size of your stage, but by the strength of your song. For even the smallest school, the humblest heart, or the faintest voice can, when raised with vigor, echo across the ages.