The axe
I was an assistant principal at a high school. I walk into the cafeteria a few minutes before lunch, before six or seven hundred kids come through those doors, and sitting on the window sill is an axe.
Not a hatchet. A full-size chopping axe.
There is no other adult in the room. I can't leave to go secure it, because in about four minutes this room fills up.
So I picked it up, threw it over my shoulder, and walked around the cafeteria like I normally would.
I got some strange looks. A comment or two. Mostly, kids didn't think much about it at all.
I've thought about why for years. It's not that I handled it brilliantly. It's that those kids already knew me. I was the guy checking out their books. I was the guy at their games hollering for them. So when they saw me walking the room with an axe on my shoulder, the read wasn't threat. The read was Mr. Nelson is handling something.
The pause itself takes half a second. The credit you spend in that half second took two years to earn.
The cafeteria
Every year at graduation I say something about the students who aren't walking. In 2026 there were two. Not finished. Not forgotten. Just not done yet.
One of them was three classes shy when our deadline hit. He had struggled in the past, but on this day he was looking healthy and sharp. I stood next to him and told him we'd work all summer. That we'd get him there. He was sad, but he understood.
Later that same day I was in the cafeteria and I saw him sitting at a table. I walked over. He looked up at me and said:
“Mr. Nelson, looks like you've lost a lot of weight.”
I said yeah, over forty pounds. I told him I spend so much time up here working with you all that sometimes I forget to take care of myself. And I decided it was time.
He looked at me and said:
“Me too. I'm taking care of myself too.”
A kid who found out that morning he wasn't going to walk with his class, telling his principal a few hours later that he's taking care of himself too. Not giving up. Not checked out.
And notice what I did not do in that cafeteria. I did not turn it into a lesson. It was already the moment, and narrating it would have made it mine instead of his.
Sometimes the Point is something you name out loud. Sometimes it is something you receive and protect and don't touch.