Hanna’s child
Born on a cold mid-winter Wyoming night,
An immigrant’s pride
A shepherd’s daughter
A farmer’s girl
A warrior’s wife
A son’s boast.
Gone now.
But Once:
Barefoot, playful in white,
Wandering under Western skies,
Playing on the river’s bank,
she was almost lost where buffaloes waded.
But found.
Somehow, escaping the horse’s hoofs,
she dodged the thresher’s rake.
Rescued,
to live and make Iowa special, Holstein proud,
the world better.
I knew her like this:
German Fortitude eventually encased in a Galilean’s Heart,
Prussian Diligence slowly lived out with Solomonic Wisdom
Intellect wrapped in a servant’s towel:
Hear well, you deaf
Be right, my son,
Do it well and all is well.
Learn and keep learning,
Stay strong.
Give even when you’re tired,
Sing even when you can’t.
Serve even when you don’t want to.
I’m proud of you.
Listen now, my children and my grandchildren,
to Hanna’s child
to the lingering echoes of her voice
to her ill-sung songs and sonnets
to her broken love of God’s Son—
the Savior she needed.
She never really rested, until now.
Her pillars hold up the family palace.
You can make her life last.
Let her mettle strengthen you.
Let her faith re-make you,
as it did her.
Rise up today, my children and my grandchildren
and call her blessed.
For yesterday, she rose up,
wandered again under heaven’s skies,
and only thought of you.
