My Father: James Lon Fiala

My father is an angel among the angels. A romantic notion I know. I fought for years to reconcile my feelings about his death. I raged at God. I raged at my father. I raged at my mother. Hell, I was screaming at anyone who crossed my path or would listen. I questioned God's love and my father's love. My anger boiled over in tantrum. How could they take themselves away from me and my brothers and sisters? How could they leave my mother alone to raise five children? How could they leave me alone in this world?

Then one day another angel helped me see. Fact. My father died. The rest? I created. I made it up. I made his death mean: I was alone, that God wasn't there for me, that my father didn't love me. I chose to give life to these untruths, living as if they were true. Tears flowed long and hard when I realized the years I had spent judging and blaming God, my father, and the world; because of a story I had created. I ask forgiveness of everyone my anger flowed over.

I know today that God and my father, love me and watch over me.

Emanuel Gustave Holstein

Grandpa Holstein is still with me every day. I talk to him regularly. I have many fathers in heaven that watch over me.

The more people I meet in my life, the more I am reminded how lucky I was to have my grandfather as a role model. He lived a life of service to his family and his community. He met and accepted you, where you were at, without judgment. His advice to me never sounded like preaching. There are many questions that I would love to ask him today, now that I am wiser and more aware of what questions I could be asking.


Spending time outdoors with my Grandfather; whether in his shed, yard, garden or in a boat on a lake in northern Minnesota are all treasured memories. I remember digging large fire holes in the back yard to cook baked beans. I remember whittling with my new knife while sitting at the picnic table in front of the shed. When I managed to slice open the middle finger of my left hand, I remember crying at my grandfather, “Grandma told you to watch me!” This was early evidence that I really needed to learn to take responsibility for myself.

Angela My Angel

Mama's Boy

February 10, 2016 


My mother Angela, died today. While heartbroken that my number one fan is gone. It hurts more to know that I won't have her to call on the phone to share news, and answer her questions abut various Facebook or Instagram posts that have confused her. Something I know she did with all of her children. What follows is a tribute I wrote a while ago - to my angel.

I was lucky enough to spend time with her in hospital, and tell her once again that I love her. After one of those times she said, "Thank you...you sure say that a lot" and smiled. It was even more heart warming to watch my daughter Fi talk and work with her through the weekend. As my mother went in and out of lucidity, their conversations went from lovely to ridiculous. Through it all their love and care for each other rang true.  I know that she had that same relationship with many of her grandchildren. I was lucky enough to see it for one last time. 

I saw her face light up when she Face-timed with her first great grandchild Nathan - and heard the love in her voice as she acknowledged some of her other grandchildren on the phone. As I said goodbye, I knew that moving on was her best path, and yet I still selfishly wanted her to stay.

Her struggle to decide whether to go or stay was so apparent in our conversations in hospital. She talked about the people waiting for her, Jim first and foremost, and her parents. "They need me". In the next breath she would ask about the new babies and weddings that seem always imminent in our family. I let her know that whatever path she chose, we were all okay with her decision. Her care and concern and worry for all of us was unending. As she said so clearly to her grandchild Julene, "I love you - forever."

I do not know how to sum up a life. I simply know that my mother loved me. That is enough.

I want my brothers, sisters and family to know that I love them. I want to thank Monte and Stacey in particular for all of the time and care of mother in recent years. They have been incredible with her. I grieve with my siblings and share your joy in knowing that Mom and Dad are together again. We all know what true love looks like.

Love,

Lon 


Angela May Fiala
March 3, 1933 - February 10, 2016

I don’t remember being born – but it seems like mom has been there for me, all my life. There is a lot of evidence that we are related – the least important of which are the comments from people who ask my mother if I am her brother when we go out together.

I am blessed to have a mother who has unwaveringly loved me. I remember asking her why she would always buy tickets for two nights to see one of my performances in high school. She explained that on the first night she could only see me, and on the second night she could actually see the show. I have since experienced this phenomenon when watching my daughter Sarah.

So how do you pay tribute to someone who has raised, loved and supported you your entire life? I’ve experienced her love, her tears, her rage and her fears. I’ve seen her in pain as well as in joy. I’ve watched her grow up and shared her love of dance, music, theatre and film. I’ve hurt her, surprised her, scared her, nursed her and loved her. So I guess; a thank you and an apology for all of the challenges I’ve thrown her way, would be a good start.

My memories are fuzzy prior to my parent’s accident, and my father’s death. My first conscious memories of my mother are seeing her and my father lying bloody and broken on the cold cement floor of the public beach house at Lake Calhoun. Both had received serious head injuries, my father taking the brunt of the blow that had left my mother’s face and jaw broken, not to mention various other wounds.

In the fog of my shock I remember repeatedly asking my mother for my grandparent’s phone number; which, miraculously she was able to give me though she was barely conscious.

When I say I watched my mother grow up, this may indeed have been her re-birth. This was the day and the moment in time that the responsibility to raise five children, which she had shared with my father, became hers alone.

I can speak with authority on how drastically my reality changed in that moment. I can only imagine the weight of the change in her reality. She moved from loving wife and mother, to sole bread-winner, grieving wife and still mother of five in a nanosecond.

When she came home from the hospital she appeared so fragile. As the glassiness in her eyes slowly waned, her jaw unwired, and her wounds healed; my mother reappeared and moved forward. We needed her to.

Time has changed my perspective on many things; but not – my mother. I love her.

Learning other people’s stories about their parents has made me appreciate even more, how blessed I am to have an Angela, for a mother.