My friend and I sat down at Cottage Bar recently, already engaged in lively conversation.  Our upbeat exchange was fun, just what I needed on that dreary January evening.  

After a few energizing minutes, my friend paused, tilted his head, and narrowed his gaze just a bit.  I sensed a question was coming, and it wasn’t going to be about my upcoming fishing trip to Guatemala or my plans to climb Mt Kilimanjaro.  We were about to take a hard turn away from light banter, towards something a little deeper.

“What is your goal?”

Sheepishly Sharing the Goal

I shifted in my seat, looked down at the table, and slowly swirled my vodka tonic.  

I didn’t need time to invent an answer.  In fact, I’d thought long and hard about my goal, and I was committed to it.  But my goal wasn’t exactly grandiose, and I presumed my friend would be unimpressed.  

Haltingly, I lifted my eyes and readied myself, hoping my inquisitive friend would at least try to hide his disappointment with my response.  

“I want to be a good person to have in your life.”  

I want to be that for friends, family, neighbors, acquaintances, and even a few strangers. 

That’s my goal.  

A Path

If my friend was disappointed, he hid it well.  The immediate stomp down I had feared was avoided. But worry shifted to the follow-up question I knew should come next: What is the plan for achieving your goal?  

I was relieved when the question wasn’t asked because there really is no plan.   But there is a path.   

I’ve stumbled onto the path accidentally, finding it in spite of myself.  But beautiful people and gifts are presenting themselves along the journey, each as undeserved and unexpected as the path itself. 

The path is healing me, teaching me, and providing me what I need to come alive. 

I’m miles and miles from being who I want to be.  But the path is giving me at least a fighting chance to achieve my goal.   

Here’s how the path found me . . . 

Howard Thurman’s Advice

In October 2020, I was carefully considering setting off in a new direction.  During this time of discernment, I read a quote from author, philosopher, theologian, educator, and civil rights leader Howard Thurman.

“Don’t ask what the world needs.  Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.  Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

I sat with it, and turned it over in my mind.  

I understood not everyone agreed with Thurman’s statement.  I could appreciate the critics’ perspective.

But I knew that in many ways, and for many reasons, I was slowly dying inside.  The flames had been extinguished.  The fire in the belly was gone.  

If I was going to be of any use at all, if I was ever going to be a good person to have in your life, I needed to come alive.

Traveling with Grief

Reading Howard Thurman’s quote brought me back to a trip to Mexico, just a few months earlier.  

In February 2020, I was invited to join a corporate reward trip.  It was just one month after my daughter, Olivia Haverkamp, died.  Participating in a celebration excursion didn’t seem right. 

But nothing seemed quite right anymore.    

Olivia’s diagnosis, decline, and death, alongside a more private pain in my life, had broken me down.  The grief was heavy and messy.  I was struggling to move forward.  

Olivia lived a beautiful life.  She chose joy, even in the worst and most trying circumstances.  Olivia was kind, smart, fun, strong, faithful, honest, ambitious, adventurous, beautiful, encouraging, and focused on others.  She was a bridge builder.  A light.  

Olivia Haverkamp was, in short, a remarkable person to have in your life. 

And now she was gone.

I reluctantly joined the trip to Mexico, not sure what to expect, but knowing grief would be my traveling companion.

Desperate for Connection

As I walked the beach in Mexico, I longed for connection with Olivia.  I was desperate to hold on to who she was, to how she made me feel, to our life together, and to the beautiful memories I feared would fade away.

Gazing over the ocean, I recalled a picture of Olivia snorkeling beside a sea turtle in Australia’s Great Barrier Reef.  It was taken just one year before her death.  

The picture is vintage Olivia.  Choosing joy.  Living her dreams.  Not letting illness define her or get in the way of who she wanted to be and how she wanted to live.

Setting Sail

With this picture in my mind, I climbed on a boat, and sailed off with colleagues for an afternoon of snorkeling.  When the boat anchored, I grabbed my gear and slid into the ocean.  

Simultaneously weighed down by grief and hollowed out by loss, I was eager to escape to a new reality.  Perhaps there was joy to be found in the world below the ocean’s surface.  

An Indescribable Gift

What happened next is impossible to properly describe.  But I will try, knowing I’ll fall woefully short of doing it justice.   

A sea turtle appeared.  I moved towards it.  And we swam together for several minutes.

I understand the same thing happens multiple times, every day, all over the world.   The event itself is nothing unusual.  

But in those moments, somehow, the thin veil between this world and the next lifted. Death’s cruel distance briefly disappeared. The water became Olivia’s essence, and it surrounded me.  

I relived beautiful memories of Olivia and experienced Olivia’s dreams for the future, all at once.  The past, present, and future were momentarily one.

Impossible.  Magical.  Mystical.  Life changing. 

Getting Greedy

Later, I glanced again at Thurman’s quote, allowing the memory from Mexico to linger.  Letting it be just as it was. 

If I could protectively cradle and preserve this precious gift, perhaps it would remain with me, untouched and perfect, forever.  

Slowly, however, I drifted away from gratefully basking in the mystery of the memory and moved toward a greedy and desperate longing for more.  

Like an addict in search of his next high, I began feverishly crafting plans to manufacture more mystical experiences that connected me with Olivia.  

I compiled a list of the places Olivia planned to travel and committed to getting to them as quickly as I could.  

I would climb mountains, hike canyons, float rivers, explore cities — all the things Olivia wanted to do.  And in these places, I’d have that magical close connection with Olivia once again.  

This would be the way I would come alive and be of some use again.  

It was a plan. My plan.

Today

Now, 26 months after the experience in Mexico, and 18 months since planning began to re-create it all, I smile and shake my head at all of it.  

In February 2020, when I needed it most, the universe gave me an indescribable gift — a mystical connection with my deceased daughter, Olivia.  

In October 2020, I foolishly shifted from simply being grateful to God for this remarkable gift to attempting to play God and orchestrate a repeat performance or two.

In April 2021, I retired and began executing my plan.  I started traveling the world to climb mountains, hike canyons, float rivers, and explore cities — searching for another magical moment of connection with Olivia.  

It’s not for lack of effort or commitment, but another mystical connection with Olivia has not materialized.  What happened below the ocean’s surface in Mexico, I realize now, is most likely a once in a lifetime experience. 

But my desperate search for connection with Olivia, has put me on an incredibly beautiful and productive path.  

A path of new places, unique experiences, interesting perspectives, and incredible people.  A path of physical challenges, intellectual growth, and spiritual stretching.  

It’s a path I didn’t know I needed.  A path I never would have found on my own.  

And the path is offering something I crave as much as connection with Olivia — the opportunity to honor her legacy by who I am, how I live, and what I do for others. 

So I continue on the path, open to the mystery, miracles, lessons, and challenges I find along the way.  Grateful for all of it.   Committed to somehow putting it to good use.