View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

We are approaching that date. The day, or rather the morning, our world shattered. Our perfect family.

I was grateful for that family. Every. Single. Day. I prayed to the Lord to keep them all safe. I don’t think I took safety for granted. Or happiness. And I talked to God about the loss of my father. At 54. When I was not yet 26. I was shattered. His loss was like a hole in my life. But decades later I realized that everybody loses their parents at some point and if this was the biggest tragedy of my life, then that just made me more compassionate with other people’s losses. But my heart still hurt and my eyes mist over when I think of him.

But, then it was June 6, 2020. Three years ago now. And the pain comes at intervals with such an intensity, it almost undoes me. Losing my son two years later didn’t take away the pain of losing my son-in-law Patrick. And it didn’t join with that pain. I grieve deeply for both. They were both part of our family of sixteen.

I don’t go around crying all the time. I even laugh and feel joy. At a sunrise or sunset. At God’s amazing world of flowers, birds, butterflies and rainbows. At the comforting arms of a friend. And at how my grandchildren are doing so well. Even after all they have endured.

Grief doesn’t follow a line towards acceptance. What does acceptance even mean? That I should be fine with losing two sons? No, grief is part of love. And love also means love of self. I know that I must go on. For others. We don’t need more tragedies at this point in our family. But also for myself.

An open wound needs care. So does a broken heart. I can’t just put a band aid on it and go on. That will make the wound fester. And infection may occur. For my broken heart I need nature and solitude. But I also need people. I told a friend recently that I feel people are avoiding me. She told me that they just don’t know what to say. They feel compassion, but are afraid of saying the wrong word. Sometimes words are superfluous. There is power in a listening ear. Or in stories. Especially stories about Patrick or Erland. And I like hugs.

Another friend told me that after her father died, people were afraid of mentioning his name to her mother. But that was wrong. Hearing their name is validating. A Jewish friend told me that in the tradition of her faith, one is to say the name of our dead beloveds every day. It is honoring and remembering and not forgetting.

Early in the morning the day Patrick died at 43, Grant and I sat outside on our little deck facing a little flower garden I had planted to honor and remember my parents whose grave is at Haslum kirkegård in Norway. We drank coffee and were silent, just watching the beauty of the morning. How the hummingbirds were hovering by each flower. How the wind gently shook the Korean lilacs bushes making their smell even more intoxicating. I never anticipated what the day would bring. How our lives would change that day. Anticipating and worrying about what might happen doesn’t prevent tragedies.

Patrick had gone out already for his morning run. Their family was visiting for the weekend. But I remembered how he loved having coffee with us on the deck, so I went to get another chair. As I put the chair down, I heard a scream. Torsten, Patrick’s 11 year old son, had just found his dad lying dead on our driveway.