Among the many sympathy cards I received when my mom died in January 2022. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
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.
Me with my mom during a January 2020 visit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 by Randy Helbling)
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.
A section of Arlene Rolf’s memorial folder. (Minnesota Prairie Roots photo March 2024)
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.
This is just a small part of Arlene Rolf’s “Creation” batik art, photographed from the cover of her funeral service worship folder. (Art copyrighted by Arlene Rolf; photo by Minnesota Prairie Roots, March 2024)
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.
“The Good Shepherd” framed print was a wedding gift to my parents. It hung in their bedroom and then in my mom’s care center room until her death. I now have this treasured piece of art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
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.
My parents’ tombstone in the Vesta Cemetery in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
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.
Photo used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
HE LOOKED NOTHING like a leprechaun. No pointy ears. No red hair or freckles. Rather he was a slim man with definitive wavy hair. Not at all what I expected given my Aunt Dorothy’s description of her fiancé. Clearly I misheard and in my 10-year-old self’s excitement missed the word “not.” “Robin does not look like a leprechaun,” Dorothy told me and my sister Lanae. We apparently were hoping for a boisterous leprechaun like that pictured on boxes of Lucky Charms cereal.
The morning after my uncle’s death, I called Dorothy at her New Jersey home. I needed to talk to her as much as she needed to talk to me. We share a special bond. She’s always called me, “My Little Princess.” I cannot even begin to tell you how loved I feel when Dorothy calls me by that endearing name. I never grow weary of those loving words.
But it is the loving name she had for her beloved Robin that sticks with me also. She always called him “My love” or simply “Love.” Dorothy and I talked about this in our phone conversation, about how the two met at a party at the University of Minnesota where Robin was doing his post doctorate studies. Within the year, they married. I learned from Dorothy that speaking love aloud to a spouse within a stoic German family is not only OK, but quite lovely. That has stuck with me through the decades. To be witness to the love my aunt and uncle shared was a gift.
CREATING A LIFE-SAVING DRUG
In his professional career, Robin gave another gift, one with a broad, life-saving reach. He was the lead chemist in the development of the compound Letrozole (brand name Femara) used to treat certain types of breast cancer in postmenopausal women. As I spoke with Dorothy, she underscored how grateful Robin felt to accomplish this, to potentially save the lives of women via this hormone therapy drug.
Robin was clearly passionate about research. He was also passionate about golf. But of one thing he wasn’t passionate and that was eating leftovers. He didn’t. I don’t know why I knew this or why it matters, but it was something we all simply understood about Uncle Robin.
AN EMBARRASSING MOMENT
That leads to a food story. Once while visiting my childhood farm, Robin’s dinner plate broke in his hands. He was just sitting there in an easy chair in the living room eating his meal when the vintage plate broke. Someone snapped a photo, thus documenting this as part of family lore. I remember the laughter that erupted and the absolute embarrassment this quiet Irishman felt. Perhaps in this moment he wished he could, like a leprechaun, magically disappear.
BLESSED BE HIS MEMORY
In the funeral flowers my youngest brother ordered from our family for Robin’s funeral, Brad included this fitting Irish blessing:
May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Loving words for an Irishman who looked nothing like a leprechaun.
The sunflowers at their prime on July 31. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)
IN THE GOLDEN HOUR before sunset on the last day of July, I grabbed my 35 mm Canon camera and headed with Randy to a field of sunflowers on Faribault’s east side. The 5-acre site, just off Division Street East behind Pleasant View Estates, is not an agri-tourism draw, but rather a place of peace, beauty and solace. A place to remember, to grieve.
Signage at the sunflower field defines its intention. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)
The nonprofit Infants Remembered in Silence created this flower-filled field with the help of donated land, volunteer planting, caretaking and more. IRIS, as the local organization is known, aims to support parents, family, friends, and professionals following the loss of a child in early pregnancy, from stillbirth, and other infant and early childhood deaths, no matter the cause.
A path winds through the field of mini sunflowers. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)
Walking the mowed paths curving through the hilly land proved emotional and moving for me. While I have not lost an infant or child (I nearly miscarried with my second pregnancy), my husband has lost siblings to stillbirth and miscarriage as have others in my circle. Most recently, my niece delivered her third son way too early in pregnancy for baby Hunter to survive. It was heartbreaking for Lindsey and Brent, their parents and those of us who love them. Likewise, 42 years ago my Uncle John and Aunt Sue grieved the death of their stillborn son, Luke. I thought of Luke and Hunter and baby Cheyenne, born too early to friends Bill and Geri decades ago. There’s much loss represented in the IRIS Sunflower Garden.
Visitors pen messages and names of infants and children on a memorial whiteboard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)
I will share more in a future post. More photos and observations and thoughts. Because I am dealing with sensory overload issues that leave me symptomatic and not feeling at all well if I’m on a screen for too long, I have to wait until I’m having a good day, good enough to visually tolerate additional photo processing and writing a longer post. It is the reason I am blogging only minimally. I am focusing on my health.
Scattered throughout the field are spaces like this to pause, reflect, grieve. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)
But today I needed to alert you to the IRIS Sunflower Garden before the blooms are dried, the field only a memory of the beautiful space it was while in full, glorious bloom 11 days ago.
I printed this message inside a handmade Mother’s Day card for my mom back in elementary school. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I’VE WRITTEN OFTEN about my mom, the life she lived, the legacies of kindness, compassion and faith she left. But what about about you and your mom?
On this Mother’s Day, I invite you to share about your mom. What do you hold dear? What was she like? What did she pass along to you? Who was she, in addition to being your mother?
I don’t know what my children would write if asked those questions. But I hope they would describe me as loving, caring, compassionate, kind and supportive. Creative, too. I’ve tried to follow my mom’s example. And, even though my maternal grandmother died shortly after I was born, I’ve heard that Josephine was a kind and gentle soul. Just like my mom.
I recognize that Mother’s Day can be difficult, especially if you’ve recently lost your mom. Like my friend Gretchen. Grief rises anew in a day focused on mothers. To lose a mom is a profound loss, whether that occurred a month ago or 20 years ago. Mother and child share a bond unlike any other, which intensifies the depth of grief.
A page in an altered book my friend Kathleen created for me. That’s my mom on the left counting jars of homemade horseradish. That’s me with my clown birthday cake, which Mom made for my third birthday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Yet, to grieve is to recognize that we have loved. I consider all the ways my mom loved me. Though she didn’t tell me she loved me or even hug me when I was growing up (that would come later), I felt and saw her love. Her love showed in homemade bread and peanut butter oatmeal bars. Her love showed in the animal-shaped birthday cakes she made for my five siblings and me. Her loved showed in clothes washed in a Maytag wringer washer. Her love showed in quarts of fruits and vegetables lining planks in a dirt-floored cellar. Her love showed in clothing stitched from flour sacks. Her love showed in poring through booklets of house designs from the lumberyard, always believing that some day she would move into a new house. One with a bathroom and a shower to replace a galvanized tub set on the kitchen floor and a makeshift shower of garden hose strung through an open porch window. One with more than three cramped bedrooms. One with a furnace rather than an oil-burning stove. One with windows that didn’t rattle in the winter prairie wind.
The old woodframe farmhouse where I lived the first 11 years of my life with our new house in the background. That’s my sister Lanae posing on the porch steps.
Mom taught me to hold hope. She finally got her new house in 1967, the year my youngest brother, her final child, was born.
On this Mother’s Day, let’s honor our moms—those selfless, wonderful women who raised us as best they could. Those women who carried us, physically and emotionally, who want (ed) the best for us. Being a mother requires strength, energy and so much more, but, most of all, unconditional love.
Happy Mother’s Day, if you’re a mom! And if you are missing your mom, let’s celebrate her, too.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
THE LAST TIME I shopped for sympathy cards 10 days ago, I thought I’d picked up enough to last a while. But I need more after what has been a really difficult week within my circle.
On Sunday, friends lost their great nephew. Just over a year old, he was struggling to recover from earlier heart surgery. The day prior to his death, this beloved toddler finally came off his heart-lung machine. Those who loved him most felt a collective glimmer of hope even as he remained on a ventilator. And then he died. On Easter morning. I cried great heaving sobs for this darling boy I’d never met, only seen in photos, his body bloated, tubes taped in place, baby fine hair spiking. My heart broke with the sort of grief that rises from deep within a mother’s spirit. Aching. Hurting. Overpowering in its intensity.
Another mother is experiencing similar grief. My cousin’s daughter’s husband died unexpectedly last week, only 18 months into their marriage. How do you, as a mother, console your daughter whose heart is broken? That, too, seems insurmountable. Beyond difficult. As moms, we want to “fix” everything, make it all better. To bear witness to such grief while grieving requires incredible strength. I feel my cousin’s pain as she strives to be there for her now widowed daughter.
And then there are the friends whose nephew died tragically in a recent car accident. When I saw a portrait of the young man and a photo of his one-year-old son, my heart broke for a baby without his daddy, a wife without her husband, parents without a son… So much grief just pouring out for this family.
I wish I could take away the grief, the pain, the suffering. I think when death is unexpected, as it was in all of these situations, it’s decidedly more difficult to accept. We understand when aging parents and grandparents die, even when someone with an aggressive form of cancer dies. We’ve already begun mentally preparing, grieving even before death. But this, these deaths, shock the emotions.
In the all of vicariously grieving, I will do what I can to support my friends and cousin. I’ll purchase more sympathy cards, pen notes written from the heart and pray for comfort to come. I care. Because they are hurting, I hurt.
I NEARLY STOPPED READING the book several chapters in. The content weighed on me, so emotionally heavy that I wondered if I could continue. But then the story line began to unfold in a more hopeful way. And I read on.
By the time I reached the final chapter of A Man Called Ove, I was so invested in this book, the characters and relationships that formed, the way lives intertwined to save a life, that I wondered why I ever considered not finishing.
This 2014 international bestselling novel by Swedish blogger and columnist Fredrik Backman now ranks as a favorite book of mine. It made me cry. Correction. Sob. I struggled to read the final pages as tears blurred my vision. It’s been awhile since a work of fiction has spawned such a heart-wrenching emotional reaction.
I challenge you to pick up this book and read about aging Ove and his grief and grumpiness and outspokenness and how the edges of his hardness begin to soften. I laughed. I cried. I worried. I felt hopeful. I cheered. I wanted to give Ove a kick in the pants. I pondered. I related.
The mix of emotions elicited by A Man Called Ove tells me one thing. This is a remarkable book. The writing. The way mental health weaves into the story. There’s no avoidance of hard topics—of bullying and trauma and loss and grief and obsessive compulsive behavior and suicide and the way the mind wraps and detours and struggles and copes.
Into all of this, the author brings hope. In new neighbors. In a mangy cat. In a teen with sooty eyes and a determined journalist and a friend with dementia. I appreciate how, in the end, differences matter not. It’s that kind of book. Real. Honest. Heart-breaking.
I did not see the American movie, “A Man Called Otto,” based on the book. I’ve been told it’s good by some, advised by others to watch the Swedish version instead. Usually I’m disappointed in film adaptations. I haven’t seen a movie on the big screen in many years.
This Sunday evening, movies will be front and center in Los Angeles as “best of” awards are presented at The Oscars. I didn’t find “A Man Called Otto” (or any of the actors/actresses) on a quick scroll through The Academy Awards nominees list. Tom Hanks stars as Otto. I’m not into Hollywood events like this, although certainly they are important to honor those who do outstanding work in their craft. Rather, I prefer books, where I can read and then visualize people, scenes, interactions. My imagination unleashes, prompted by the writing of creatives passionate about the written word.
TELL ME: Have you read A Man Called Ove and/or seen the Swedish or American film based on the novel? I’d like to hear your reactions to either or both.
Thank you to readers Ken and Colleen who suggested I read this book.
The cover of an altered book my friend Kathleen created for me following the death of my mom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
THE CALL CAME SHORTLY after 6 pm on a Thursday evening one year ago. In that moment, when my youngest brother’s name flashed on my cellphone screen, I knew. Mom died. Not passed. Not was gone. She was dead.
The news was not unexpected. Yet it was. As much as we think we are prepared for a parent’s death in the light of long-time failing health, we are not. I was not.
One of my treasured last photos of my mom and me, taken on January 11, 2020. Because of COVID restrictions, I was unable to see Mom much during the final years of her life.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 by Randy Helbling)
A year after that January 13 call, I still have not fully-grieved. Part of that I attribute to the timing of Mom’s death during the height of omicron. For me, there was nothing normal about Mom’s big public funeral (which I did not support) during COVID. No standing in a receiving line beside my siblings. No hand shaking. No hugging. No crying beneath my N95 mask. Just tears locked inside. Feelings held inside. Emotions of feeling disappointed and disrespected in a church packed with unmasked mourners checked.
It is a struggle to let go of such hurt, such pain. But I’m trying. Mom would want me to focus not on her death, funeral and burial, but rather on her earthly life and now her glorious new life in heaven. She taught me well, leaving a strong legacy of faith.
A portion of a family-themed photo board I created for my mom’s January 22, 2022 funeral. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
That legacy is not one simply of beliefs and words, but also one of attitudes and action. My mom was one of the kindest, humblest, gentlest souls I’ve ever known. My five siblings and I would occasionally test her spirit, her patience, her fortitude. But seldom did she express her exasperation. Sometimes I think Mom just had too much to do in the day-to-day running of a household and mothering of six kids to get upset. Wash clothes with the Maytag wringer washer. Can a crate of peaches. Weed the garden. Bake bread. Make supper. Scrub the floor. Iron clothes. On and on and on the list of endless chores went inside and outside our rural southwestern Minnesota farmhouse. She never complained, simply pressed on in her own quiet, mothering way.
Another page of the altered book features a photo of my mom holding me. I love the quote. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2022)
Even with all that family-centered work, Mom found time for outside activities. She was active in St. John’s Lutheran Church, the Legion Auxiliary, Extension Club, Craft Club, Senior Citizens and helped at Red Cross blood drives. Some of this came many years into motherhood, when her responsibilities lessened. I was already gone from home. I once asked Mom if she missed me when I left for college in the fall of 1974. No, she replied. She was, she said, too busy with the other four kids still at home. While I didn’t necessarily appreciate her answer, I understood, and I knew she loved me. Mom was undeniably honest, a trait I hold dear also.
I am forever grateful for the loving sympathy cards, memorials and other gifts I received. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
Honesty. Integrity. Service to others. All were part of Mom’s life story. She lived her faith. These words from the hymn “Beautiful Savior,” sung at her funeral service, fit Arlene Anna Alma Kletscher: Truly I’d love thee, Truly I’d serve thee, Light of my soul, my joy, my crown. The hymn has always been my favorite for its message and its beautiful, poetic imagery.
On the Sunday before the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death, “Beautiful Savior” and “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” were sung during the worship service at my church, Trinity Lutheran in Faribault, some 120 miles from St. John’s in Vesta. The congregation also sang “Precious Lord” at Mom’s funeral. Because of illness, I missed Trinity’s worship service last Sunday. But I listened on the radio, thankful in many ways that I was not in the church pews. Trying to sing the hymns from Mom’s funeral may have proven a breaking point for me, unleashing a year’s worth of grief. Oh, how I miss my mom.
I miss her smile. I miss hugging her. I miss talking to her and remembering with her. I miss calling her every Sunday evening at the same time. I miss sharing photos of my grown children and her great grandchildren. I. Miss. Her. In the hard moments of life—and I’ve had plenty in recent years—I’ve turned to Randy and said, “I just want to be the kid again, to have my mom take care of me.” It is an impossible wish, a longing, a yearning, yet a verbal acknowledgment of my mother’s love.
I printed this message inside a handmade Mother’s Day card back in elementary school. Mom saved the card and I am grateful. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Now, in my year-old grief, I still feel Mom’s love. I see her love, too, in the memory of her lips curving into a slight smile when I saw her for the last time, when I said goodbye and I love you and exited her room at Parkview. That smile proved her final, loving gift to me, her oldest daughter. I’ve locked that moment in my heart to unlock when grief sneaks in, when the pain of missing my mom rises within my spirit.
I unlock, too, the comforting lyrics of “Beautiful Savior”: He makes our sorr’wing spirit sing.
This photo, taken along Minnesota Highway 30 in southwestern Minnesota in January 2010, illustrates how the wind blows snow across the land. Conditions were worse, much worse, in the recent blizzard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2010)
SATURDAY MORNING I OPENED the blinds to a winter landscape awash in brilliant sunlight. That’s not particularly unusual for December in Minnesota. But what proved different were the two pillars of light flanking the sun with a rainbow arcing between. Sun dogs glared stronger than the center sun and I couldn’t stop looking at the scene.
I’m no scientist or weather person, but the sun dogs and rainbow have something to do with the frigid temps and ice crystals in the atmosphere. They lasted for hours, a true gift on a morning when I welcomed brightness in my day.
Landing at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
PLANS UPENDED BY WINTER STORM
I needed that beautiful light in the midst of Christmas plans that didn’t quite unfold as hoped. I expect many of you experienced the same as this massive winter storm moved from state to state. My son, whom I haven’t seen in a year, had to rebook his canceled flight from Indianapolis. His plane lands early this evening at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport and he arrives here Tuesday morning with his oldest sister and her family. I cannot wait to enfold him in a tight, lingering hug.
Yesterday Randy and I drove the 35 minutes to our eldest daughter’s house for a holiday meal and time together with the four of them, including our two precious grandchildren. We played space BINGO and watched a little artist paint and gave lots of hugs and then celebrated Christmas with a zoom call after our holiday meal. I am thankful for such technology bringing my family together from Minnesota to Wisconsin to Indiana.
For many families, Christmas together never happened, and not just because of canceled flights. All of southwestern (my home area on the prairie) and south central Minnesota were basically shut down by the multi-day blizzard. More than 2,000 miles of roadway were closed, including interstates. Snow gates were dropped into place, blocking access. The Minnesota National Guard was called up to rescue stranded motorists, who shouldn’t have been out in a storm that packed up to 40 mph winds whipping snow into concrete-hard drifts. I understand a blizzard, having grown up on the prairie. Not everyone does.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots edited file photo used for illustration only)
MISSING FAMILY/MOM
I understand the strong yearning to be with family. Being separated from loved ones during the holidays is simply emotionally challenging. I am sort of used to it given only one of my three adult children remains in Minnesota. But the missing never goes away.
This year brought an added dimension of missing. Missing Mom, my first Christmas without her. I thought I was doing fine until the final song at our Christmas Day morning worship service. Only moments earlier, a woman pushed her elderly father to the front of the church to receive Holy Communion. In that moment, my mind flashed to my wheelchair-bound mom. Within minutes, I was crying, trying not to sob. I removed my glasses, wiped the gush of tears with the backs of my hands. I felt Randy’s hand on my back, a loving and comforting gesture.
Later that evening, my friend Gretchen texted asking for prayers. Her mom died unexpectedly earlier in the day. After Christmas Day morning worship. After lunch and gift-opening at her sister’s house in Washington. Now Gretchen and her family are scrambling to book flights from southwestern Minnesota. This broke my heart. To lose one’s mama is hard enough. But to lose her on Christmas Day, even harder. My friend Beth Ann experienced the same two years ago. Christmas will now forever be connected to loss. Yet, Gretchen and Beth Ann are both strong women of faith. Like me, they know we will see our moms again. Together. Just not now.
TELL ME: Are you grieving this holiday season? Did your Christmas plans change due to weather? What’s the weather been like in your area? I’d like to hear your stories on any/all of these topics.
The photo of my mom and son which prompted my grief to surface. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 1994)
MY FOREFINGER SLID UP the photo toward her face, circling repeatedly as if I could somehow reach into the image and connect with my mom.
It was Sunday afternoon and I was filing through a stash of old photos given to me by a sibling at a family holiday gathering the day prior. I’d never seen the photo taken nearly 29 years ago of Mom cradling my chunky newborn son on her lap. She was 60 then, younger than I am now. The two would eventually form a special bond, despite the geographical distance. When Caleb headed off to college, he would call his grandma occasionally. She shared about the lengthy conversations and I felt thankful. Those phone calls benefited both of them.
Now here I was sitting at my dining room table, caressing that photo, missing the two of them. Mom died in early January. Caleb will, weather permitting, fly into Minnesota later this week for a short stay. I last saw him in early January, shortly before his grandma passed; he couldn’t return for the funeral.
Sunday marked about a year since my final visit with Mom in her long-term care center. That anniversary date and the photo, along with Randy asking me if I was familiar with the song “The Christmas Shoes” (I was) prompted my emotions to swell into full-blown grief. He found the lyrics for me, then played the song about a young boy buying shoes for his dying mother on Christmas Eve. That did it. The lyrics penned by Eddie Carswell and Leonard Ahlstrom in the song released by NewSong in 2000 moved me to tears.
The gingersnap cookies I baked for Mom in 2020. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2020)
I sobbed, tears gushing down my cheeks. “I miss my mom,” I sputtered, the words emerging as my shoulders heaved in sorrow, my breath ragged. I miss her kindness, her smile, her gentle way. I miss baking gingersnap cookies for her, as I did each Christmas because they were her favorite. I miss hugging her and talking to her, even if she couldn’t respond as her health deteriorated. I miss the essence of her, simply being in her presence. I miss sharing with her about her grandchildren, including that baby boy she cuddled. I miss telling her about the next generation, my two grandchildren. I miss sharing about my latest writing projects. She was always my strongest supporter, happy to hear that I’d had another poem or short story published.
A sampling of the many sympathy cards I received when my mom died in January. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2022)
This will be my first Christmas without Mom. Those firsts can be tough. I recognize that I am not alone, that many of you have lost loved ones, too, within the past year. I’m sorry. Grief often has a way of erupting during the holidays when families come together, memories surface. Time softens the edges of grief, yet never fully erases it. And that’s OK. To grieve is to have loved.
On the east side of the Valley Grove Cemetery, massive oaks rise next to a restored prairie.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
HE APPROACHED ME inquiring whether I was the official photographer. I was not. But I was photographing the Valley Grove Country Social on Sunday afternoon in rural Nerstrand.
The beautiful historic churches stand next to the cemetery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
That unexpected encounter proved powerful, revealing why this hilltop location of two historic churches and a cemetery holds such deep personal meaning for many. From the Norwegian immigrants who built the stone church in 1862, replaced by a wooden church in 1894, to today, this land keeps stories and memories and provides a place to grieve.
The hilltop cemetery provides a sweeping view of the prairie and distant treeline. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
For Brett Norgaard, Valley Grove is the final resting place of his beloved son, Bjorn Erik Norgaard, struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver on February 20, 2011, while skiing on frozen Lake Superior. He was only 23. Bjorn’s gravestone, imprinted with a ballad he penned, sits near the site of a massive oak felled in a September 2018 tornado. That tree, in the southwest corner, was a cemetery landmark, the spot where many baptisms occurred.
Memory boxes crafted from a landmark fallen oak at Valley Grove. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
A photo of Bjorn rests between two poems he wrote. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
Now, in this chance meeting, I learned of Bjorn’s connection to that tree. His father held it—two boxes crafted from that fallen oak, the larger one holding a passport, an American Birkebeiner pin and other mementos of a dearly loved son.
Brett Norgaard asked me to take this family photo. I was happy to do so after hearing his son’s story. Shortly thereafter, rain began falling so I was unable to photograph Bjorn’s gravestone. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
But it was Bjorn’s poems that expressed to me the creative spirit of this outdoorsman, environmentalist, cross country skier, Alaska fly fishing guide, 2006 Northfield High School graduate, son, grandson, friend…
This cemetery is rich in history, in stories and in natural beauty and peace. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
The second verse of his poem, “Oak Leaves,” seems almost prophetic. He wrote:
New season coming, you must change,
but please remain, not yet time to fade away.
For one day we will cease to be,
will you drop your leaves and cover me?
Today Harold Bonde, 94, will be buried at Valley Grove, not far from Bjorn’s grave, not far from the site of the fallen landmark oak. His burial space was marked off during Sunday’s Country Social. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
After Bjorn died, his father found 80 poems in his son’s journals. I understand why he cherishes them. These are the words of a soulful, introspective, nature-centered, sensitive spirit. And although the oak tree no longer stands, unable to drop leaves onto Bjorn’s gravestone, there’s a sense that the tree remains. Strong. Sheltering those who lie beneath the soil and those who walk upon the earth, come here to visit, embrace and remember loved ones. Only days earlier, on September 15, Bjorn would have turned 35.
Many families meandered and conversed in the cemetery on Sunday afternoon. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
On this day of a Country Social, Bjorn’s family remembered him, honored him. I saw love in a father’s hands wrapped around oak boxes, in watery eyes and precious stories. Here at Valley Grove, atop a hill edged by prairie, woods and farmland, and centered by two historic churches, humanity comes in moments like this, when a father shares his grief with a stranger. Compassion rises. A connection is made. Comfort comes. A loss is shared.
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Please check back for a follow-up post featuring the Valley Grove Country Social in its entirety.
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