Grandfather and I - Butch Gerbrandt

[Larry Robinson]

Grandfather and I		

Banty rooster, tent revivalist,
Canadian Russian American
Mennonite.
Even at five foot seven too large for the parlor,
too large for the spartan pulpits.
His coke-bottle glasses glint the fire within.
His rhetoric booms of pagan hordes
in South China 
plodding the path to Hell.
His intensity stirs the loins of the bonneted women.
His intimate grasp on an overalled farmer’s bicep
opens the parishioner’s soul 
as well as his coin purse.

The year is 1913.
Through Russia, across Siberia,
 Manchuria, via Vladivostok and Japan
to China.
The Lord led and F. J. Wiens followed,
Agnes and children in tow.
Fits and starts landed them
up the Han River in Shanghang,
the journey in poled and pulled boats,
nature displayed in splendor,
locals agape,
“many of them running about
In nothing but Adam’s clothes”.


His white skin, pith helmet, 
bicycle, mouth harp
drew Hakka Chinese like moths to a candle.
And his steely will, ebullient nature, 
and chest of medicines
won the hearts of the Confucians,
city leaders, and Generals alike.

His autobiography,
“Fifteen Years Among the Hakkas
Of South China”
maintains a modest and God-serving tone
while relating tales of courage and fortitude.
Staring down river pirates.
Negotiating peace
between war lords.
When Agnes passed,
he mail-ordered a new Mennonite bride,
Agnes II,
who steam-shipped to the Far East
to meet and marry the little rooster
 and raise his brood.

Here I am
reading Grandfather’s book
a century later.
I, skeptic of religious fervor, methods, and mission;
witness to religious subjugation 
of indigenous Americans, both North and South.
I end up grudgingly admiring my banty grandfather
and his Dominicker hens. 

Has my life, 
shunning evangelism of any ism
and avoiding judgement at all costs,
been of any more value 
than his?
The anointed answer a resounding “No!”
The pagan horde cares not.
I’ll leave it there.

	- Butch Gerbrandt
 
 
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