Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

The power of faith & friendship when facing loss May 9, 2024

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , ,
I laid this memorial service folder for my friend Barb upon one of my vintage tablecloths. (Minnesota Prairie Roots May 2024)

WE STOOD SIDE-BY-SIDE, arms stretched around one another, watching as our husbands carried the gray casket and slid it into the waiting hearse. Six friends grieving the death of a seventh.

The day before her 73rd birthday, my friend Barb died from cancer. And here I was a week later, standing outside Trinity Lutheran Church, linked to the women beside me in grief and in love.

My emotions ran high on this beautiful May morning of sunshine and greening spring, of new life rising from the earth on the Monday Barb was laid to rest beneath the earth. I understood she was at peace, in her heavenly home, and that consoled me as tears fell.

Family and friends of Barb were gifted with these nail crosses after her funeral. The cross reinforced the sermon, titled “Nailed It.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Her service was signature Barb, one she planned. One that proclaimed her strong faith in words and in music. Oh, so much music, because Barb loved music. Our friend Steve sang “Who Am I?” Friend Char slid her bow across her violin, accompanying children as they sang “Jesus Loves Me” and later as mourners sang one of my favorite contemporary Christian songs, “10,000 Reasons.” Galen played “Beautiful Savior” on his harmonica, another favorite of mine and of my dear friend Barb. There was more music, so much that Barb wanted, some of which had to be trimmed lest the service got overly long.

Sitting in the front pew, just steps from Barb’s casket, I immersed myself in the service. I laughed when her brother-in-law Dave, the presiding pastor, shared that Barb instructed him to “shake them up” with his sermon. He did. When he spoke of hell and then abruptly stopped and sat down, I wondered if he was so overcome with emotion that he needed to pause. Not so. It was that “shake them up” moment Barb requested. He returned to the pulpit to finish his sermon with loving words of grace.

Our bible study group gifted this garden stone and pansy bowl in Barb’s favorite purple to her family. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Barb loved her Lord, her family, her friends, old-time TV shows (particularly “Andy Griffith” and “The Beverly Hillbillies”) and the color purple. There was purple everywhere—flowers, ties, dress shirts, table coverings. Purple overflowed alongside love. Love in so many hugs. Love in words spoken by Barb’s eldest son. Love from God. Love surrounding us.

During the final weeks of her life, Barb continued to love on all of us, even as she lay bed-ridden. I would drop off a meal for her family, hoping to uplift my friend. And she uplifted me. She, who was dying. She never let me leave without kissing my cheek. I hold that precious memory now, the warmth of her lips pressed against my skin. To have that time with her to say goodbye eased me into her death. This time was a gift, as Barb’s husband, my friend Mike, reminded me, reminded all of us.

A loving message from Barb, printed in her memorial folder.

Barb gave so much, even in choosing the men who would carry her casket—Randy, John, Steve, Noel, Mark and Jeff. All of us friends, together in a long-time Bible study group. Twenty years of reading and studying God’s Word, of praying for one another, of growing in our faith and friendship. We have been through a lot together. Uplifted one another.

And here we were on this lovely spring morning, walking into church together behind the casket, behind the cross. Filling two pews at the front of the church. Listening and singing and crying and laughing. And then later filing out, waiting silently in the narthex, then outside. Reverently.

As the six guys moved toward the casket, we wives gathered on the side and I instinctively motioned for Debbie, Jackie, Mari, Mandy and Sonja to come closer. I needed to feel their closeness, the strength that comes from love and friendship in shared grief. It was a powerful and emotional moment standing together in a row, arms wrapped around one another. I felt Barb’s love embracing us. I heard her words, too: I thank Him for each of you. Our family and friends, I love you!

#

NOTE: I will miss my friend Barb and other loved ones I’ve lost in 2024: Uncle Robin; my brother-in-law Dale; and Aunt Jeanette. This has been a season of grief.

 

“Reaching Orpheus,” a must-see original play about grief, loss & relationships April 5, 2024

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 10:41 AM
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Promo for the world premiere of “Reaching Orpheus,” opening Friday, April 5, in Faribault. (Promo credit: Paradise Center for the Arts)

EIGHT MONTHS. How long has it been since you lost a loved one? For Alex, a lead in the play “Reaching Orpheus,” it’s been only eight months since she tragically lost her husband. For me, it’s been one week and four days since my sister’s husband, my brother-in-law Dale, died of cancer.

Thursday evening I attended the dress rehearsal of “Reaching Orpheus,” a drama scripted and directed by Dan Rathbun of Owatonna. The six-member cast debuts Rathbun’s third original play this evening at the Paradise Center for the Arts in Faribault. When I settled into my theater seat, I brought the raw emotions of new grief.

Alex (Innana Antley) and Ian (Dean Lamp) interact during a scene inside Wonky Leg Brewery. (Photo credit: Amber Holven)

The seasoned and talented cast brings that and much more to the stage as they share the universal experiences of grief, of loss. How we handle it. How we react to it. How we begin to live again in the face of deep loss. It’s there, all there, unfolding in dialogue inside a family brewery and in the mountains of Colorado. As director Rathbun writes in his director’s notes, “Rock climbing is an excellent metaphor for the struggle with grief.”

Alex and Sean (Samuel Temple), an engaged couple in real life, perform together for the first time in lead roles. (Photo credit Amber Holven)

Like Alex, we all struggle to climb our way out of grief. Just as Sean, who plays another lead role and who has experienced the tragic death of his sister, Sara, does. Sean runs the brewery with his father and also teaches mountain climbing.

This is a play in which any of us could perform the roles, portray the emotions. Not because all of us are skilled actors and actresses—most of us aren’t—but rather because we have all gone through the challenges shared on stage.

Playwright Rathbun and his cast of six cover the stages of grief, of loss: anger, denial, guilt, regrets, a desire to handle things on our own, escape… So much. So authentic. So relatable.

Certain lines imprinted upon me. Alex, who claims, “It’s fine. I’m fine.” She’s not.

Friends Alex and Abby (Jessica Bastyr). (Photo credit: Amber Holven)

And then her intense, well-meaning friend Abby, who says, “I’m happy to help.” She wants to help, to fix things, to make everything better for Alex. She doesn’t. Not initially.

And then there’s Ian, Sean’s dad, who follows the coping path of picking himself up, dusting himself off and going on with life after his daughter’s death, all the while ignoring his feelings and his volatile relationship with his son.

Sean tucks his feelings inside, until he slowly begins to open up to Alex, whom he’s teaching to mountain climb. Their conversations include phrases we’ve all heard, thought, spoken or written in the midst of grief: “I know how you feel.” I’m so sorry for your loss.” “It’s exhausting to be the strong one.”

Alex and James (Jason Meyer) in a tender moment. (Photo credit: Amber Holven)

Even James, Alex’s deceased husband, and Sara, Sean’s dead sister (played by Paula Jameson), offer their observations and thoughts in several scenes. There’s value in hearing their perspectives, too.

This thought-provoking play offers so much. Even humor. We all need laughter in the heaviness of loss. And we all need each other in the heaviness of grief. We all need to think, too, about how we respond to grief, the often trite sympathies we offer, the words we say that perhaps hurt more than comfort.

Beyond that, the playwright reminds us, via Sean, “…to tell people how much they mean to us every day.” Sean suggests we hold funerals before a person dies. That, too, I understand as I think back to my own mother and how we celebrated her 80th birthday nine years before her January 2022 death. I remember the family and friends who packed a small town community hall to honor my beloved mom. She felt so cherished and loved. I remember, too, my last visit with my brother-in-law, 3 ½ weeks before his March 25 death. He was well enough yet to sit up, engage in conversation, share memories. It was a good visit.

And today I think of a dear friend, bed-ridden, in hospice and dying of cancer. Her family, even through their pain, has opened their home to everyone, anyone, who wants to see their loved one. Each time I see my friend, deliver a meal to her family, I stand by her bedside, tell her, “I love you.” We laugh. We cry. And we never part without kisses placed upon each other’s cheeks.

Alex climbs the mountain, physically and emotionally. (Photo credit: Amber Holven)

This is grief. This is loss. This is love. “Reaching Orpheus” brings that all onto the stage. Deep and real, like the mountains we all must climb, have climbed.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Light a candle in honor of the little ones October 15, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,
An empty buggy parked in a field of sunflowers was part of the IRIS Sunflower Garden planted in Faribault for the first time this summer. It offered a quiet place to contemplate, to grieve, to honor. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2023)

TO LOSE A CHILD, whether in utero, to stillbirth, to SIDS or some other disease, illness or tragedy is to experience profound grief. It is unfathomable, yet reality for too many. It is heartbreaking and gut-wrenching and painful beyond words.

The IRIS house is located in central Faribault near downtown and near the Rice County courthouse and government services building. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

This evening at 7 pm, Faribault-based Infants Remembered in Silence (IRIS) hosts a Wave a Light Gathering to honor the memories of those children lost too soon, whether pre-birth, in infancy or in childhood. October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. People around the world are invited to light a candle honoring those children in a collective show of love, support and care.

This moving sculpture defines the front yard flower garden of IRIS, where iris are currently blooming. Hearts will be placed inside the cradle this evening. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

Locally that will happen at the IRIS office, 218 Third Avenue. The Faribault event includes the sharing of poems, songs and readings plus the placing of hearts in the empty cradle of the on-site bronze statue, “I Knew You In The Womb.” Attendees should arrive with candles and with hearts (with the names of lost little ones written thereon). Those hearts will be added to IRIS’ permanent collection.

More iris bloom in a side garden of IRIS. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

IRIS, a non-profit which started in my community, has grown to a world-wide outreach. It supports, advocates, educates, serves, comforts and much more and is truly an invaluable resource for anyone grieving the loss of an infant, a child.

Sunday morning two roses lay inside the otherwise empty cradle of the IRIS sculpture. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

So this evening, light a candle. And if you see blue and pink lights lighting a public structure like the 35W bridge, the Lowry Avenue Bridge or the IDS Center, all in Minneapolis, think of the sweet babies, the darling children, the dear little ones lost, and, oh, so loved.

FYI: For more information about IRIS, click here.

To read my earlier post about the IRIS Sunflower Garden, click here.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Sunflower field offers a quiet place to grieve August 10, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 4:59 PM
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Mother’s Day: Of love, loss & legacies May 14, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , , ,
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.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Heartbreak of grief April 12, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , ,
(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.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Dealing with derailed plans & loss at Christmas December 26, 2022

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 2:26 PM
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
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.

© Copyright 2022 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Missing Mom: Grief during the holidays December 22, 2022

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
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.

THOUGHTS?

© Copyright 2022 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A token of friendship & thoughts thereon October 24, 2022

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , ,

(Minnesota Prairie Roots edited and copyrighted photo October 2022)

GLINT OF SUNSHINE on metal caught his eye while mowing lawn. Five feet from the stop sign, Randy found the quarter-sized round in the grass. A friendship token with a center butterfly cut-out.

Like a writing prompt, my mind wandered to the story behind the token in our yard. How had it gotten there? When? Why? Plots form. Characters emerge. Tension builds.

I imagine the metal circle tossed by an angry friend. I picture friends—pre-teen or teen girls, simply because the token seems like something that age demographic would value—arguing. Perhaps their disagreement was over a boy or some weighty matter like name-calling or something trivial. No matter the reason, it was enough for one to fling the symbol of friendship onto a stranger’s lawn.

Or perhaps the coin was simply lost, fallen from a pocket. That scenario feels better, even if loss never feels good. I expect the physical reminder of friendship provided comfort and reassurance. Touch the coin when stressed, when missing a friend, when needing a moment of connection to someone who cares about you and loves you.

Friendships, no matter our ages, hold such importance. These are our people—those who get us, support us, encourage us, care about us, hold us dear. I cherish friends, from those who are on the level of just beyond everyday acquaintances to those with whom I can share anything and trust that they will listen, keep confidences and be there for me in joyful as well as challenging times. I reciprocate.

EVER-CHANGING

Certainly, friends come and go. The friends I had in grade school through college are mostly now friendships of memory. Memories of jumping rope during recess, dining at Club 59 in Marshall senior year and sitting cross-legged on dorm beds far away from home, our worlds opening wide. These friends will always hold a piece of my heart.

Moves, life changes, circumstances, differences and more change friendships, grow friendships, end friendships. That’s a given in life.

Technology has changed how we connect, form relationships. Through blogging, I’ve grown some close friendships with other bloggers. I never expected this, to first connect online and then develop friendships (think visiting one another, dining together, emailing one another and more). It’s wonderful, this widening of my friends circle. That circle is large, encompassing friends now from New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Texas, even the Netherlands, and other locales, including many places in Minnesota.

ACCEPTING, LOVING, SUPPORTIVE

Life is hard. There’s no denying that we all face challenges at some point in life. But true friends lighten those struggles by their simple, non-judgmental presence, by their support and encouragement. Family histories, grievances and experiences don’t get in the way. These are our friends. Pure. Simple. They accept and love us as we are, for who we are.

I may not carry a friendship token in my pocket. But I understand its symbolism, its importance. I hope whoever lost or tossed that metal circle into my yard has reclaimed her friendship or realized the friendship was not worth continuing. Sometimes that’s the hard truth, too, that not all individuals should remain our friends. Sometimes the friendship token needs to be tossed into a stranger’s yard, left behind so we can move forward.

TELL ME: How do you define friendship and how has it changed for you through the years?

© Copyright 2022 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Thinking of Mom on her birthday May 24, 2022

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
My mom celebrates her 82nd birthday at Parkview Home in Belview, Minnesota, in May 2014. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2014)

THE FIRSTS ALWAYS prove the hardest. And today marks a first. Today would have been my mom’s 90th birthday, had she not died in January.

I miss her. Sometimes believing she is truly gone feels impossible. A lot of that has to do with COVID—of seeing so little of her during the pandemic and then attending her funeral in the absolute height of omicron. Like so many other families with elders in long-term care, with loved ones who passed during COVID, the loss is compounded. Closure seems elusive in the absence of community comfort.

But I don’t want to dwell on that. I want to focus instead on my mom, a woman of deep faith, humble, kind…and such a gift to me.

I think back on her birthday in May 2014, shortly after she moved into the long-term care center which became her home for the remainder of her life. Randy and I drove the 2.5 hours to visit her, bringing with us a homemade chocolate cake and several jugs of lemonade. A few extended family members joined us to celebrate.

I took a photo of Mom as she gazed upon that rectangular cake, nine candles blazing, sprinkles scattered atop the homemade chocolate frosting. She looks content, pleased. That I could bring her joy on her 82nd birthday still makes me smile.

On Monday I smiled, too, as Mom’s sister Rachel and her husband, my Uncle Bob, stopped to see me en route back to their Missouri home after a visit to Minnesota. As Rachel and I stood in the driveway wrapping our arms around each other in the tightest hug, I felt a moment of fleeting sorrow mixed with comfort. None of my mom’s siblings attended her funeral due to COVID concerns, health issues and/or distance. I was thankful for their decision, although I knew it had to be difficult for them not to say goodbye to their sister. As my godmother and I hugged upon her arrival, I felt Mom’s presence. There was an undeniable moment of shared grief.

Later, after I served lunch, I grabbed a bag of gingersnap cookies from the kitchen counter to pass around. Mom’s favorite. I’d baked a batch awhile ago and froze some. When Mom lived at Parkview, I made gingersnaps for her every Christmas.

Today, May 24, I think of gingersnaps and birthday cakes and multiple memories that remind me of the mom I loved, still love. And miss. Oh, to sing “Happy birthday!” one more time.

© Copyright 2022 Audrey Kletscher Helbling