Editor’s note: This poem is part of the Work and Hope series.

Grandma said a lazy Mennonite
doesn’t understand his Bible.
Praying can be done while working.

Remnants remain
and my generation still believes,
even while growing richer
and moving to cities,
even though no one dies for the faith
like Dirk Willems or Anneken Hendricks.
We like to think we inherited
those stiff stubborn beliefs,
banished from Zurich and Landau,
fleeing to Philadelphia,
finding farms in Waterloo.

Surely Jesus was joking,
his parable of the vineyard workers,
that the less than industrious
will get into heaven. 
He began life as a carpenter,
worked miracles on Sundays,
walked miles, taught multitudes,
looked after his mom while being crucified.

I lay block for old Charlie’s foundation,
take Mrs. Gingrich Sunday dinners
mixing mortar, kneading bread.
How else would I know if the baptism took?

We love with our hands,
rebuilding after hurricanes,
piecing quilts for refugees.
We work till we are too tired to sin
(but we sin anyway.)

Sunday mornings we gather to sing
loud, unaccompanied
our hands quiet and still for this hour,
our voices so sure of grace.

This poem is from the poetry collection What’s in the Blood by Cheryl Denise, published Telford, PA:
2012, DreamSeeker Books imprint of Cascadia Publishing House LLC. Used with permission.