Priorities clearer in silence following tragedy

Their silence is deafening.

They once roamed through my life sharing normal stuff like birthday parties, weekends in St. Louis and kids with earaches.

We were all so normal; real Rockwellian folks. Why, they danced at our daughter's wedding, ate my five-alarm chili and were supposed to spend the millennium New Year's Eve with us (we didn't celebrate because I had the millennium flu).

They had normal names like Larry, Meredith, Mark and Casey. These folks regularly decorated my normal life with hugs and ham dinners.

Then, the phone call: "You better sit down, I have some tragic news for you. Larry, Meredith, Mark and Casey were all killed in the 24-car pileup outside Kansas City."

Normal became abnormal. Life careened out of control again.

Their silence is deafening.

Part of the roar is about me, not them. I lost control when I touched the cold steel of their caskets. There is nothing I can do or say that will throw life into reverse for my friends. In the wake of this breathless breach, there is still me.

Every funeral in my life is a report card on how I'm doing with the spin of those hands on my wristwatch. My first thoughts are not about processes, but people.

People who are closest to me emotionally, I want to drag even closer. So after the funerals, I had to have people over for the Super Bowl.

And then, "Even though the game is over, please stay awhile." Or, "Let's call the kids. Yes, I know this is the second time today, but I just want hear how they are doing."

After petting the hair off the dog and calling the kids, neighbors and newspaper carrier, I finally realized my grief was making priorities for me. At the top of the list were people, not projects.

Their silence is deafening.

The suddenness of the I-29 accident immediately echoes the refrain, "What if you had no time to prepare?" There were no tear-stained handkerchiefs while warm hands were parting when we lost Larry, Meredith, Mark and Casey. The violence of the skidding tires and clashing metal sucked the air out of our goodbyes.

There was loss starting over mind-numbing despair.

There is something to be said for living as if today were your last. Who do you want to speak about you in a public memorial service? What message do you want them to carry to those sliding into the abyss of grief? What items of your personal life should others wear or clutch for years to come? Are your debts paid? Is it clear who gets parts of your estate and why you made those decisions?

Their silence is deafening.

Like a gunshot in the frozen woods on a winter's morning, their absence ricochets through spent time. What really mattered? I love my job with its turn-ons of standing ovations, "this-workshop-changed-my-life," and laudatory letters.

Life doesn't get much better than when someone lets you know she is better for brushing up against your words or product.

Here is where business is often misunderstood. When you and I provide a service or thing, which delights another human being, we suddenly matter. When I ask the question of my clients, "What do you want to take home besides a paycheck?" the answer will almost always include the word satisfaction.

When I probe, satisfaction is normally defined as, "When you know you made a difference today."

Their silence is deafening.

It is hard to believe they are gone. No more shared dinners at Zio's or dancing at Tower Club wedding receptions. Others will not occupy their spaces. They will always leave huge holes of heaviness.

But their absence fertilizes my future. I need to ask hard questions about how I am using up today knowing tomorrow holds no guarantees.

When I answer honestly my own questions and decide to live differently, the roar of their silence is becoming ... a whisper.

(Dr. Cal LeMon solves organizational problems with customized training and consulting. His company, The Executive Edge, can be contacted at the Business Journal by writing to PO Box 1365, Springfield 65801, or by e-mail at sbj@sbj.net.)