Steve Hawley was a great man, a damn fine man, and he was my friend. He was my boss too, a nickname I often used, and one I think he secretly hated. But he was my friend. For about a decade we stood together, 5-6 times a day, and chatted in front of the main office while the students of Lake Orion High School hung out and/or hurried to class. Mostly we talked about working out, what it was like to be an athlete at 16, 21, and what it was like to try to stay fit in our 40s, and for him his 50s.
Once I brought up the topic of history, and what would be the most interesting time to live in? I had no clue this simple question would unleash the history teacher in Steve. He taught me a few things that day about the history of warfare and WWI technology. I don’t know that I’d ever seen Steve so animated. I think I would have loved to have him as a teacher.
Occasionally we had other things to talk about as Principal and School Psychologist. He was a great worker, leader, and listener. He certainly couldn’t always take the advice he listened to (he listened so well he certainly heard opposing views from multiple people he respected), but I always felt heard even when he went against my recommendations.
Mostly in 20-30 minutes of conversation a day I learned that I liked Steve. Actually, I loved Steve. Mostly what I learned was that apart from being dedicated to work, Steve was dedicated to only one thing: His family. That alone was enough for me to admire him. The rest of him was icing on the cake. I admired Steve so much that I wrote him in for my vote for President (yes, of the US) in 2020. It’s honestly my favorite vote I’ve ever cast.
Like any great person, Steve wasn’t for everyone. You can’t be when you lead a school of up to 2,700 students, their 1 to 4 parents, and 200 staff members. And lest you think that’s a big job, you have no idea how often community members whose kids are long gone weigh in with comments and queries about your sanity when you are the Principal of a large suburban high school in the age of social media and voicemails. You can’t please everyone, and you shouldn’t try to. That was one of the things I admired most about Steve. He knew his role. He knew he’d lose some battles in the hearts, minds, and legalities of some. And he was ok with that. He accepted it. He was as committed to doing it the right way as anyone I’d ever met. Damn the consequences and judgments of some. There were always going to be consequences and judgments. Even if he didn’t like what he had to do, he did what he thought was right.
As I mentioned, Steve and I chatted daily, and many of our chats revolved around working out. Steve was slim but a beast of a guy. At 50 he could still bench and deadlift to make a man less than half his age proud. One of our favorite topics of conversation was how to keep the body moving strongly as we aged. It wasn’t uncommon to hear us talking about the latest test I’d been given by my physical therapist or to see us standing there testing our flexibility against one of the poles in the front the office. So it was a shock to many to hear that Steve was sick with cancer.
Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t as shocked as some. Around the time Steve got sick I had just lost my wife, Celeste, to pancreatic cancer. When I heard Steve was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer, I had too much of an understanding about where this was going to lead.
One of the things Steve and I talked about was salutations. After Celeste was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I told him how hard salutations had become for me. “How you doin’?” and “What’s up?” aren’t the same greetings when a loved one has terminal cancer. “Hey, I’m doing like shit. I’ve seen ugly things in life I can’t unsee. Thanks for asking.” That’s what I wanted to respond. But obviously that isn’t what the person wanted or meant. Still, how we give a salutation matters, and we talked about it a lot. I couldn’t have that conversation with everyone, but Steve understood. I think we settled on, “Good to see you,” no matter the association with the person. The key was you had to mean it. I’m still working on meaning it in many cases.
At the time I had no clue how closely those conversations might impact Steve’s own life. Neither of us had any clue that things would be changed before we knew it. Things are always changed forever before we know it.
I think we grew apart a bit after he was diagnosed. I understood. We’d lost our battle, and he was still fighting and hopeful in his. To chat with me about what I’d learned would be giving in. He wasn’t ready. I understood. I understand.
When the docs finally told Steve it was time to quit working, he called me into his office. The conversation went something like this. It was classic Steve.
“The docs say it’s time to start wrapping it up. I want to say some things to staff. I have this written down, but I’m not sure I can get through it. If I can’t read it, can you do it for me?”
I knew I could. It was a great honor. One of the greatest honors of my life. Hell or high water I was going to do that for my friend. And that was so Steve. Understated. Factual. “The docs say it’s time to start wrapping it up.” Who is that blunt? My friend Steve, that’s who.
Knowing what I knew about his prognosis, I was always worried Steve wouldn’t wrap it up soon enough. He was so tied to his job, his duty. I’m happy to report that Steve got some time after that. He got another 18 months. We always planned to connect, but every time we tried, he had something else going on. Usually it was that the grandkids were coming over. I understood. I welcomed it. Grandkids come way before me, that’s for sure. So I don’t know how those last 18 months went, but knowing Steve, and from the reports I got, he spent them the right way.
When I heard hospice was called in, I wanted to go see him. But I knew from experience that people in hospice are tired. They are dying. They have energy for very little, and the energy they have needs to be devoted to their family and closest friends. I knew Steve would have plenty on his plate without me demanding some time. Steve had a wife he’d been married to for over 30 years. He had 5 children. He had grandkids. He was better served with family. At that point, Steve knew all he needed to know about me, and I knew all I needed to know about him.
I want to share one of the things I know about Steve. Although I always saw him as incredibly devoted to work, I knew how much he cared for his family and how many great things they did together. In rare moments of self-disclosure, Steve would share his family vacations with our staff. One of things he shared was a white water rafting trip they took years before he was diagnosed with cancer. He was truly taken with the instructions the guides delivered at the start of the trip. He shared them at the first staff meeting of the year. I remember the first time I heard these instructions. They made sense. They actually hit me hard given what I was dealing with at that time in my life. But over time, I forgot some. Thankfully Steve shared them again. And I forget them again. Finally, I went to his office and had him share them so I could write them down. They live in my phone notes to this day, and today they make as much sense as they ever have:
- You will exit the raft.
- Be an active participant in your own rescue.
- Never let go of your paddle (that’s how you reach for assistance from others).
- Point positive (direct yourself toward where you want to go).
Point positive became a mantra for Steve. It became a manta for Lake Orion High School and remains one today. It makes so much sense. Life is going to knock you around (you will exit the raft). But you need to save yourself (be an active participant in your own rescue). Ask for help, don’t suffer in silence (never let go of your paddle). And POINT POSITIVE (direct, orient yourself where you want to go).
Those of us who knew and loved Steve need this guidance today. That’s what happens when you lose a giant of this world like him. Thankfully, we had him, and we have his legacy. He would want us to carry on and work toward what we want to see in this world. That’s why I’m writing this tonight. To share this giant of a man with those who knew him and those who didn’t.
Life is going to knock you down. Get up. If you can’t get up, let others pick you up. Get going in the direction you want to go.
I’m missing you, but I’m pointing positive, Boss. Pointing positive, Steve. Thank you for showing me the way.
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