memorable mondays: a different kind of dad's day

It was a different kind of Dad's Day for me.

Well of course it was different, anyone who knows me would say. It was the first without your Dad.

That's true. But to be honest, Sunday wasn't the hardest Dad's Day I've ever had. It was a fairly typical Dad's Day focused a lot on the Dad of our home, Daddy Troy.

I can't remember a Father's Day in recent memory where I shared space with my father. June typically wasn't a month we'd travel to either Montana or North Dakota, his last two states of residence. No, Father's Days in recent memory have taken place in Fargo or Minnesota, where we could reach Troy's dad in under two hours.

What made this Dad's Day really different happened before Sunday. And I wasn't expecting it. I was at Target standing in front of the Father's Day cards, ready to stock up on June card necessities, when it hit me. I wouldn't need one for Dad this year. I froze as I realized I'd not only not need a card for Dad this year, but ever. I felt ill and dazed.

I shared this moment of surprise grief on Facebook and received all sorts of sweet suggestions of how I could meet my grief in the eye, including by buying him a card anyway and bringing it to his grave.

People are so kind and the ideas were all totally well-intended, but for some reason, I can't make it work in my heart. Buying dad a card and writing him doesn't feel right at the moment, even though someday I might grab this idea and run with it.

Right now, I need time to just feel Dad. That's about all I can really handle.

In the end, when Dad had slowed down considerably and phone time was rare if not impossible and visits strained, too, what remained between us were written words. Each year I looked forward to Father's Day and his birthday, because those were the two times a year I could really communicate just what I wanted to say and send it off with a kiss, knowing it would be well-received on the other end. And it was.

So words, now, especially written words, feel sacred to me when it comes to my father. And for some reason, I can't yet touch them. I don't feel compelled to write to him, not yet. It feels too fresh and would be too hard. The most I can do is trust he's near, and allow that in, in little amounts.

I recently got in touch with a friend I hadn't heard from in several years. I remember her devastation when her father died, and saying, "Someday I'll need to come for you for advice on how you survived this." So it was nice to share my loss with her and hear her wisdom.

"No one can prepare for that loss and the sadness that comes from it," she said. "No words can comfort and sometimes even memories are painful. It took me years to see a photograph of my Dad and not want to turn the page quickly to avoid the overwhelming feeling."

And there it is -- the explanation.

"I don't think we're meant to be able to handle so much at one time," I said. "That's why grief comes in waves."

And that's why for now, writing to Dad would just be too hard. But someday, perhaps.

For now, I am comforted by visuals, and Sunday morning, I found one that I am so grateful to have. I call it "Daddy's Arms," and it's as precious to me right now as all the words in the world.

Daddy (Robert Beauclair) helping my big sister, Camille, give me a hug (1969)

faith fridays: all creatures of our God and king

Yesterday was a day of contemplating life and death at our hearth.

It started when I was backing out of the driveway to run an errand with my daughter, and we noticed our 8-year-old under the large evergreen tree in front of our house, his abandoned bike lying on its side nearby.

"What's going on?" I asked him after rolling down the window.

"Oh, there's a baby bird here dying," he said sadly.

He wasn't doing anything rash. Just keeping vigil, you could say. It was the sweetest, saddest picture of one of God's creatures looking after another.

It was enough, too, to have us stop the van to go take a peek. Sure enough, there was a fuzzy baby bird, struggling for life. It had been injured, and it was suffering. It opened its beak as if to ask for food, beg for help. We didn't know what to do, what would be right. We noticed its bleeding leg. We felt utterly helpless.

The bird had some pine needles stabbing its tender skin. We pulled them out, and ran inside to find a box. A few minutes later, I emerged with one, and asked the kids to gather some grass. We knew we couldn't probably save the little bird, but at the very least, we could offer it a soft, final resting place. Our little guy remained with the bird while we left to do our errand.

Later on, the kids discovered another young bird in the back yard. This one had already died. My daughter found another box, and carefully, with a paper towel, placed the bird inside. She found some tiny purple flowers and sprinkled the bird with them.

At nightfall, we went out to check on the first bird in the front, and found that the life had passed from it. There in the dark with the flashlight shining, we shed a few gentle tears for the bird, realizing it had indeed perished. The color had gone out of it. Its labored breathing had stopped.

Yes, I know it's "just a bird," but I've always been deeply affected by death of any kind. The loss of anything living -- except perhaps a hungry mosquito -- has never been something I could pass by easily. I didn't want to bypass these events, either, nor did I want to belittle the sadness my children were feeling. So I joined them, honored their feelings, experienced the sadness of something passing from this world all over again.

What is it that compels us to our knees even when the dying thing is "just a bird?"

There is a sacredness in being among the living. All creatures of our God and king have a place, a reason for being here, and all come from the Creator and are part of His living masterpiece. To have one creature plucked from the picture feels tragic, not right.

A few hours before we'd discovered my son tending to the baby bird on the verge of death, my older daughter and I had joined some friends praying at our state's only abortion facility. Quickly, I note the parallel. Just as I'd run to the shade of the evergreen tree to honor the dying baby bird, so, too, I'd run to be with others praying for the human babies who are perishing at that facility, and their human mothers who are also experiencing a death, no doubt, having felt forced to make a tragic, counter-natural decision to end the life within them.

Life is precious. We stop for dying things because we know this inherently and feel moved to honor life when it finds itself at the threshold between the living and the dead.

Sometimes, we can take action to save a life. Other times, all we can do is hold vigil and let God take care of the rest.

writing wednesdays: pieces of carmel (not caramel)

I brought my friend Vicky along again for a couple of my days at Carmel of Mary monastery. See more at Peace Garden Writer!

meaningful mondays: fleeting things bring joy

[Originally printed in The Forum newspaper Saturday, June 7; reprinted with permission.]

Living Faith: 

Fleeting things bring abundant joy

By Roxane B. Salonen, The Forum

When I mentioned a couple of weeks ago how much I love lilacs, a friend whose lilac bushes had been particularly prolific this spring offered me a bouquet.

Happily, I cleaned out one of my best vases and drove to her house to collect my gift of purple.

I found her out in the back yard planting flowers, shears nearby, ready to begin clipping lavender and green.

We stood there for a time in her space, marveling at the late seasonal bounty and the extraordinarily abundant blossoms. It was as if the usual spring treasures, having been delayed this year, burst through with unusual vibrancy once the cue finally was given.

My friend told me that she’d been coming out to the back yard in the mornings in her robe, coffee in hand, wooing herself awake by pulling the lilac branches to her nose and inhaling their pungency.

For the next couple of weeks, I reveled in watching the crap-apple blossoms that line our cul-de-sac turn our neighborhood into a painting. I took as many walks and photos as possible, making sure to stop and inhale often.

Absorbing it all, it occurred to me that my lilac friend also is my sunset sister – the gal with whom I trade texts whenever the horizon has produced a particularly dazzling sky scene.

What is it that connects us so powerfully on these points, I wondered? And then it came to me: fleeting things.

We are mutually moved by fleeting things. In the noticing of them, we come alive. And in the sharing of them, we celebrate.

It is precisely our awareness of how the lovely and temporary combine that we stand in the midst of them and find ourselves smitten. Their transitory nature urges a response, a heart-song if you will, because they are among us now and will be gone tomorrow.

Some might mourn the fleeting thing, focusing on its coming exit. But for my friend and I, and I suspect others, something else happens. We seize the moment and cherish the fleeting thing while we can, deeply welcoming the short-term gift.

But there’s something more. My friend and I also share our faith, and this base seems to most assuredly prompt our tandem leaps of the soul regarding fleeting things.

After all, we are fellow travelers on a journey we understand primarily as fleeting, but not without promise. In believing another spring will happen, we can more fully open ourselves to summer and patiently endure winter.

To me, living without faith would be like a never-ending winter without the promise of lilacs. Or, as one friend who came to faith in her adult years put it, like life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Faith is the promise of something lovely and loving to come that we can inhale to some extent now; a something not fleeting but enduring. As such, when beautiful, fleeting things present themselves, we can rejoice in them, both for their ephemeral beauty as well as the eternal reality to which they point.

Roxane B. Salonen is a freelance writer who lives in Fargo with her husband and five children. If you have a story of faith to share with her, email roxanebsalonen@gmail.com

faith & family fridays: what the nest taught me

I didn't even see it until I backed out of the driveway. Maybe the van nudged the nearby tree just enough to push it out. Maybe it was already there, though it didn't have a squished appearance that would indicate it'd been run over.

Since I was leaving, and on a timeline, I called my daughter and had her run out to inspect what looked to be a well-formed nest, toppled over now, lying in my van's path of the driveway. I hoped it was empty, and she confirmed that it was before carefully setting it on the front steps for later.

When later came, I bent down to get a closer look, and indeed, it looked to be an abandoned nest.

 

What had caused the birds to leave? Had its babies grown and flown? Or had something else prompt an urgent relocation -- perhaps the loudness of our household bursting through the front doors to take in the long-awaited spring weather?

I may never know. What I do know is that while nests have always been something of a curiosity to me, this one struck me in a new way. Perhaps because it seemed so fresh, I couldn't help but think of the little creatures who'd fashioned such a vessel, this twigged crater meant to harbor new life.

Some of the twigs were brown; others, newer, greener. It was splendid, really, this thing from nature that looked so refined.

When I posted a photo of the nest on Facebook, a friend commented: "I'm always fascinated by birds' nests, especially the smaller birds - hummingbird nests are beautiful and awe-inspiring! I wouldn't even know how to begin to fashion all these twigs and threads into a home, but all of these little bird-brains know exactly what to do. They're a testament to persistence! Thanks for sharing a wonderful reminder of life."

"I agree," I wrote back. "To think that they did this twig by twig, feather by feather, beak to grass blade. I agree that the bird-brains might have something on us, by their work ethic and tenacity! And all for the preservation of the bird species. Nature is fascinating if we take time to regard it. I'll admit, I don't always, but then one fine day a nest falls onto my path, and I must stop and admire."

Later, I reflected on that theme of persistence and how it relates to the faith life. We don't always know where we're heading, do we? Well, we know the destination, but it's hard to see sometimes what exactly we're doing as we fashion our world, detail by detail, sometimes almost as if by rote, and definitely by some compulsion we sense but can't completely wrap our "bird brains" around. 

Being a city girl, I don't have a millions chances to sit and reflect on nature, and yet whenever I do, it seems nature always teaches me a little something about my relationship with God. 

What the birds have told me this week, through revealing their nest (whether they wanted to or not) is that I must keep going, keep bringing in each offering of love, one by one, step by step, even when I can't see the beautiful thing that is going to result; the lovely life-giving thing that will harbor something -- maybe a hurting soul, maybe a grieving heart. 

Someday, we'll all experience a forced exit. We cannot cling to this life or our work forever. But as long as we're given this day, this vantage point, these tools, and whatever insight with which we've been blessed, we must do this work, and if God really resides in our heart, perhaps sing a little song while we go, minute by minute, dedicating ourselves to that beautiful thing that urgently demands our time and attention: life and what we're here to do.

writing wednesdays: the power of a couple words

What's in a name?

Oh, just about everything, I'm learning, in the right moment at the right time.

If you've ever loved someone who is no longer around, you'll appreciate my post on Peace Garden Writer today.


Peace be with you,

Roxane

tuesday treat: a healing sister shares her story

The following article was published May 17, 2013, in The Forum newspaper, Fargo, ND (reprinted with permission). I just spoke with Sister Okechi today, and remembered as we talked that I'd yet to share her story on Peace Garden Mama. Please pray with me that her efforts continue to be fruitful. 

Healing sister: Nun helps women, children cope with effects of war in Sierra Leone

By Roxane B. Salonen, The Forum 

FARGO – As a lifelong educator, Okechi Bernardine Njoku sees distinctions of places not just through landscape, food and language, but by observing the faces of children.

The Forum newspaper

During her visit here, the nun from the Missionary Sisters of the Holy Rosary has quickly noted contrasts between children in North Dakota and those from her current home of Sierra Leone in West Africa.

“Children are so lucky to be born in this country,” says Njoku, looking reflectively at her calm 5-month-old nephew, Wisdom, at her sister Viola’s Fargo apartment.

It’s the difference between being born into an environment of peace and one marked with war.

Divided nation

Having been commissioned to help those ravaged by 12 years of civil strife in Sierra Leone, Njoku and the 11 religious sisters with whom she works has witnessed the latter far too often.

Some children in her care were conceived through the rapes of their mothers and sisters by brothers and fathers, she says – acts done through the threat of death.

Now, when these children ask who their father is, there are no easy answers. “It was an internalized war, not one nation against another,” Njoku says. “Reconciliation is very difficult because they face one another each day.”

Though the war is over, survivors have been physically, emotionally and psychologically damaged, she says. “Some people’s hands and legs were amputated. Their houses were burned.”

That’s why, along with checking in on family, Njoku hopes to appeal to hearts during her short time here by sharing with local churches and other civic-minded groups the sisters’ vital work.

Though a slowdown of financial assistance coincided with the war’s ending, the need remains.

The sisters run both a primary and secondary school and train future teachers using a program focused on child protection and non-violence. They also provide meals for students on a daily basis, and require maintenance for themselves to see their work through.

Last August, an outbreak of cholera took many children’s lives.

“As the rain comes again this year, my heart is beaten because a lot has not been done,” Njoku says. She’s taken it upon herself to dig latrines and treat the water system with chemicals to prevent another outbreak at the school.

Desperate steps

Aside from the practical, everyday needs, wider issues also require their attention. It’s not uncommon for parents from poverty-stricken homes to push their teen daughters to become prostitutes, Njoku says. Many fall into the hands of sex traffickers.

“We went to these girls standing on the street waiting to be picked up by men and asked them to come to our school,” she says. There, the girls learned trades like sewing and hair-dressing and were given tools to continue their work.

“We think the way to end human trafficking is by educating them so they will have a means of livelihood, and then they will stand in a better position to shun people who want to take advantage of them,” Njoku says.

The sisters also help former soldiers find a new life away from the theft, vandalism and drug addiction that is so common, and counsel those traumatized from the violence of rape and having watched family members being decapitated and other atrocities.

In addition, they help students understand the richness of the soil and what crops grow well there.

Along with the physical, they treat the needs of the soul by serving as spiritual directors for the local Catholic Women’s Association, offering retreats and support, and training catechists for religious instruction.

Though the country is predominantly Muslim, Njoku says, no one is turned away from their help; all are treated as children of God.

Her passion for children and the poor began in her own childhood in Nigeria, which also suffered civil war. “I saw (religious) sisters helping the sick and giving mercy,” she says, “and I started thinking that I’d like to give my own life for people like that.”

Her work in Sierra Leone certainly has offered the chance to fulfill that yearning.

“When the war ended, the country built schools and hospitals, but they didn’t rebuild the insides of people,” she says.

Njoku invites anyone wanting to help to email her at bon4childd@yahoo.com or call her temporary phone number, (701) 885-9151, where she’ll be for a few more weeks.

“I don’t want to just report bad things, but to share our ministry and call together men and women of good will who can support our work,” she says, noting any amount helps. “As dedicated women we have given ourselves to the service of all humanity, and we depend on the charity of people to sustain our mission.”

Readers can reach contributor Roxane B. Salonen at roxanebsalonen@gmail.com