THE LIFE OF JUSTIN KEY Reflections on the passing of a Darden student The fact that we are all going to die is one of the most obvious things in life. And yet, any time someone I know dies, it always feels like a shock. In addition, when someone is young and seems to have their whole life in front of them, it seems impossible that they could have won the "reverse lottery" and been taken away. But it looks like that's what happened to Justin. I say "looks like" for a reason... But I'll get to that later.
Justin Key died this past Monday, December 14, early in the morning, in one of the most boring ways possible - he got the flu. This may not seem remarkable if you have never met the guy, but for those of us who know him, this too seems nearly impossible to believe... Justin did everything with a twist.
After High School he started writing in earnest. He always had been a writer, but when he arrived at college, one of the first conversations I had with him revolved around Chapter 6 of the novel he was writing. His dialogue, apparently, didn't seem real enough to him, so he spent a good part of every day our Freshman year refining these fictional conversations while other people were taking naps or avoiding homework.
That was the Fall of 2002. Justin and I got to know each other quite well because we were both in the same classics program. Furthermore, we were in the same cohort (Wesley for life!) which meant we had at least 9 hours of class together every week. Did I mention the classes had only 15-20 students a piece? In a class this small you get to know someone fairly well, fairly quick.
Now I'm rambling... Oh well.
The first time I remember Justin speaking up in class - was the first class we had. It was led by the head of our program - Dr. John Mark Reynolds. He is something of a legend on campus and is known for two things: 1. His expertise in the Platonic Dialogues and 2. His love of breaking down Freshman. He ate bad ideas for breakfast, washed them down with a dozen Diet Cokes, and did it again after lunch. This was the guy Justin decided to challenge in his first class. We were discussing Homer, and since Justin was a bit of a hero himself, he decided to kill two birds with one stone; 1: Come to rescue of a poor girl who was getting raked across the coals and 2, Bring a bit of humor into class to "break the ice". I still have my notes from this class - I didn't write any of his comments down from that day, but the first student I mention by name in any of my notes is Justin - just a few days later, discussing The Odyssey.
"Justin: As in all great Homeric literature, it all comes back to Billy Madison" pause for effect, "Your son can't just inherit your stuff automatically, he must live up to your standards, otherwise this is an indicator that you have failed to communicate your heritage to him, which actually that means that you are a failure as a dad, you know?" the sound of 18 blinking eyelids is unbearable
He wasn't afraid of asking the hard question, but he also wasn't afraid of cracking a joke (at his own expense) to help take the edge off a tough conversation. We drank many cups of coffee in our University coffee shop - Common Grounds discussing how our classes had gone that day. When he decided to become director of the California Schools Project (a non-profit ), he came to me for help designing their logo and brochures. When I ran for student body president, I went to him for ideas on how to craft my big campaign speech. Part of the reason we got along was because we both cared deeply about living life to the fullest. What I never told him was that, even though I was more then 4 years older than him, I secretly suspected that he was doing a better job at this than I was. So we decided to stay in touch for life. We decided that, no matter what happened in our lives, he and I and a couple other guys were going to get together at least once a year to catch up, discuss important things, and help each other become the men God intended us to be.
After college Justin became a world traveler - surpassing my 31 countries, and equaling my 2.5 languages - and even got a great job at Expeditors International. He started talking about Business School and we worked together for months honing his reasons for attending, whittling down his list of top schools, and discussing future career paths.
When he visited the East Coast to look at Business Schools he stayed at my house and impressed my wife with the way he continued to mature. When he wrote that Darden was his first choice I called him on the phone and immediately told him that he needed to "up his game" if he wanted to be competitive...
But what was I thinking? This guy had 740 on his GMAT, graduated in the top of his undergraduate business school, and taught himself to write Excel macros that saved his company millions of dollars without my help.
Out of my entire group of friends from college, Justin has been, by far, the most successful – at every step of the game. He did better at Biola. He did better at Darden (if they ever release his Q2 exam grades, they will show that he did better than me). And he has always been a better friend to me than I was to him.
For all these reasons and more, it is tempting to believe that Justin's life was just cut short. That all of this living was wasted preparation for a set of achievements that he'll never be able to accomplish now. In fact, the saddest I've been through this whole process, was when it suddenly struck me that all of our conversations about women and family were a waste since he would never marry.
But life is often more complicated than it seems at first glance. Like Matisyahu who says on 'One Day' - "I'm here for a reason", Justin's life had a purpose, even if that purpose seems clouded right now. The more complicated truth, underneath Justin's more complicated life, is that every friendship, every genuine compliment, every satisfying conversation we have is an extravagant gift of time. And as all business students know, the laws of supply and demand dictate that because Justin had so much less time to offer, each unit of Justin's time should be expected to be valued at a higher value on the open market than the average person's time. Justin died at the top of his game - true. But this does not mean that he did not accomplish his reason for being.
Whether one is a faith-filled person, or a complete atheist, one still has to conclude that the example Justin left us with was not only NOT incomplete, but it was FULL. Which is the goal most of us aspire to, but few achieve.
Dying in Advent initially struck me as the ultimate indignity - a devilish trick to amplify the pain of leaving so soon - so early. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it is totally appropriate. Justin died in a penitential season for the Church - the goal of which is a proper understanding of the coming of Christ.
This year and for the rest of my life, I will have an un-asked-for object lesson in the life of Justin. This year in particular, as we celebrate the gift of a small child from Bethlehem, I will also be celebrating the gift of a small child from Seattle.
And far from ruining my Christmas, I'm going to make this celebration count. If Justin were here, I trust he'd be celebrating with us, just like I trust he's celebrating right now. Posted December 17, 2009 COMMENTS: (8)
The leaves are almost all gone now. From my ringside seat here on the second floor I have been really amazed by the way eastern leaves seem to celebrate their impending death. It reminds me, actually, of the famous quote from the Shawshank Redemption where Morgan Freeman says "Get Busy Living, or Get Busy Dying." I don't think the average person is very inspired by that quote to get busy dying, so I assume generally taken as a rhetorical statement that promotes "really living". These leaves, on the other hand, are making the opposite decision and, well, even though I don't personally support this type of behavior, I am still glad that the leaves here don't go out with a whimper.
Speaking of going out... (bad connection I know - humor me here) Megan and I are about to go on a Thanksgiving break/vacation and so, I might be away from the blogging world next week. I hope to find internet signal on the Outer Banks (as in North Carolina) but, if not, I assume we will have a good time anyway.
To get back to the point of this post, I think more people should get busy living. This never struck me so profoundly as today, while I was sitting in the Social Security Administration Office.
For HOURS...
While getting coughed at by geriatrics, foreigners, snotty nosed children, and overweight people. It was like a snapshot of the world - all packed into one small room with nothing to do but moan.
Yeah... moan. The kids were moaning, the old folks were moaning, the young people were moaning BECAUSE other people were moaning. And everyone seemed to have a hacking cough (did I mention that already?). It was like the vestibule to Dante's Purgatory - we're not doomed yet, but everyone knows we're about to be.
Man. Everyone looked horrible. I'm sure I looked equally bad, but I tried to redeem the time by sketching interesting pieces of people on Social Security Administration brochures. So I felt better than they looked anyway.
At some point I had to step out of that hell hole (purgatory hole?) and I called my mother. She reminded me that my Aunt works for this very same government agency. I should probably call her to complain or something...
But it wasn't her fault was it? That 35 people from my county all showed up at the exact same time, without an appointment, and every one of them with a VERY COMPLICATED PROBLEM to fix except me. What's my problem? I lost my card and haven't been able to find it for years. Thinking about this in the office made me spontaneously worried that an identity thief might have taken it. Which is probably not true but in any case made me feel better about waiting in that horrible room with the horrible moaning people. In what parallel universe is being tortured like this the appropriate penalty for losing a SS card?
I just know I'll find it any day now. But I hope not. Because that would make this entire afternoon a waste.
And if I die after contracting the black plague in the Social Security Administration Office for no good reason...
Well, I would say 'that would kill me', but since I'd already be dead, I guess I'd just sit there.
But still... after leaving that place I have a whole new outlook on life. At least that's good right? Posted November 19, 2009 COMMENTS: (0)
SUICIDAL MICEMUNK DEBRIEFING Lessons from the front lines of America's culture war Now that the scariest season of all is past for this year, I believe I can finally tell the tale of woe that befell this house just two weeks ago.
It was a dark and stormy night when the scratching sounds began. At first I thought I was having trouble sleeping because of a change in my workout routine, our overly warm bedroom, or perhaps work stress, but after a few days of the strange symptoms, the source of my trouble became all too clear.
Just a few days ago (though they seem immeasurably removed from my present state of nightlong ambrosial slumber) I heard a rustling sound in the middle of the night. I sat up straight, looked around, but seeing and sensing nothing, I went back to sleep until the next morning.
The next morning I made my bed as usual, saw my wife off to work, and then returned to the bedroom. There on the floor, was the unmistakable form of mouse poop. Cleaning up the small piece, I soon found another, and another. Including (*Gasp) one on the bed - right next to my pillow. Proceeding downstairs, I did a thorough search of the kitchen area where I found other numerous pieces of micro-mammal skat. And this is when I began to make my plan. While it may be acceptable to occasionally tolerate an annoying little forest mammal who takes adrenaline-pumping jaunts through the inner-sanctums of creatures a hundred times his size, it is NEVER acceptable to tolerate a potentially disease-infested rodent in the place where hearty home-cooked meals are prepared for the sustenance of this American family.
I vowed that the first time I set eyes on this creature - would be the last!
All that day he eluded me. Maybe he could sense my Machiavellian scheme to crush him into submission. I don't know. But I do know that I heard him again that night...
The next morning I awoke in a restless haze having slept fitfully (if at all) through the night and went downstairs to make Malt 'O Meal for breakfast. As I rounded the corner of my kitchen island carrying two bowls of piping-hot and delicious banana-nut cereal I was assaulted by the hilarious but unnerving sound of terrified forest mammal claws scratching my fake wood floor in a furious attempt to hide for cover.
I saw a tiny tail disappear underneath my oven (my first inkling that this daredevil was less intelligent than he appeared), paused to see if my wife had noticed the sound in the other room, discovered she had not and, calling her name, sat down to eat breakfast.
After eating, we stood up from the table and the scurrying commenced anew. Troubled by the sound, my wife cast an inquisitive look my way and as I calmly looked her in the eye I replied, "Honey, there's a mouse in the house and I'm going to take care of it." She said, "fine, ok" or something to that effect, left the house... and the battle was joined.
I went to the local supermarket and purchased two of the best mousetraps money can buy. I set them, placed them, and then went upstairs to begin my work for the day. Not more than 10 minutes later I heard the distinctive sound of dishes being tipped over in the sink and ran downstairs just in time to see what looked to be a large mouse in mid-air flying/floating through the kitchen like Air Jordan towards the protective cover of the oven. Once safe, he turned around, poked his head into view and just stared at me. I stared back. His nose twitched. My nose twitched. And then, to add insult to injury, he glanced at one of the recently placed traps -only inches from his face- and gave me a look that can only be interpreted as, "is that the best you can do?" before disappearing into the bowels of my kitchen cabinetry for the next few hours.
Back upstairs I had almost forgotten about the mouse/chipmunk/rodent/gerbil terrorist in my house until I hear a sound that sent adrenaline pumping through my veins again - scratching, clattering feet in my bedroom, this was UPSTAIRS, just a few feet from my home office.
I ran into the bedroom, slammed the door, and followed the clicking, scratching sound to the corner by my dresser. Then I waited. And waited. Finally I got down on my hands and knees and peered underneath the dresser. There he was, lungs pumping, ready to fight, and a look of fearless contempt in his eyes. I grabbed a book, stepped back, and kicked it under the dresser (hoping to scare the critter out from his hiding place where I could catch it or step on it, or both. I hadn't decided yet. But it didn't matter.
Apparently, seeing a four lb. book hurtling towards his position gave the micemunk just the jolt of adrenaline he needed to execute his most daring move yet. As expected, the micemunk ran out from underneath the dresser. But completely unexpected, he did something I never saw coming. Pulling a handbrake maneuver straight out of the Dukes of Hazard he wheeled around just as his tail had emerged from underneath the dresser, sprang into the air, and began to scale the wire rack that holds our socks and underwear. I was taken aback and could only stare in shocked disbelief as this tiny creature, not much larger than my thumb deftly climbed up to my eye-level, paused to look me in the eye (as if to say, "betcha didn't see that comin' didya, sucker?") and then continued to the top rack, just inches from the celing.
Since I didn't have anything better to do (except, of course, the work that I was supposed to be completing) I began to shake the racks. It appears that this is exactly what the micemunk had foreseen and, appearing from the depths of a bunch of old college sweatshirts he gracefully executed a leap (with, if I'm not mistaken, a mid-air pike just to taunt me) onto the top of my dresser.
I am now thinking to myself. Ok, well, since he's finally cornered (literally) and on the top of a six-foot platform surrounded on all sides, I now have to think seriously about how to pick him up. I was halfway through a thought about using a sweatshirt as a net when the micemunk revealed what I had been fearing all along:
He had been trained by the Israeli IDF.
Running to the edge of the dresser, he carefully gauged the distance between himself and the floor below, strapped on a kevlar helmet (ok... that could be an exaggeration because it all happened very very quickly) glanced over his shoulder and lept. Mission Impossible style -with all four limbs outstreched like Tom Cruise, into the 1.5 inch gap between the wall and my dresser.
I vaguely remember hearing a thud, followed by frantic scrambling sounds, and several other curiously small thuds later, but I remained my the dresser for some time, transfixed by the suicidal escape of the IDF-trained assassin micemunk.
I shuffled downstairs once I deduced that the smaller thudding sounds corresponded to the sound a small animal's body makes as it is rolling down hardwood stairs at great speed. But I didn't see anything. A short while later I hear the scurrying sound again in my bedroom. This is one of the main reasons I deduced the mammal was not your typical fuzzy little forest mammal. Why else would a creature that normally eats acorns be completely obsessed with a bedroom full of nothing but cotton and wool? You see where I'm going with this?
I raced into the room, shut the door, (but I did this last time, you say, how did the creature escape last time? You're getting ahead of yourself), and saw the animal running towards the master bathroom. "Idiotic!", I thought, as I closed the bathroom door tightly. "Now, I've got him!", I assumed. But I didn't. I herded the creature into a corner, until he was directly behind the toilet. A magazine-wielding hand to the right, an intimidating trash can on the left. What I predicted would happen was the smashing sound of the magazine would cause the creature to flee towards the trash can, which I would cover the mousemunk with, and then dispose of. Unfortunately for me, the mousemunk was crazier than I thought and had detected a weakness in my attack. I beat the floor with the magazine at a fairly steady rhythm (I used to be a drummer after all) and then paused when I heard scurrying in the direction of the trash can. This happened three times. On the fourth try, after the scurrying had started, I peered towards the trashcan and didn't see the mousemunk! Only a millisecond later I was standing by the toilet with a magazine and a trash can in an empty bathroom. The chipmouse had calculated the time between smashing sounds and deduced (like a Marine) that running DIRECTLY TOWARDS an oncoming attack was the best means of escape. He lunged directly over my hand, did a handspring off the wall (near where the toilet paper hangs), flipped over my arm, scurried to the door, squeezed himself under a crack smaller than my index finger, and was gone.
Small thuds ensued, I ran over to the stairs just in time to see the last horrible-looking impact of the creature hitting the floor at the bottom of the stairs and tearing into the kitchen -presumably to the "safety" of our oven.
Beaten again, I went back to work, but as I went upstairs I took two additional tools - a broom, and a stack of cardboard.
Soon enough, I heard the all-too familiar scurrying, scratching sound in my bedroom, and I lept to action. Closing the door, I wedged pieces of cardboard underneath it - to prevent escape. Grasping my broom I soon located the micemunk in his forward operating base under my dresser. Deftly, I flipped the munkmouse out into the open. This was the first time I was able to observe a critical weakness in my opponent's arsenal: when he kicked it into high gear to make a get-away, instead of walking on the virtually silent pads of his feet, his clams extended. This trick normally worked extremely well in the soft organic matter of wooded glens and grassy meadows, but here, in the heart of my cozy American condo, the faux-wood surface of my Pergo floor felt as smooth as glass and he peeled-out like a banana-struck driver in Mario Cart.
Making one last escape to escape he disappeared under the bed. Bending down to look, he seized on my momentary lack of focus and bolted for the door. Only, this time he couldn't fit under the crack there! Again and again, he went crashing into the door trying to make the escape he knew was possible, but always in vain. After his last heroic lung he ran for the closet and disappeared into a thousand seasonal dresses and hopelessly out-of-style shirts. Soon we were at an impasse. He couldn't escape. But I couldn't find him in the folds of a million garments. So we waited...
And waited...
Finally, I just began beating clothes in a vain attempt to shake him loose. But wherever he was, he held fast. Until, finally, he hatched his last, futile, adrenaline-fueled escape plan. He ran out of the closet, pulled one of his patented handbrake-turn maneuvers and headed in the opposite direction of the door. Confused, I shifted my weight, and re-positioned my broom. This gave him time to slip between my legs and head somewhere, ANYWHERE, but this too was futile. I hit him with the broom as he zoomed through my legs - accelerating his rate of speed exponentially - and hurtling him...
Straight into the door.
The suicidal micemunk IDF assassin was dead. I took him downstairs, put him in a ziplock bag, and threw his body (wasting an otherwise very handsome fur coat) into the garbage.
If you, or any of your friends are considering a career in micemunk espionage remember this post, and pause a moment before messing with this house. I don't like to do it, but anyone who eats my food, poops on my bed, and scares my wife, will meet with a similar fate.
That's a promise.
Christof Meyer
p.s. Since I don't really know what America's culture war is I decided this event was just as likely to be a part of it as anything.
p.p.s The animal I fought turned out to be an Eastern Chipmunk upon further investigation. The picture above is of this same fearsome creature
Yeah, so here's a series of occurrences that I've run into in the past 24 hours. See if you can imagine how these all happened to me within such a short span of time.
1. A man wearing a kilt opens up the door for me, at 1:30PM, remarking, "you have coffee, one always has to open the door for a man carrying coffee...
2. 8 ordained ministers invite me to dinner with a bishop.
3. I learn that the Foreign Service Officers Exam is very hard.
4. A Marine explains why I should consider enlisting (in the Marines) instead of taking a commission.
5. I discover that I can swim 500 yards in 8:30... Who knew?
6. Erasmus speaks from beyond the grave and informs me of the value of reading Cicero.
7. I discuss the absurdity of CTU using Macintosh computers (on the show '24') with four Navy Officers. They determine that, even if it happened, it wouldn't last long, because the government would ruin the reputation of Apple by association.
8. While I am smoking a pipe in the rain I get a call from the FBI.
9. I learn that there are only two companies in the whole world who can accurately value credit default swaps (CDS's)... Things that make you go Hhmmmmm.
10. I rake my lawn for the first time all year (netting a little over 42 leaves). As I stare out my window I now cannot find any grass - as it is entirely obscured by thousands of leaves - this apparently confirms the theorem which posits that Fall can only begin after one has raked one's entire lawn.
Even for me, it's been an abnormally entertaining 24 hours. Posted October 28, 2009 COMMENTS: (1)
I began work on two new projects simultaneously - all while continuing to work on another. I planned a trip to California, neglected a few details, had a good time, had a bad time, brought a dizzying array of design thinking, business training, art training, and people skills to bear on a problem in three hours, narrowly escaped destruction, and slept only 12 hours in five days.
Upon returning to the land of the living this morning I checked, wrote, and delayed writing several emails and then got down to the task at hand... But what was the task at hand in this kind of situation? I am awaiting further direction on two projects and the other is in a sort of infinite holding pattern until I decide to go all-out.
Which I am not prepared to do.
Which means I started to think about my family. Wife, parents, brother, sister, etc. It seems like the only time they press themselves to the front of my mind is when I'm quiet. And this morning I've been still. The incessant sound of my desktop computer fan is the only sound besides my fingers typing that persists. That and the muffled sounds of busy work that I need to get finished "sometime this week".
This has just all been a setup. I wanted to explain why these moments are important. Last night I went out on a date with my wife for the first time in a while.
*pause*
That should sound a bit sad. That's the point. While I am still appreciating this momentary intrusion of sanity into my life I thought I'd take advantage of this time and make a list for you. Without further ado, here are my top ten reasons why consultants need to focus on their families more.
10. Because home-cooked food is way better than anything in an airport and, contrary to what the marketers tell us, you can only get home-cooked food at home.
9. Because no one cares more about you than your family and when you are frequently alone, care is exactly what you need.
8. Because focusing on client's needs can train you to become overly goal-oriented and cause you to forget that life is actually about living - not problem-solving.
7. Because your family is often the only honest voice in your life. And though the truth can tear you down it can also build you up.
6. Because the quiet voice in your head telling you to pay more attention to your family is probably a Godly one.
5. Because when all the money has been counted and the value has been created, the greatest source of joy in your life will come from your family - if you've managed to remain a part of one.
4. Because no one appreciates your sense of humor like family does.
3. Because they can often help you through challenging times - if you give them enough information to understand what you are going through.
2. Because your family often needs your help just as much as you need theirs and you can only help them if you know what they need.
1. Because nothing brings your lofty goals and horrible days back to center like a long conversation with your wife/mom/dad/sister/brother/cousin...
OH THE VAGARIES OF LIFE! Cooking and Dreaming and Praying The image above is a couple of beautiful brandy snaps that my wife cranked out on Sunday. Initially I was going to post about them on Monday, but I'm glad that I didn't now because so much has changed.
In fact, it really is interesting how pausing a bit before speaking (or writing in this case) can alter what you were going to write. I was going to explain, in triumphant tones, how this weekend was a culinary masterpiece. Just in the past week this house has seen smoked pork ribs, homemade potato rolls, brandy snaps, carmelized onion gravy, cornish game hen, and more. So, on the one hand we have been quite successful. On the other hand, the brandy snaps just didn't hold up well...
After piping in the vanilla custard that made them so good (especially good when served with our stovetop espresso maker) we just couldn't eat them all so we put them in a storage container in the fridge. The next day (Monday) we got them out for a snack and what did we see?!
* Pause for effect
Nothing but a goopy pile of pudding-like sauce in the bottom of a tupperware container.
It was really disappointing.
After nearly a dozen attempts at getting the shell just right -to be able to roll well, hold its shape, not stick to the pan, and be properly cooked- we learned to appreciate every last cookie... And now they had all collapsed into a pile.
We ate them anyway.
They had been transformed into a sort of crème brulée sans flame. Actually, it's sort of the opposite in that we transformed an ordinary dessert into an entirely different one with the application of cold and damp - as opposed to a blowtorch... I could wax philosophical on this strange power. But I won't.
We thought we had created an iron-strong monolith of crunchy, caramelized wafers, but were bested by a few hours in the fridge. What would I be saying/thinking if I had written my magnum opus blog post about this accomplishment? I would then have to either write a retraction or hide this fact in the annals of "things not interesting enough to commit to digital ink".
In the end I think this was a fitting testimony to the value of pausing before declaring victory. The only other lesson that could be gleaned from this episode, I suppose, is that if it's good, you should just eat it all that day...
Then all you'd have to worry about on the next day is being perceived as a glutton, or becoming overweight. But at least you wouldn't have to think about tomorrow.
In closing, I will simply say that although Thomas Jefferson certainly said: "Never put off tomorrow what you can do today", this is not a universal statement. As applied to eating it is most trustworthy. As applied to boasting - sometimes it is best to hold off.
