Bargaining with the Beyond

On October 10^th, 2025, the one-year anniversary of my daughter Abby’s funeral, I awoke at our cabin in Northern Minnesota and got ready to drive the 15 minutes to Balmoral golf course. The year had carved me into an emotional relief of pain, guilt, sorrow, gratitude and wonderment, and I wanted the day to be a reflection on the yearlong emotional tempest that spun my life in all directions.

I dropped my clubs into the car’s back seat and shut the door. As I walked to the driver’s seat, I took in the beauty of our cabin. My wife Janet was inside sitting on our couch in her own state of contemplation, looking through dusty windows to the glacial lake formed 10,000 years ago, its waters reflecting a colorful mosaic of fall trees. This place has been a refuge for me and my wife, and a long-time summer get away for the two of us and our children Zach, Amelia, and Abby.

I pushed the start button on our Honda CRV, the same one Abby used for her driver’s license test, backed down the tree lined driveway, and merged on to Highway 1. After 25 years, the drive to the course had grown unremarkable. But today it was filled with a tangle of searing memories no parent prepares to confront. Having learned the fundamental lesson to carry abject grief rather than avoid it, I let the grief, still raw and grotesque, ride with me as I drove around rolling glacial moraines and fields full of fall transformation.

I passed dark rusty oak groves, worn yellow corn fields, and brown soybean fields ready for harvest while the cerulean sky studded with white clouds attempted to provide a calming blanket for my psyche. Just as I recognized that moment of calm, a sudden silent grip seized me—not a physical grip but a bizarre kaleidoscope of sensations.

 I sensed an abrupt expansion to my physical space; the air around me evolved into a vague cavernous feeling. The sky dissolved and was replaced by a sense of enormity, reaching toward the infinite. I felt engulfed and small, exposed while also being comforted by a cosmic quilt that was both infinite and protective. A sudden sense of sedate wonder enshrouded me.

I’d had similar experiences two other times since Abby died. Once while out walking near our home in Lino Lakes a few days after she passed away and then a month later while driving home down HWY 10 from a late-night shift at the hospital where I worked. The sensations today were the same, the visual phenomena were the same—an expansion of my sensory sphere. I was not dreaming. Calm and peace enveloped me.

I had heard people describe near death experiences as “out of body” experiences, but this was different. I stumbled into describing this as an “out in the mystic” experience. It seemed like a convergence of sensations that synthesized into some type of a communication, a message, perhaps a reassurance—a spiritual presence, a comfort to my soul. I surfed this moment as it swallowed my mind while my hands and feet continued to drive. As it had before, this constellation of sensations soon evaporated, its grip releasing me. A sense of awe now consumed me, and I wondered if this “out in the mystic” spectacle would return again someday. I decided it didn’t matter. Today, it provided a comfort and warmth on a cold, cruel day.

So my hands and feet finished the drive, and I soon arrived at Balmoral. I had been golfing since I was 10 years old. Golf is, at its essence, an endeavor for perfection never obtained which appeals to my desire to always be challenged. Combining this with the verdant paths one walks—the tunnels of stunning oak, elm, and poplar trees—golf offers peace and tranquility for mind and body. On this brutal anniversary, I hoped it would provide sanctuary.

When my kids were little, I asked them if they wanted to try golf, and Abby said yes. I had her small left-handed body fitted with beginner clubs, and we were off to the driving range. I showed her the basics of the golf swing. She practiced a frustrating game with a patience that surprised and heartened me, and I knew no matter how much she either embraced or later hated this hobby, it would offer unique father-daughter bonding time.

I realized Abby wouldn’t express her thoughts on golf in a soliloquy; Abby was understated, and everything about her was revealed at the pace she chose to reveal it. On our trips to the driving range or indoor lessons during winter months, her excitement showed as we arrived at our practice place. She would lean into the back of the car to grab her clubs, spinning the bag onto her shoulder, waiting for me to grab mine. As we practiced, she would crouch down to place the ball on a tee then spring up and focus on getting her stance right before swinging. Her face would display the result of every practice shot at the driving range: a frown for every shot that didn’t get off the ground, a content, self-assured smile when a swing sent the ball airborne and straight. And so through our shared solitude, and the highs and lows of a frustrating hobby, our parent-child bond grew even stronger.

Balmoral Country Club is a serene small-town 18-hole course settled in the trees and hills of NW Minnesota. A couple of hundred yards north is the Balmoral 9-hole executive course with much shorter holes for the beginners and the elderly; this is where Abby and I played our first round of golf together on July 24^th, 2013. That day was nerve-wracking for me. As a parent I wanted success for her. I wanted her to experience joy in this complex hobby full of imperfection. She was 10 years old and I knew time would accelerate. Soon she would be a teenager, then an adult marching her way toward establishing her own fingerprints on the world. Her daily need for my attention and guidance would dwindle. I never anticipated our time together would come to such an abrupt end.

So, on this day, one year after Abby’s funeral and 12 years, two months, and 16 days after she and I shared our first round of golf together, I pulled into the parking lot of the bigger course nearby. My mood far different and our parent-child bond still etched in my being.

My brother-in-law, Tom, was waiting for me. We greeted each other with our usual, “Hey, you ready to go,” while we readied our clubs. Tom had married into the family almost 30 years earlier. His intrinsic down-to-earth manner and his innate reliability made him a great person to walk with today. My thoughts now turned to golf. I knew Tom and I would embrace the imperfections in our game as we always did. I didn’t know and I didn’t ask Tom if he remembered today was the first anniversary of Abby’s funeral. I didn't need him to show me. I knew I could get lost in our efforts and that we’d revel in each other’s success and sympathize with each other’s failures.

Tom and I teed off and began walking down the fairway. The grass remained a healthy green but was peppered with thousands of fallen leaves. Still, more leaves clung to branches begging the question of what would ever make them fall, as they must, so next year’s replacements could grow. We wound our way through the first few holes with our efforts and results born from years of playing with average skill. I was getting lost in the thoughts and ambience of golf and a sense of peace guided me, a true blessing on wretched anniversary. By hole #5, my results were as they always were. Good shots, bad shots, unlucky bounces while focusing on the goal of shooting a par. A par is defined as the score expected for a proficient golfer. For me a bogey, one shot over par, was the usual result each hole.

On the fifth hole, a par-5, I had made it to the green in three shots. The next task was a long putt for me, and most often it would take three more tries to get the ball in the hole. So I stepped up to the ball, my lack of practice and skill made the result unpredictable. I lined up, concentrated, guessed what path the ball should take and swung. I watched the ball roll as I always do and wondered where it would stop, hoping it would be close to the hole. The ball rolled over the undulating plate of short green grass as I watched and I thought, “Hey, it might go in.” A second later that small white ball dropped into the hole. My first birdie in months!

  Tom and I erupted in cheers. To solidify this event in my personal golfing lore, I measure the length of the putt, walking fifteen steps to the hole—a 45-foot putt. A gratifying and rare event for me.

But I was acquainted with the basic rule of golf: one great shot doesn’t mean the next one will also be great or even good.

So we moved on to the next tee box, and my results were back to usual: some good, some bad. Then my ball reached the par-4 ninth green in two shots. Standing on soft, short green grass in pale cool sunshine, I eyed the path of this long putt. I was infused with a sense of tranquility; I cherished the moment just as philosophers from Buddha to Seneca to Socrates had taught for thousands of years. I approached this shot like all others with no more confidence gained from the putting feat a few holes earlier. Again, I eyed the distance and proposed a path for this putt. I stood over the ball and took an unremarkable swing. The ball moved on the path I envisioned, and I watched it roll. A second later as my vision tracked the ball’s path over another smooth, green, twisting surface, I said to myself again, “Hey that might go in.” A brief moment later my ball disappeared into the hole.

Cheers burst out again. This time more and louder. Again, I needed to measure it: 16 steps for this putt—48 feet. A thought flashed through me; I was encountering a once in a lifetime event. Later, I looked up the chance of a golfer with my skills making two such putts in nine holes and found the odds to be 1 in 67,000. It would take playing every day for 183 years to do that again.

As I picked up the ball and moved toward the next hole, I wondered: what if this was a moment of connection, a numinous occurrence showing up as a simple joyful event for me and me alone?

Losing a child sends a parent searching, screaming in silence for any connection with that child beyond this mortal world. Where is her soul? Is it anywhere? Does it exist? These are perpetual questions throughout human history. Fundamental tenets of all religions provide answers for their followers, and even those not adherent to an organized religion believe in spirituality beyond our tangible, tactile world. A survey of Americans by PEW research shows 81% (practicing religion or not) believe there is something spiritual, unseen beyond this world.

Being one of those 81%, I have pondered, even before losing Abby, if the spiritual realm manifests itself some way here on earth. With those deep thoughts percolating, my grief spoke, and I began to demand a tangible sign of Abby. My golfing child Abby needed to show herself from beyond science, beyond what we touch. I looked for a bald eagle.

Bald eagles had woven a unique place in my psyche over the past year. These majestic birds appear at key instances and provide solace, a calming vibe. The most striking was when one appeared overhead just as my son’s wedding service began seven months after Abby’s death. As I spotted it, an unknown emotional force engulfed me with love. I wept. I believe Abby’s spirit was there at her brother’s wedding.

So I begged the universe to show me this sign again. I was desperate for this inconsequential round of golf to become a place for Abby to let me know she was with me. In that moment, my longing and love for Abby poured out of me like an energy broadcasted to the great beyond. I bargained with the Universe, with God, and with myself: show me a bald eagle while I’m standing on this tiny speck of ground in our infinite universe and prove the spirit world is here, God is here, Abby is here. ­ ­­

A visceral unease wafted through me as I scanned the world around me, rotating my body 360 degrees twice. Nothing. I chuckled to myself laughing at the futility of making such a bargain. Shaking it off, Tom and I walked to the 10^th.

As I walked, I held the dichotomy of remaining at peace with the moment and still yearning for a connection, proof of the presence of a daughter ripped from my life. Tom and I continued our round with more of the usual ups and downs. We bantered about good shots and bad shots while I continued in my wistful pondering for more signs of mystic communication. I bargained with the Universe for another long birdie putt without offering anything in return. My hopeful thought was that three such accomplishments would give a sure sign that Abby was with me.

It didn’t take long for the silent bargaining to wane as the number of holes left to play became fewer. But I continued to practice the poise of living in the moment and proceeded with a tranquil mind. As we approached the green on one of the final holes, Tom’s 3^rd shot to a par 4 had him standing about 25 yards from the green. I stood watching him while also contemplating my next shot. His swing was in my peripheral vision, and I had a glimpse of the ball arching toward the green. I watched it land and bounce, then roll. I let out an instinctive holler at the ball (as if it would help), “Oh get in.”

The ball glided on the grass and clanged against the flag stick then disappeared into the hole—another birdie. We both bellowed even louder cheers at this even more remarkable shot. I smiled as Tom picked up his ball from the hole; I relayed to him about how I was waiting for three amazing golf events to happen for me as sign of Abby’s presence. Now perhaps with his even more amazing feat, it was Abby’s or the universe’s way for distributing the good golf fortune between the two of us.

Tom had a gentle and benevolent countenance as he absorbed my earnest and unusual tale. His smile and look of acceptance were just what I needed to feel secure in connecting to Abby’s spirit at that brief and vulnerable moment. As I walked to the next hole, I searched the sky again for a bald eagle, but I didn’t bargain for it. I didn’t see one. I didn’t need it. What had occurred had given me an even deeper solace and confidence that Abby was with me in some form, in some mystical way. I felt my love for Abby and Abby’s love for me as if she were standing next to me. Smiling.

I later found that the odds of Tom and me with our skill level making those three shots was 1 in 1.3 million. This was a statistical unicorn, a golfing miracle that wove into the awe inspired by the drive that morning swaddling my soul in comfort on this very difficult day. And we were not finished.

We wound through the last holes with our typical performance, and the start of the 18^th hole arrived. As I moved to the 18^th tee box, my mood now restful, I turned to look down the fairway. That’s when two brown dots on the western horizon came into view. I stopped and watched already knowing what these specks were. After a moment, two bald eagles glided into full view. I watched their laminar flow, wings not moving as they drifted toward me. They turned a bit north over the executive golf course Abby and I played on a hot summer day 12 years 2 months, and 16 days ago.

My mind, my heart, and my soul merged into one pristine sense of calm and quietude. I followed these powerful birds and as they turned back west with one graceful line and floated to the horizon. I turned toward Tom and said something about Abby and bald eagles and the connection between the two. I didn’t try hard to articulate the thoughts racing through me. I couldn’t describe this snapshot in time and realized that there are moments where words don’t exist and will never be invented to convey some life experiences. Once again Tom followed my brief story with a kind posture and a gentle compassion that told me he could share this with me.

With that beautiful minute now passed, but forever emblazoned in my being, I began the last hole of the day. I placed a beautiful first shot in the fairway, and Tom and I continued down the fairway. As I stood over my ball for my next swing, I could not resist bargaining one more time with the Universe, Abby, God—wherever these thoughts go. I bargained again: if I hit this next shot in the hole from 120 yards away, that would be a score of 2 on this par four otherwise known as an eagle! In 50 years of golf, I had only done that once. So this would be another amazing event on an eventful day. And this eagle would be further, extra, impossible-to-argue-against near proof that Abby was with me, with us.

All my years of golf and all the practice from those 50 years would be concentrated into this shot, to make it land on the green, roll in the hole, achieve an eagle, and prove Abby is with me in some way from somewhere. I let the spirit world guide me as I stepped to the ball believing I could make the perfect shot. And so I swung and made contact with the ball; something went very wrong. I shanked it so far off its intended path that it flew through a tree and did one of the most forbidden things on a golf course—my ball hit the club house.

I yelled “Fore!” and my posture slumped as my ball hit the building. Then a deep spark of irony made me laugh. My mood lifted and that shot became the most impactful swing of my life as it occurred to me if Abby is in the spirit realm she’s laughing. Maybe she even caused my shank? I chalked it up to a nice little prank that was well within her sense of humor. A deep smile covered me on this very bad anniversary day.

So there was no eagle on the 18^th hole after seeing the bald eagles. We finished the last hole in an unremarkable fashion. My score for the round was a satisfying 85. The sum of the day’s events wrapped my heart and connected me with Abby. I did not need to understand it, I did not need to know its source, I did not need an emissary to the world beyond. Through all the horrible memories encumbering this 1-year anniversary, this day would crystalize the fact—yes, fact—that her love is with me and was shown in today’s cherished moments.

So Tom and I moved to the parking lot, placed our clubs in our cars, and said our routine goodbyes. I sat in the car for an extra moment, my heart soft and my spirit floating. Then I started the car and drove the route from the morning in reverse, back to the cabin, full of peace. My soul now engraved with a gift I would carry with me the rest of my life.