EASTER MORNING DAWNS with the sunshine of God’s love. I believe this to be true.
I know that my Redeemer lives!
Have a blessed Easter, dear readers!
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Easter morning March 31, 2024
The art of rural Minnesota churches March 28, 2024
IN MY BACKROADS travels around Minnesota, I’ve often stopped at churches, drawn by their history, architecture and art. Churches are, to me, more than houses of worship. They are also galleries, museums, centers of praise and grief and joy.
There’s almost something holy about stepping inside a church, into the quiet of a space graced by colorful stained glass windows, religious sculptures, pews worn by the hands of many.
I feel a sense of reverence in the light, in the stillness, in the peace that fills an empty sanctuary. I feel centered. Calm. Enveloped by the sheer beauty surrounding me.
That beauty often emanates from the art. Stained glass windows, designed and built by skilled artisans, add a dimension of sacredness that appears heavenly when sunlight streams through glass.
Themed to history, those windows visually tell stories written within the bible. Many focus on Holy Week: The Last Supper. Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane. The crucifixion of Jesus. And then His glorious resurrection on Easter morning.
Sculptures, too, depict the same in life-size statues.
Sacred and religious art is powerful. It evokes emotions. Inspires. Uplifts. Gives reason to pause and reflect.
This Holy Week, as my thoughts turn more reflective and inward, I feel deep gratitude for the long ago faithful who created the stained glass windows, the sculptures and other art adorning churches. These works of art are worthy of our attention, our appreciation, no matter religious affiliation or not.
I can only imagine how many eyes have focused on the art within sanctuary walls. During baptisms. During weddings. During funerals. And during worship services. Joy. Comfort. Peace. Blessings. They’re there, all there, within the art within these sacred spaces.
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Beyond simply playing BINGO March 26, 2024
ISAAC’S EXCITEMENT was palpable. He flew into Grandpa’s arms for a hug. They share a special bond; they are buddies. I love witnessing the love between them.
“Aren’t you going to give Grandma a hug?” my daughter asked Isaac. He wasn’t. Not initially. But then Isaac did. After his sister, Izzy, hugged me. There were more embraces for their parents. We were ready to go.
The six of us entered a spacious gathering room accented by a stained glass cross and other faith-based art. The buttery scent of popcorn permeated the space. Prizes covered tables. BINGO cards, some white, some green, layered more tables.
This was Family BINGO Night at Isaac’s preschool at a Lutheran church in the south metro. Randy and I were there to play the game, but mostly to spend time with our grandkids, eldest daughter and son-in-law. Making memories. Building bonds. Sharing moments.
Isaac and Izzy were there for one thing—to win at BINGO and claim a prize. They scoped out the goods, Isaac eyeing an alien painting kit and Izzy a Paw Patrol puzzle.
As we grabbed BINGO cards and settled onto chairs ringing a large round table, Izzy next to me and Isaac next to Randy, I could see the kids’ anticipation. Izzy fidgeted. Isaac’s cheeks were flushed. While we waited for the game to start, we picked up frosted cookies to go with popcorn scooped into paper boats. Sweet and salty. Yum.
Soon enough the BINGO calling began. Loud. But I managed, even with sensory issues caused by long haul COVID.
We slid red plastic tabs across BINGO numbers. The adults played two cards each, doubling our chances of winning a coveted prize. Soon Marc was calling “BINGO!” and Isaac had his alien art. Good, one happy kid.
The BINGO rounds continued with no winners at our table. By then I was struggling visually, seeing double sometimes. My eyes are still healing from bilateral strabismus eye surgery and they were getting a work out playing BINGO. Not only were my eyes darting between two cards, but they were also occasionally focusing on the overhead screen to read numbers, when I was unsure I heard correctly. I felt my right eye muscles stretching, hurting. I needed Izzy’s help. She took one of my cards. I noted Izzy was becoming increasingly antsy about winning a prize. And then Grandpa came through and, boom, she had her puppy puzzle.
All was good and fine…until Grandpa won a second time and it wasn’t fair, proclaimed Izzy, that Isaac got two prizes and she only had one. Try and reason with an almost eight-year-old. It went something like this, “Well, Grandma won and she could have picked a prize for herself, but she let you pick one.”
“I thought Grandpa won,” Izzy replied, emphasis on Grandpa.
My granddaughter was right. I didn’t win. Randy did. Not only were my eyes tired. But apparently so was my brain. BINGO!
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Lion or lamb March 25, 2024
MARCH ROARED INTO MINNESOTA like a lion this past weekend. Louder in some parts of our state, like in Minneapolis northward. And quieter in other parts, like here in Faribault.
We got only a few inches of snow in my community. I think. It’s difficult to measure in a spring storm that mixes heavy snow, light snow, wet snow, sleet and rain. Yes, it’s been quite a mix of precip. But I can assuredly tell you that the once barren landscape is layered in fresh snow under grey, drippy skies.
The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport recorded 8.2 inches of snow, the biggest snowfall of the season. They can have it, although I’m sure Minnesotans attempting to fly out for warm spring break destinations did not appreciate all the flight delays and cancellations on Sunday.
Other than attending church services early Sunday morning and stepping onto the back stoop to take a few photos, I stayed inside all day. It was an ideal “sprinter” day (as my friend Gretchen aptly terms this season) to settle in with a good book. I’m reading The Violin Conspiracy, a novel by Brendan Slocumb centering on a gifted Black violinist. It’s a riveting, emotional read. Sometimes I wanted to roar like a lion at the unfairness, the prejudice, the challenges that thread through this book. I’m half-way through the novel.
Lion. Lamb. That applies to life, to books, to the month of March.
If I have a choice, I’ll choose a gentle lamb. I dislike conflict. I dislike sprinter storms that create travel woes, that require snow removal. But often we have no choice. Weather and life roar in like a lion and we face the challenges. Sometimes with fear. Sometimes with bravery. However we react, we are the stronger for having faced the lion. More empathetic. More compassionate. Less afraid. And that is the lesson of March.
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
“Winter’s Song,” memories, reflections & writing from Minnesota March 21, 2024
A TIME EXISTED when I loved winter. The snow more than the cold. During my growing up years on a southwestern Minnesota farm, I could not wait for the first snowfall, which then piled snow upon snow upon snow for months.
Fierce prairie winds swept snow around outbuildings, sculpting rock-hard drifts, an ideal landscape for Canadian Mounties. Snow pushed into piles by the loader of Dad’s John Deere tractor became mountains, rugged terrain to conquer. And pristine snow presented the perfect canvas for a game of Fox and Goose.
I remember, too, the crisp winter evenings of walking from barn to house after finishing chores. Packed snow crunched beneath my buckle overshoes. Frigid air bit at my nose, my mouth streaming billows of vapor. Overhead a billion stars pricked light into the immense black sky. Ahead of me, windows glowed in our tiny wood-frame farmhouse.
Those are the good memories I choose to remember. Not the near-frozen fingers. Not the pot on the porch because we had no bathroom. Not the house foundation wrapped in brown paper to seal out the cold. Not the central oil-burning stove that never kept the house warm enough.
Today I have it so much better. A warm house with a bathroom. No cows or calves to feed or straw bales to shake or manure to scoop. No dealing with cracked, chapped, bleeding hands. I have every reason today to embrace winter minus many of the hardships of yesteryear. But I find I don’t.
I’m working, though, on shifting my attitude back to that of appreciating a season which is often harsh here in Minnesota, although not in this unseasonably mild and nearly snow-less winter of 2023-2024. Last winter, now that was a record snowfall winter which tested many a life-long Minnesotan. Except perhaps my friend Jackie of Rochester, who loves winter.
Writer, musician, podcaster and former radio talk show host TD Mischke also loves winter (most of the time) as evidenced in his book Winter’s Song—A Hymn to the North, published in 2023 by Skywater Publishing Cooperative. I happened upon his collection of winter writing at my brother-in-law and sister-in-law’s house north of the metro. Jon is about as avid an outdoorsman as they come. Hunting. Fishing. And in the dead of winter, spearfishing on the frozen lake. This seemed a book written just for him.
Recognizing the Mischke name, I immediately inquired whether the writer, TD Mischke, was any relation to Sy Mischke, friend of my late father-in-law. Sy, a “character” by my definition, was TD’s uncle. TD Mischke certainly writes about characters in Winter’s Song.
His collection of short stories, essays and three poems honors Midwest winters. Not in a fully nostalgic way, but with a mix of reality. Winters are, admittedly, brutal. But also brimming blessings. The word “hymn” in the book title fits.
As I read through the short chapters, I found myself liking winter more and more. And that’s thanks to Mischke’s storytelling skills, his attention to detail, his introspective writing, his humor, his honest portrayal of winter in Minnesota. Not everyone is meant to live here. That Mischke acknowledges. But he also acknowledges the toughness, stamina, strength and endurance of those who call the North home. I agree that it takes a bit of fortitude to manage some six months of winter. I felt in that moment a sense of pride as a life-long Minnesotan.
That brings me to the second to last chapter of Winter’s Song—“Lessons of March.” It seemed only fitting that I was reading this chapter near the end of March on a day of predicted snow. I’ve never liked March much. But Mischke reminded me that this often grey month, which can throw in surprise snowstorms, should be appreciated for the simple reason that it makes us appreciate April even more. The arrival of spring. He’s right. Winter is often about perspective. After finishing Winter’s Song, I feel my thoughts shifting toward a renewed appreciation for this longest of seasons here in Minnesota.
FYI: Winter’s Song—A Hymn to the North is a finalist for the 2024 Emilie Buchwald Award for Minnesota Nonfiction. Minnesota Book Award winners will be announced May 7. To listen to TD Mischke’s podcast, The Mischke Roadshow, click here.
“In every walk with nature…” March 20, 2024
THEY LEAPT LIKE BALLERINAS across the dirt trail, white tutu tails flashing.
They were a herd of 11 deer sighted recently at Faribault’s River Bend Nature Center. I stood on Raccoon Trail aside Randy simply watching. One after the other they leapt with such grace, such practiced precision.
Only moments earlier, as we hiked down Arbor Trail on the nature center’s northeast side, Randy touched my arm, motioning me to stop. There, ahead of us, across the intersecting dirt path, several deer lingered in lowland grasses. I didn’t initially see them, my distance vision not all that acute. But eventually I spotted the camouflaged deer.
And then we saw more in the distance, nearer the Prairie Loop. There, barely visible behind trees.
A sense of wonderment, of awe, of just wanting to take in the scene before me overtook my spirit. Such moments in nature deserve full attention. We watched while two men walked right past us, unaware of the nearby deer so engaged were they in conversation.
We waited, whisper-quiet. Watching. Then the deer moved, ambling along the edge of tall dried grasses, staying parallel to the trail. Soon more deer emerged from a stand of trees and trailed the first traveling troupe. It was a sight, the endless stream of deer moving east.
Our attention turned that direction, toward the deer, one by one, long-leaping over Raccoon Trail, into the woods, up the hill, toward the prairie. We started counting. One, two, three…all the way to eleven. Only when the last deer exited the stage did we dare move, so mesmerized were we by the performance.
Randy and I resumed our hike, following Raccoon Trail until the biting wind of the March evening prompted us to turn back. By that time we were talking again or walking in comfortable silence. I wished aloud that I had my 35 mm camera with me. I’ve never been this near so many deer at River Bend. Eleven. But perhaps it was better I was without my camera so I could focus on the moment rather than on focusing and framing images.
Then, back at the intersection of Raccoon and Arbor Trails, Randy alerted me to more deer. Five this time. Standing statute still, without stage fright. Watching us. Us watching them in a stare-down. I wondered which of us would move first. Wildlife or human.
I ooohed over the cute babies, last year’s fawns. Even if deer are dreadful when darting onto roadways and unwanted when dining on garden flowers and vegetables, I appreciate them in their natural habitat. This is their home, their stage, this land of tall grasses and woods. Here they walk with elegance. Here they leap with the grace of seasoned ballet dancers. Here they give me pause to stop, to listen to the trill of red-winged blackbirds as we watch each other—deer and human—in the fading light of a March evening at River Bend.
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Grieving Arlene March 19, 2024
IN THE TWO YEARS and two months since my mom died, I have not cried much over losing her. Not at her funeral, held at the height of omicron in a church packed with mostly unmasked mourners. Not at the cemetery. Not once have I fully-wept.
It’s not that I don’t feel her loss deeply. I do. Some Sunday evenings I still want to pick up my phone and call her, as was my routine up until she could no longer manage even that. Now my son typically calls me on Sundays from his home in Boston, a gift to me in more ways than he can imagine.
The day before his last call, on a Saturday afternoon, the grief I’d tucked inside over my mom’s death spilled out. Everything came together in an emotional moment at my friend Arlene’s funeral. I missed Mom with the fierceness only a daughter can feel.
My mom’s name was Arlene. And I think that started the torrent of emotions I felt as I grieved the other Arlene, mother to Will and Karen and Steve. My friend. An artist. A woman of faith and compassion and kindness. So like my own mother, except for the creativity.
As I opened the worship folder graced with Arlene Rolf’s “Creation” batik art, I noticed first the selected scripture readings. Familiar. Meaningful. Joshua 1:8-9, verse 9 being my Confirmation verse: Be strong and courageous…for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.
And then Romans 8:28-30. Verse 28 has always been a favorite bible passage: …in all things God works for the good of those who love him. That scripture, like Joshua 1:9, has carried me through many challenges in life.
Finally, I read the gospel lesson from John 10:7-15 about the good shepherd and his sheep. It was, I was certain, the same section of scripture read at my mom’s 2022 funeral. Later I would confirm the overlapping of verses chosen for the funerals of the two Arlenes.
I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in God moments. And I was experiencing those as I mourned my friend Arlene on March 9. I held it together, through all the bible readings, liturgy and songs, until several of Arlene’s grandchildren clustered together to sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Their pure, sweet voices, minus any instrumentals, carried such emotion. It was as if a band of angels were welcoming their grandmother, my friend, into heaven. It was too much. I felt tears brimming my eyes, then sliding down my cheeks as I thought of my own dear mother welcomed into the loving arms of Jesus on January 13, 2022.
In that moment I grieved.
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Leprechaun magic on St. Patrick’s Day March 17, 2024
UNTIL RECENTLY, I didn’t realize trapping mischievous leprechauns on St. Patrick’s Day was a thing. But apparently it has been and this grandma needs to catch up with that trend.
On Saturday, my eldest daughter texted a photo of the leprechaun trap my grandchildren, Izzy and Isaac, created from Magna-Tiles, an empty tissue box, a plastic pot and something else I may have missed. They drew fake coins on paper to decorate the tiles, put fake coins in the pot and were good to go. Isaac is expecting the leprechaun to give them gold. Good luck with that one, grandson.
All of this leprechaun talk got me thinking about Lucky Charms cereal. So I hit the cereal aisle of a local grocery store. There it was. On sale. Lucky me. Buy three 26.1-ounce General Mills Lucky Charms Giant Size boxes for $14.97, a savings of $2. All I could think was, “I’m sure glad I don’t have to buy cereal for kids.”
I looked at the boxes and, to my surprise, found all the trappings of constructing a leprechaun trap on the back of the large size box. I also found information about the magic held within each mini marshmallow shape. I noted that the shapes have changed since I was a kid. No unicorns back in the 1960s. Shapes have been updated, too. I wonder if the marshmallows taste the same. Chalky. Not all that good in my opinion, but none-the-less magical.
Leprechauns are, after all, magical, sans the name “Lucky” for the Lucky Charms cereal rep. I learned more about these two-foot tall men from the book, Leprechauns in the “Curious About” series by Mankato, Minnesota-based publisher Amicus Publishing. It was a quick read with charming illustrations and photos.
The book confirmed that leprechauns are, indeed, shoemakers, mischief makers and introverts who prefer to avoid human contact. And, yes, they are wealthy, preferring gold to 401Ks; wear green, including their signature hats; and hail from Ireland.
So my suggestion to any would-be leprechaun trappers: Book a flight to the Emerald Isle. Or buy some Lucky Charms cereal to bait your traps.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone!
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Supporting the arts at St. Patrick’s Day Souper Bowl in St. Peter March 15, 2024
AS AN ART LOVER who also loves soup, the opportunity to buy a handcrafted bowl filled with soup proved a win-win in 2013. Today the annual Souper Bowl is still going strong at the Arts Center of Saint Peter.
This Sunday from 3-6 pm, the Arts Center fundraiser takes place at The Capitol Room, an event venue at 419 South Minnesota Avenue in the heart of downtown St. Peter. Here attendees can choose from an array of artisan bowls hand-thrown by local potters and then filled with a serving of soup from local vendors. Cost for the soup and bowl, yours to keep, is $20.
When I attended 11 years ago, I chose a simple green-with-traces-of-brown bowl for no other reason than I favor simplicity and green, nature’s hue. And I selected chicken wild rice soup because it, too, is a favorite.
In the years that have passed since that pottery purchase, I have used my Saint Peter soup bowl hundreds of times. I love the shape, the feel, the heft of this original piece of usable art. This isn’t just any soup bowl, but rather one made and shaped by the hands of an artist. And that means something to me. I appreciate the work of creatives.
And I value events like the Souper Bowl, which expose people to the arts, bring people together, build community. Sunday will be a busy day in St. Peter as this southern Minnesota city celebrates St. Patrick’s Day in a big way with a parade at 3 pm.
With a cooldown expected on Sunday along with gusty winds, afternoon temps in the 30s will feel like the 20s, according to local forecasters. Seems an ideal day to warm up with a bowl of soup served in an artisan bowl.
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Clutch of crocuses March 14, 2024
DAYS AFTER I BRUSHED aside leaf mulch, my crocuses are in full bloom under the bold sunlight of March here in southern Minnesota.
Veins run through the cupped purple petals popping with golden centers. They are beautiful to behold. Vibrant in a landscape of brown.
Due to the unseasonably mild Minnesota winter, these crocuses are blooming weeks earlier than usual. Had I not uncovered the perennials several days ago to find a lone blossom leaning, I would have missed this explosion of color in my front yard flowerbed.
I admire crocuses, daffodils and tulips, the first brave flowers of spring. That they even survive in this harsh climate seems a miracle in itself. Crocuses store food in corms, their underground stem system.
And so I want to take a moment to celebrate this clutch of crocuses, to recognize the importance of noticing that which is right before our eyes. All too often we hurry through our days without pausing to appreciate the little things. The flush of blossoms. The bright flash of a cardinal. The scurrying of a squirrel. Today may you stop, look and see, really see, the beauty within this day.
TELL ME: What little thing are you seeing today that bring you joy?
© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
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