"This is to have succeeded..."

Every few weeks, I receive an email from my undergrad alma mater’s alumni association. I confess that I often delete these emails without even opening them. Don’t get me wrong. I love WMU and don’t regret a single day I spent there. But we are neither big nor prestigious, and the alumni association’s headlines usually fail to impress me. “Current student competes in Miss USA pageant.” (Not even Miss America.) “Feasibility of WMU medical school considered.” (But no decision expected any time soon.)

However, a few days ago I received one that caught and held my attention: “WMU President Emeritus Diether Haenicke passes away.” I was taken aback by the instant profound wave of sadness that passed through me. I have not spoken to Dr. Haenicke since I left Western. He was not president while I was a student. He was not my advisor or any other consistent presence in my life while I was in school or since. Yet I find that I am in mourning, and over the past few days, I’ve been paging through my memories of him in an attempt to understand why.

I first met Dr. Haenicke during my first week of classes at WMU. He co-taught an honors seminar I was taking all about Joan of Arc. When I registered for the class, I had absolutely no idea who he was. During the first session, he introduced himself as simply Dr. Haenicke, but the other instructor made sure to point out that he had been president of the university before the current president. I was duly impressed and quite nervous, but I tried to see this as an opportunity. I told myself to be cool and make a good impression during the course of the semester.

I completely blew that goal exactly one week later. The seminar was a once-a-week, Wednesday night class, and Dr. Haenicke told us that over the coming weeks, he was going to take us all out for dinner after class, in groups of five or so. As this is the sort of situation that makes me (or at least, used to make me) horribly anxious, I signed up for the first dinner, telling myself it was better to get it over with. So, after our second class session, I found myself in the back seat of Dr. Haenicke’s car with some other students, on my way to a Chinese restaurant.

I have almost no memory of the dinner itself; I only know it went smoothly and I was feeling happy and confident as Dr. Haenicke was driving us back to campus. It was raining, so he offered to take each of us to our individual dorms. I was the first to be dropped off. He popped his trunk for me, and I jumped out of the car, grabbed my backpack from the trunk, and hurried up the walk toward the door. It was about five seconds later, just as I was reaching for the door handle, that I realized that I had sprinted away without closing the trunk. My stomach sank and as I turned around and watched the former president of the university (whom had just bought me dinner, by the way) step out into the pouring rain as a result of my stupidity. We made eye contact for the briefest of moments, and then he was back in the car and pulling away.

I walked back up to my dorm room and contemplated never leaving again. I felt like I could never show my face to Dr. Haenicke again. Things did seem a bit less bleak the next morning, but not for long. I went to a morning history lecture and then scampered to my 10AM psychology lab. As I walked toward the building, I couldn’t help but notice the name spelled on it in giant black letters: Haenicke Hall. The reality of whom I had embarrassed myself in front of slammed home yet again, and I secretly prayed that I would never see Dr. Haenicke again.

Obviously, that particular prayer was not answered. Not only did I see Dr. Haenicke every week in my Joan of Arc course, I also found out that he was heavily involved in the Medallion program, the very scholarship program that was funding my education. Every individual scholarship is named for either a donor or an honoree, and one of the winners in my year was the recipient of the Diether Haenicke Medallion. Dr. Haenicke was present at almost every reception and dinner I attended for the program for the next four years.

It could have been a horribly embarrassing situation every time we met, but Dr. Haeniecke never held the trunk against me. He greeted me warmly every time we met, and if he ever had reason to introduce me to someone else, he made mention of my insightful comments in class or my well-written final exam, not of my failure to close his trunk. He did not write me off as hopeless or unworthy, as he so easily could have. Instead, he forgot my shortcomings and noticed my potential. He humbled me not by looking down on me, but by treating me as an equal. In that way, he challenged me to be a better person.

After a lot of reflection, I realize that is why I am so sad to hear of his passing. Even though my day to day life will not change at all as a result of his death, I still know that the world at large is suffering a profound loss. The world was a better place while he was around, not only because of the person he was, but because of the person he expected you to be while you were around him.

I am just recently 26. I realize this is young by almost any measure, but I still find myself worrying from time to time that I am wasting these precious years of my life. As happy and satisfied as I claim to be right now (and I am, really!), I can’t help but wonder if I will look back some day and regret not spending my twenties traveling the world or at least doing something more incredible than going to bar trivia. I’m sure I’ll have similar worries throughout my life. My greatest fear is wasting this life I’ve been given. I never know how I will measure success; I am never sure how I will tell if I have done enough with my life to deserve this greatest of gifts.

In saying goodbye to a teacher and mentor, I think I may have found an answer.

Rest in peace, Dr. Haenicke. If, when I die, even one person remembers me the way I remember you, I will know I’ve done enough.