[originally published at The American Conservative–to honor my daughter’s eleventh birthday. This year, she would’ve been sixteen]

Had things worked or happened differently, I would be celebrating the eleventh birthday of my daughter, Cecilia Rose Birzer, today.  I can visualize exactly what it might be like.  A cake, eleven candles, hats, cheers, goofiness, photos, and, of course, ice cream.  I imagine that she would love chocolate cake–maybe a brownie cake–and strawberry ice cream.  Her many, many siblings cheer here, celebrating the innumerable smiles she has brought the family.  As I see her at the table now, I see instantly that her deep blue eyes are mischievous to be sure, but hilarious and joyous as well.  Her eyes are gateways to her soul, equally mischievous, hilarious, and joyous.  She’s tall and thin, a Birzer.  She also has an over abundance of dark brown curls, that match her darker skin just perfectly.  She loves archery, and we just bought her first serious bow and arrow.  No matter how wonderful the cake, the ice cream, and the company, she’s eager to shoot at a real target.  

She’s at that perfect age, still a little girl with little girl wants and happinesses, but on the verge of discovering the larger mysteries of the teenage and adult world.  She cares what her friends think of her, but not to the exclusion of what her family thinks of her.  She loves to dance to the family’s favorite music, and she knows every Rush, Marillion, and Big Big Train lyric by heart.  She’s just discovering the joys of Glass Hammer.  As an eleven-year old, she loves princesses, too, and her favorite is Merida, especially given the Scot’s talents and hair and confidence.  She has just read The Fellowship of the Ring, and she’s anguished over the fate of Boromir.  Aragorn, though.  There’s something about him that seems right to her.

If any of this is actually happening, it’s not happening here.  At least not in this time and not on this earth.  Here and now?  Only in my dreams, my hopes, and my broken aspirations.

Eleven years ago today, my daughter, Cecilia Rose Birzer, strangled on her own umbilical cord.  That which had nourished her for nine months killed her just two days past her due date.

On August 6, 2007, she came to term.  Very early on August 8, my wife felt a terrible jolt in her belly and then nothing.  Surely this, we hoped, was Cecilia telling us she was ready.  We threw Dedra’s hospital bag into the car as we had done four times before, and we drove the 1.5 miles to the hospital.  We knew something was wrong minutes after we checked in, though we weren’t sure what was happening.  Nurses, doctors, and technicians were coming in and out of the room.  The medical personnel were whispering, looking confused, and offering each other dark looks.  Finally, after what seemed an hour or more, our beloved doctor told us that our child–a girl, it turned out–was dead and that my wife would have to deliver a dead child.  

We had waited to know the sex of the baby, but we had picked out names for either possibility.  We had chosen Cecilia Rose for a girl, naming her after my great aunt Cecelia as well as St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music, and Rose because of St. Rose of Lima being the preferred saint for the women in my family and because Sam Gamgee’s wife was named Rosie.

I had never met my Aunt Cecelia as she had died at age 21, way back in 1927.  But, she had always been a presence in my family, the oldest sister of my maternal grandfather.  She had contracted tetanus, and the entire town of Pfeifer, Kansas, had raised the $200 and sent someone to Kansas City to retrieve the medicine.  The medicine returned safely to Pfeifer and was administered to my great aunt, but it was too late, and she died an hour or two later.  Her grave rests rather beautifully, just to the west of Holy Cross Church in Pfeifer valley, and a ceramic picture of her sits on her tombstone.  Her face as well as her story have intrigued me as far back as I can remember.  Like my Cecilia Rose, she too had brown curly hair and, I suspect, blue eyes.  She’s truly beautiful, and her death convinced her boyfriend to become a priest.

The day of Cecilia Rose’s death was nothing but an emotional roller coaster.  A favorite priest, Father Brian Stanley, immediately drove to Hillsdale to be with us, and my closest friends in town spent the day, huddled around Dedra.  We cried, we laughed, and we cried some more–every emotion was just at the surface.  I’m more than certain the nurses thought we were insane.  Who were these Catholics who could say a “Hail Mary” one moment, cry the next, and laugh uproariously a few minutes later?  Of course, the nurses also saw just how incredibly tight and meaningful the Catholic community at Hillsdale is.  And, not just the Catholics–one of the most faithful with us that day was a very tall Lutheran.

Late that night, Dedra revealed her true self.  She is–spiritually and intellectually–the strongest person I know.  She gave birth with the strength of a Norse goddess.  Or maybe it was just the grace of Mary working through her.  Whatever it was, she was brilliant.  Any man who believes males superior to females has never seen a woman give birth.  And, most certainly, has never seen his wife give birth to a dead child.  Cecilia Rose was long gone by the time she emerged in the world, but we held her and held her and held her for as long as we could.  With the birth of our other six children, I have seen in each of them that unique spark of grace, given to them alone.  Cecilia Rose was a beautiful baby, but that spark, of course, was absent, having already departed to be with her Heavenly Father.

For a variety of reasons, we were not able to bury her until August 14.  For those of you reading this who are Catholic, these dates are pretty important.  August 8 is the Feast of St. Dominic, and August 14 is the Feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe.

Regardless, those days between August 8 and August 14 were wretched.  We were in despair and depression.  I have never been as angry and confused as I was during those days.  Every hour seemed a week, and the week itself, seemed a year.  I had nothing but love for my family, but I have never been that angry with God as I was then and, really, for the following year, and, frankly, for the next nine after that.  We had Cecilia Rose buried in the 19^th-century park-like cemetery directly across the street from our house.  For the first three years after her death, I walked to her grave daily.  Even to this day, I visit her grave at least once a week when in Hillsdale.  In the first year after her death, I was on sabbatical, writing a biography of Charles Carroll of Carrollton.  Every early afternoon, I would walk over to her grave, lay down across it, and listen to Marillion’s Afraid of Sunlight.  Sometime in the hour or so visit, I would just raise my fist to the sky and scream at God.  “You gave me one job, God, to be a father to this little girl, and you took it all away.”  In my fury, I called Him the greatest murderer in history, a bastard, an abortionist, and other horrible things.  I never doubted His existence, but I very much questioned His love for us.

Several things got me through that first year: most especially my wife and my children as well as my friends.  There’s nothing like tragedy to reveal the true faces of those you know.  Thank God, those I knew were as true in their honor and goodness as I had hoped they would be.  A few others things helped me as well.  I reread Tolkien, and I read, almost nonstop, Eliot’s collected poetry, but especially “The Hollow Men,” “Ash Wednesday,” and the “Four Quartets.”  I also, as noted above, listened to Marillion.  As strange as it might seem, my family, my friends, Tolkien, Eliot, and Marillion saved my life that year.  I have no doubt about that.  And, nothing gave me as much hope as Sam Gamgee in Mordor.  “Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while.  The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach.”  As unorthodox as this might be, we included Tolkien’s quote in the funeral Mass.

A year ago, my oldest daughter–the single nicest person I have ever met–and I were hiking in central Colorado.  We were remembering Cecilia Rose and her death.  Being both kind and wise, my daughter finally said to me, “You know, dad, it’s okay that you’ve been mad at God.  But, don’t you think that 10 years is long enough?”  For whatever reason–and for a million reasons–my daughter’s words hit me at a profound level, and I’m more at peace over the last year than I’ve been since Cecilia Rose died.  I miss my little one like mad, and tears still spring almost immediately to my eyes when I think of her.  I don’t think any parent will ever get over the loss of a child, and I don’t think we’re meant to.  But, I do know this: my Cecilia Rose is safely with her Heavenly Father, and, her Heavenly Mother, and almost certainly celebrating her birthday in ways beyond our imagination and even our hope.  I have no doubt that my maternal grandmother and grandfather look after her, and that maybe even Tolkien and Eliot look in on her from time to time.  And, maybe even St. Cecilia herself has taught my Cecilia Rose all about the music of the spheres.  Indeed, maybe she sees the White Star.  Let me re-write that: I know that Cecilia Rose sees the White Star.  She is the White Star.

Happy birthday, Cecilia Rose.  Your daddy misses you like crazy, but he does everything he can to make sure that he makes it to Heaven–if for no other reason than to hug you and hug you and hug you.

Travels

My wife, Dedra, and I just spent the past week in Pierre, South Dakota. I’m sure Pierre wouldn’t be for everyone, but I love it. I have my chair of contemplation there, and I take daily walks along the Missouri River. The people are incredibly nice (just like my upbringing in Kansas), and I always feel like a member of a small republic when I’m there.

To keep reading, please go here:

https://bradleyjbirzer.substack.com/p/time-time-time

For those Spirit of Cecilia readers who might be interested, I’ve started my own substack. Please subscribe! Here’s my introductory post:

https://bradleyjbirzer.substack.com/p/full-of-myself

For Immediate Release

Two New EPs From Held By Trees Recorded at Peter Gabriel’s Real World Studios Released Exclusively by InnerSleeve.com

Featuring Paul McCartney/Pretenders guitar legend Robbie McIntosh!

Hot on the heels of their critically acclaimed debut album, “Solace”, instrumental project Held By Trees is excited to be releasing two new EPs this year on Sound Canyon Records through InnerSleeve.comrecorded at Peter Gabriel’s famous Real World Studios, the first EP is comprised of live versions of five tracks from “Solace”. The six-piece live iteration of Held By Trees brings together three of the Talk Talk/Mark Hollis alumni that contributed to “Solace” including renowned guitarist Robbie McIntosh. The band recorded playing all together in the ‘Big Room’ at Real World in November 2022, a week after their debut live performances.

The second EP is an entirely new suite of pieces themed on the transition from daylight to darkness. Entitled “Eventide”, it was tracked live at Real World Studios and then additional layers were added by musicians in America and Canada, by old friends of project leader David Joseph.

The twin EPs will be released on separate CDs and as two sides of one vinyl pressing by new American record label, Sound Canyon and their retail arm www.InnerSleeve.com

The new material sees Held By Trees continue to create instrumental music characterized by skilled improvisation over spacious, epic arrangements. The music draws on the influence of Van Morrison and John Martyn, alongside their usual late Talk Talk and Pink Floyd references. The live versions of “Solace” tracks bring a fresh intensity to the music, with a heavier vibe created by the band in real time.

The main musicians who worked on the new EPs are…
Laurence Pendrous – piano
James Grant – bass, double bass
Robbie McIntosh – guitar
David Joseph – guitar
Andy Panayi – flute, clarinet, saxophone
Paul Beavis – drums

Pre-orders available at https://www.innersleeve.com/en-gb/collections/held-by-trees

First 50 customers pre-ordering the bundle (both EP’s and the vinyl) will receive an exclusive signed poster and one lucky winner will receive a set of album cover cushion covers

Videos:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuam_koJkII
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrUjGIrSAVM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nb6ZTLgEXhQ

Held By Trees and www.InnerSleeve.com will be celebrating the release with a launch show at the Half Moon in Putney London on September 21st 2023

WHAT THEY SAID….

“A fascinating project… Rekindles the spirit of Talk Talk to startling effect… channels their psychedelic post-rock vibe to an almost eerie degree” – Prog Magazine

“…beautifully played throughout…” – Mojo Magazine

“A tree is planted for every album sold… I’ll be planting a few trees – giving them out at Christmas!” – Guy Garvey, Elbow / BBC 6 Music

“…beautiful, minimalist, instrumental delight” – Scottish Daily Express

“Timely, important, beautiful music” – Under the Radar

“A tantalising project evokes the spirit of latter-era Talk Talk and David Gilmour-led Pink Floyd…highly recommended for fans of Hollis’ sparse aesthetic” – Classic Pop Magazine

“New heroes of post-rock/prog have arrived.” – Record Collector Magazine

“…Lovely but very different guitar work… somehow sparse but also slightly proggy as well which I know will sound very appealing, almost like a perfect combination…” – Elizabeth Alker – Unclassified, BBC Radio 3

“Solace” charted at Number 4 on the Indie Breakers Chart and Number 23 on the main Indie Chart

For more information: www.heldbytrees.co.uk UK

Exodusters–Voting with one’s feet

                  One of the greatest rights any person can hold is the “right to exit,” that is, the right and ability to depart a bad situation in search of a better one.  With the failure and end of post-Civil War Reconstruction in 1877, numerous ex-slaves voted with their feet, leaving the South for the American West.  The 1870s and 1880s witnessed the beginning of the plains settlement boom, and blacks migrated in significant numbers to western Kansas, western Nebraska, and Oklahoma.  Known as Exodusters, these blacks shook the dust of southern prejudice off their feet.  The Homestead Act of 1862, one of the most liberal and republican of all American laws, did not discriminate on basis of race, and any black males or single black females were welcome to take up a government-provided homestead.  Though records were poorly kept, almost 40,000 blacks migrated to the new communities.  Like many or the original European-derived Great Plains communities, few of these black Gilded Age settlements remain at the beginning of the twenty-first century.  The most prominent of those still extant is Nicodemus in Graham County, Kansas.  It had been the earliest of the Exoduster communities, founded in 1877.

                  The two most prominent individuals in the great exodus from the South were Louisianan Henry Adams, a former slave, and Benjamin “Pap” Singleton.  Both men mixed self-help philosophy and God-given drive with entrepreneurial boosterism to promote the black settlements.  “What’s going to be a hundred years from now ain’t much account to us,” Singleton said, and the “whites has the lands and the sense, an’ the blacks has nothin’ but their freedom, an’ it’s jest like a dream to them.” The promoters sent advertising circulars to black churches, mostly located in the border states and upper South.  Most of the Exodusters came from Tennessee.

                  The enterprise faced many obstacles.  First, many southern whites feared the loss of exploitable, cheap labor.  Armed throughout river ports in the South, whites physically prevented innumerable blacks from migrating.  Second, unlike the many European immigrants to the high plains who had first lived in the steppes of Russia, the blacks from the South had no experience with dry farming.  Continental weather patterns and very little rain hindered black agricultural efforts at first.

                  Still, the new settlers overcame these difficulties and created thriving communities.  “When I landed on the soil I looked on the ground and I says this is free ground,” one black settler said. “Then I looked on the heavens and I says them is free and beautiful heavens. Then I looked within my heart and I says to myself, I wonder why I was never free before?”  A Great Bend, Kansas, newspaper editorialized: “We have been so long aiding white people coming here that certainly no one would think of refusing the freedom of the state to a few hundred colored people seeking liberty and a home.  Treat the colored people exactly the same as if they were white people in like circumstances.”  By 1890, blacks owned roughly 20,000 acres in Kansas.  Inspired by the philosophy of Booker T. Washington, another 50,000 blacks settled in Indian Territory in the 1890s.  The leader of the Oklahoma migrations, Edward McCabe, desired the creation of an independent black state.

                  Blacks participated in more western activities than just farming.  A goodly percentage worked as cowboys or on railroads.  Most famous among western blacks were the so-called “Buffalo Soldiers,” who fought in several important Indian battles between the Civil War and 1890.  Stripped down to peacetime size after the Civil War, the frontier army relied heavily–sometimes exclusively–on black soldiers.  Buffalo soldiers served in campaigns against the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Comanche, the Kiowa, the Ute, and the Apache.  Black troops also protected the United States border against Mexican bandits.  Congress awarded fourteen medals of honor to black soldiers between 1870 and 1890.

–Brad Birzer