Monday, December 31, 2012
New Pictures Loaded
Just posted up some photos from our Christmas, available by clicking here or on the links bar at the right. New Uggs, a new pig, and more!
New Year's Eve 2012
Random thoughts as 2012 has but hours to go on the East Coast of the United States...
- Goodbye and good riddance. This has not been one of my favorite years, with burglary, death, and generally depressing things far too commonplace.
- On the other hand, I am enjoying the new job I got, officially, last January. And...let's see, there should be something else good here... (Editor, please add something warm and cheery here...thanks!)
- In 2013 we have a Disney Cruise to look forward to. I've already got seven books piled up on my reading table, ready to go with us. I plan to sit. Yes, I will explore places I've never seen before, but I also plan to just...ahhh...
- Last night we were up late; tonight we're up late; by 6:45am Wednesday the boy needs to be rested and out the door for school to resume. Who came up with this schedule?
- The older I get, the less New Year's means to me. Or, perhaps more accurately, the more melancholy I get about the whole turning-the-calendar exercise. As Lou commented recently, each year it's getting harder and harder to pretend I still have half my life or more in front of me.
- Who had the idea to make shrimp a part of New Year's Eve? Is it because they used to be so fancy and decadent? On the same rant: why did the Pennsylvania Dutch decide it had to be pork served on New Year's Day? Apart from some bacon at breakfast tomorrow I don't plan a giant pork menu.
- Say what you will, I still miss Pat Summerall calling the Cotton Bowl games...that was always something that meant "New Year's" to me. Somehow I don't miss Dick Clark quite the same. Guess if I were part of the "Bandstand" generation it might have meant more.
Whatever 2013 holds, may it be a better and brighter year for us all, and may God preserve us all until we can bid it farewell also.
Monday, December 17, 2012
I Will Praise You In This Storm
There has been entirely too much death in my life these last few weeks. It needs to stop.
Beginning with the loss of Mary's grandmother at Halloween, continuing through the suicide of USMS Deputy Director Chris Dudley at Thanksgiving, and then the passing of a former colleague at work just after my birthday, I have had three noteworthy encounters with the grim reaper in fairly short order. To say nothing of the immensity of the tragedy at Newtown, CT, this past Friday, or how death is striking at others close to me: brother-from-another-mother Glenn lost a cousin, Kerry Bowman, who died en route to see Ben perform on stage in Austin on Saturday. It seems overdramatic, but I can scarcely turn around without news like this coming at me this fall.
I understand the passing of a nearly 96-year-old woman; I cannot comprehend the suicide of someone my age and to whom I felt such similarities; I mourn the fact that cancer can take a colleague so young, with unfinished business. In each case death has come and left a unique mark, as if its fingerprints changed each time, and so induces a sense of whiplash in its wake.
Perhaps I am just coming into a time in my life in which these sorts of things will, simply, happen. After college we laughed about the "bubble" of weddings we all got invited to--the wedding wave, cresting then ebbing, as lives paired up. Those faded away and then shortly thereafter we cooed at the wave of babies, as those friends began expanding their families, children who are now teenagers. Is the next wave to be one of funerals? Already? I certainly hope not. But here we are.
I don't believe it would be unusual for a mid-forties man to begin noticing death, and pondering it more. The teenager is indestructible and so doesn't care, the 20-something too busy to notice, the 30-something too tired (by kids, job, etc) as well. By this point, as my friend Lou points out, it gets harder to persuade myself each year that I have more than half my life still ahead of me. The passing of others close to us in age certainly doesn't help reinforce the lie of indestructibility.
If anything, it has to be a reminder of our anchor, our one place of constancy, our hope. Advent is meant to be a season of anticipation, of preparation, of celebration of the coming of the Christ. This year Advent has a darker tone for me. And yet it does provide the kind of opportunity to seek God through the adversity, to remember He continues to hold us even when we're no longer together. Casting Crowns put it well:
I was sure by now
God You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen," and it's still raining
As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away
And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
Beginning with the loss of Mary's grandmother at Halloween, continuing through the suicide of USMS Deputy Director Chris Dudley at Thanksgiving, and then the passing of a former colleague at work just after my birthday, I have had three noteworthy encounters with the grim reaper in fairly short order. To say nothing of the immensity of the tragedy at Newtown, CT, this past Friday, or how death is striking at others close to me: brother-from-another-mother Glenn lost a cousin, Kerry Bowman, who died en route to see Ben perform on stage in Austin on Saturday. It seems overdramatic, but I can scarcely turn around without news like this coming at me this fall.
I understand the passing of a nearly 96-year-old woman; I cannot comprehend the suicide of someone my age and to whom I felt such similarities; I mourn the fact that cancer can take a colleague so young, with unfinished business. In each case death has come and left a unique mark, as if its fingerprints changed each time, and so induces a sense of whiplash in its wake.
Perhaps I am just coming into a time in my life in which these sorts of things will, simply, happen. After college we laughed about the "bubble" of weddings we all got invited to--the wedding wave, cresting then ebbing, as lives paired up. Those faded away and then shortly thereafter we cooed at the wave of babies, as those friends began expanding their families, children who are now teenagers. Is the next wave to be one of funerals? Already? I certainly hope not. But here we are.
I don't believe it would be unusual for a mid-forties man to begin noticing death, and pondering it more. The teenager is indestructible and so doesn't care, the 20-something too busy to notice, the 30-something too tired (by kids, job, etc) as well. By this point, as my friend Lou points out, it gets harder to persuade myself each year that I have more than half my life still ahead of me. The passing of others close to us in age certainly doesn't help reinforce the lie of indestructibility.
If anything, it has to be a reminder of our anchor, our one place of constancy, our hope. Advent is meant to be a season of anticipation, of preparation, of celebration of the coming of the Christ. This year Advent has a darker tone for me. And yet it does provide the kind of opportunity to seek God through the adversity, to remember He continues to hold us even when we're no longer together. Casting Crowns put it well:
I was sure by now
God You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen," and it's still raining
As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away
And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
Sunday, December 16, 2012
RIP M. Judith Butler, 1962 - 2012
This past Monday, Carolyn at work forwarded to me a message that Judy Butler had passed away on Saturday, December 8, after a long illness. At 50, she had apparently been fighting cancer, quietly, for the last few years.
Judy was one of the first people to welcome me into the Unit when I first came to work for the Bureau in 1992. By then she had nearly eight years' experience and was one of the senior analysts on the account I joined. When I left the Unit in 2000 to become a supervisor elsewhere, we stopped working together until 2004, when a reorganization brought her nominally into my ambit again until 2006.
We never worked together again. I had not known she was ill; but then, it would have been entirely consistent with her sense of privacy and secrecy that none but her family and very closest friends would know: I understand she hid it from her colleagues until the hair loss from chemo became just too noticeable.
The difficult aspect of Judy's passing isn't entirely in her age (not far removed from my own), or our past collaboration for what is now a third of my Bureau career. It's that, in our mutual work, we became two scorpions in a very small bottle, with a couple of arguments I can still recall years later, ones which never really reached closure. And now, through--call it what you will--inaction, pride, stubbornness, or my own brokenness, I have missed any chance at mending that breach in this world.
I learned a lot from Judy. I learned a lot about our mutual target, although I couldn't call her a mentor at the time. I also learned a lot about people, and now she's taught me another lesson--the importance of seeking closure, forgiveness, whatever is needed. John Mayer reminds us to "say what you need to say," and he's right: before it's too late, and you're left either continuing an argument by yourself, or saying "I'm sorry" to a casket at a funeral home.
Judy was one of the first people to welcome me into the Unit when I first came to work for the Bureau in 1992. By then she had nearly eight years' experience and was one of the senior analysts on the account I joined. When I left the Unit in 2000 to become a supervisor elsewhere, we stopped working together until 2004, when a reorganization brought her nominally into my ambit again until 2006.
We never worked together again. I had not known she was ill; but then, it would have been entirely consistent with her sense of privacy and secrecy that none but her family and very closest friends would know: I understand she hid it from her colleagues until the hair loss from chemo became just too noticeable.
The difficult aspect of Judy's passing isn't entirely in her age (not far removed from my own), or our past collaboration for what is now a third of my Bureau career. It's that, in our mutual work, we became two scorpions in a very small bottle, with a couple of arguments I can still recall years later, ones which never really reached closure. And now, through--call it what you will--inaction, pride, stubbornness, or my own brokenness, I have missed any chance at mending that breach in this world.
I learned a lot from Judy. I learned a lot about our mutual target, although I couldn't call her a mentor at the time. I also learned a lot about people, and now she's taught me another lesson--the importance of seeking closure, forgiveness, whatever is needed. John Mayer reminds us to "say what you need to say," and he's right: before it's too late, and you're left either continuing an argument by yourself, or saying "I'm sorry" to a casket at a funeral home.
Friday, December 14, 2012
RIP Chris Dudley, 1966 - 2012
The day after Thanksgiving, the Deputy Director of the US Marshals Service called Fairfax County police from his home two neighborhoods over, and told them they'd better come. When they did, they found he had committed suicide.
Chris was 46. It's not quite fair to say he was a friend of mine, as we'd met only once through the good graces of Kevin, a colleague at work, through whom I had the privilege of inviting Chris to come earlier this year as a motivational speaker on leadership to senior-graded employees in Finance Division. But for the hours we spent that day, both at the office and over lunch, and then in the e-mails we exchanged warmly over the months since, I allowed myself the illusion that we had made a connection.
In Chris I saw someone my own age who was similarly possessed of the idea that people deserve good leadership in their jobs, and who had, through the strengths of his own leadership skills, risen to very admirable heights in a similar industry. We shared a similar dry sense of humor over brisket and iced teas at Hill Country with Kevin, and while he sighed about the difficulties he was having in finding good people for key jobs at work, he didn't sound any differently about his stresses than any of a number of other people I eat lunch with. In my last e-mail exchange with him, I signed off with an invitation, the next time he was downtown, to meet for more Texas BBQ. He replied along the lines of how much he could really use some good BBQ. But that was all. Kevin told me later, Chris had talked with his sister that Friday afternoon and was due to meet her for dinner at six. By four, he was dead.
When our CFO announced Chris' death at the morning staff meeting on the 28th I was stunned. I sent a message to our teams to let them know, and to implore them to seek help if ever they found themselves feeling like they had no other choice. I also pulled up his online obituary and saw with dismay photos of him with his young daughter, whom the article described as "the love of his life." Our lives were to draw, uncannily, closer still: On the night of December 5th, Sarah mentioned that at Girls on the Run that day, they had made cards for their teammate Abby, whose dad had died recently. On a hunch I pulled up a picture of Chris and his daughter from the obituary. Is this your friend Abby, I asked Sarah? It was.
I have a difficult time explaining why the suicide of someone I'd met only once should affect me so. Actuarially speaking, the law of probability says that of the thousands of people I've met once in my life before, some proportion of them did as well; I just don't know it. Why this one? Why Chris?
Perhaps it's the similarities in working for DOJ; perhaps it's the similarities of lives in Fairfax Station and all that comes with it; perhaps it's because our daughters are on the same cross country team; perhaps it's as simple as our ages, our similar senses of humor. Perhaps, in the stresses he described, it's all too similar to ones I've had. And perhaps it's just the uncertainty of not understanding Why, and how he could come to make this choice knowing what it would do to Abby.
And so maybe the question isn't so much Why Chris, but, if I see such similarities between us...why not me? Am I somehow vulnerable too, to that evil whisper of complete and utter despair, and just don't know it?
Of course not. At least I don't believe so. But sometimes it's the utterly axis-shaking act of a suicide of an acquaintance, that can induce such introspection. And at the very least, it brings us to a stop, and to breathe the ancient prayer, Requiem in pacem; pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
May you have the peace you apparently couldn't find with us, Chris.
And God bless you and keep you, Abby.
Chris was 46. It's not quite fair to say he was a friend of mine, as we'd met only once through the good graces of Kevin, a colleague at work, through whom I had the privilege of inviting Chris to come earlier this year as a motivational speaker on leadership to senior-graded employees in Finance Division. But for the hours we spent that day, both at the office and over lunch, and then in the e-mails we exchanged warmly over the months since, I allowed myself the illusion that we had made a connection.
In Chris I saw someone my own age who was similarly possessed of the idea that people deserve good leadership in their jobs, and who had, through the strengths of his own leadership skills, risen to very admirable heights in a similar industry. We shared a similar dry sense of humor over brisket and iced teas at Hill Country with Kevin, and while he sighed about the difficulties he was having in finding good people for key jobs at work, he didn't sound any differently about his stresses than any of a number of other people I eat lunch with. In my last e-mail exchange with him, I signed off with an invitation, the next time he was downtown, to meet for more Texas BBQ. He replied along the lines of how much he could really use some good BBQ. But that was all. Kevin told me later, Chris had talked with his sister that Friday afternoon and was due to meet her for dinner at six. By four, he was dead.
When our CFO announced Chris' death at the morning staff meeting on the 28th I was stunned. I sent a message to our teams to let them know, and to implore them to seek help if ever they found themselves feeling like they had no other choice. I also pulled up his online obituary and saw with dismay photos of him with his young daughter, whom the article described as "the love of his life." Our lives were to draw, uncannily, closer still: On the night of December 5th, Sarah mentioned that at Girls on the Run that day, they had made cards for their teammate Abby, whose dad had died recently. On a hunch I pulled up a picture of Chris and his daughter from the obituary. Is this your friend Abby, I asked Sarah? It was.
I have a difficult time explaining why the suicide of someone I'd met only once should affect me so. Actuarially speaking, the law of probability says that of the thousands of people I've met once in my life before, some proportion of them did as well; I just don't know it. Why this one? Why Chris?
Perhaps it's the similarities in working for DOJ; perhaps it's the similarities of lives in Fairfax Station and all that comes with it; perhaps it's because our daughters are on the same cross country team; perhaps it's as simple as our ages, our similar senses of humor. Perhaps, in the stresses he described, it's all too similar to ones I've had. And perhaps it's just the uncertainty of not understanding Why, and how he could come to make this choice knowing what it would do to Abby.
And so maybe the question isn't so much Why Chris, but, if I see such similarities between us...why not me? Am I somehow vulnerable too, to that evil whisper of complete and utter despair, and just don't know it?
Of course not. At least I don't believe so. But sometimes it's the utterly axis-shaking act of a suicide of an acquaintance, that can induce such introspection. And at the very least, it brings us to a stop, and to breathe the ancient prayer, Requiem in pacem; pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
May you have the peace you apparently couldn't find with us, Chris.
And God bless you and keep you, Abby.
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