The wind of the Spirit,
when it blows at all,
blows strong in my family tree.

My Great Grand Ma in Norway
held faith close to her heart.
First in Luthers reforming zeal.
Then in the iron beliefs
of Adventist preachers
sent out into all the world
(and Flekkefjord!)
to steal sheep and herd them
into their steepled, steel fold.

She stood firm in faith
when two daughters died,
cut down in the flower
of their lives,
leaving Great Grand Ma Elizabeth
and Grand Aunt Genevieve
to raise my orphaned, angry mother
Genevieve Rae
to find, in whatever way,
a faith she might use
to survive
in her hand-me-down
second best world.

Still, the Spirit blew,
filling my pre-mature lungs
with enough air to survive
and providing a family church
as substitute for family life.

The Spirit continued to blow
where ever She willed,

even with a wind gone down,
in the calmer sea I sought
at forty,
to find true-North
and a compass to point my way.

I live now, at seventy,
in the sway of a gentle breeze,
sure of the love of my lady
and I God I joy to please.

Though,
still,
in the gusts
of a followng wind
I feel the old turbulent storm.
It beats in the rhythums
of my Viking blood.
I hear it in old, maternal songs.

Great Grand Ma, Grand Aunt Gen and Mother,
in softer whispers,
now,
with wiser, gentler tones,
their echoing admonitions
shepherd me on toward home.