Tuesday, May 27, 2025
By the time this posts, I’ll have gone again.
I’ll have walked the familiar path through the Speedway, found my seat, watched the traditions unfold, and felt the crowd rise around me as the fighter jets thundered overhead. I’ll have tried to take it all in — the joy, the noise, the flags, the memories.
And I’ll have thought about him. A lot.
It’s been one year since I watched my brother stand — or more accurately, will himself to stand — in what became one of the most powerful moments I’ve ever witnessed. He was terribly sick then, but determined to be present. Determined to honor others even as his own body was failing him. Five months later, he was gone.
This year we did the Indy 500 without him, and his absence sat heavy in the air. But I also felt him everywhere. In the roar of the crowd. In the unwavering strength of the flag. In the quiet grit of every veteran I saw. And in the tearful, proud smile of every spouse, child or grandchild honoring someone they’d loved and lost.
Since last Memorial Day, we’ve lost others, too. Wayne Stanley and Norwood Gay are two lights we said goodbye to recently. Friends. Colleagues. Both brilliant, both beloved. They couldn’t have been more different — Wayne was colorful, joyful, magnetic, the kind of guy who made everyone feel like a close friend. When talking with Wayne, you realized first how much you just involuntarily smiled, next came the inevitable laugh out loud. Somewhere in the middle of all of that joy, Wayne would drop a clarifying truth bomb on you; one that cut through all the clutter or confusion in an instant. Norwood, in contrast, was deliberate, deeply thoughtful — a steady hand, a legal mind always reading the horizon. He could calmly chart a course through chaos, maybe because he’d once commanded a wooden-hulled ship for the Navy. People might be surprised to know he was also a deeply spiritual person. The most profound and wonderous conversations of my life so far were had with Norwood.
Wayne and Norwood shared a sharp curiosity and deep care for the people around them. We were better for knowing them. I still hear Wayne’s laugh. I still feel Norwood’s support and guidance, offered without pretense and usually laced with a subtle wisdom that didn’t register until days later. I still see the unmissable sparkle in their eyes and never want that image to fade.
The world keeps going, of course. Time doesn’t wait. But if you’ve ever experienced a deep loss, you know that time becomes elastic. You feel people again in places they once stood. You see them in the smallest gestures. You hear their words in your head, sometimes when you need them most.
So if you’re missing someone this Flag Day, this Fourth of July, this summer racing season or any ordinary Tuesday, I’m with you. And if you find yourself overwhelmed by the feeling of memory and meaning hitting you all at once — whether it’s in a stadium, at a conference, a song, or a moment of quiet — I hope you’ll let it come. That’s honor, too.
Until Next Time,
Mary Schuster
Chief Knowledge Officer
October Research, LLC