Walter Bruck
March 11, 1942 - June 5, 2022

"A Farmer?s Hands Hands that are large and tough from many years of rugged, outdoor work. Hands with fingers sensitive to music, but too thick to strike just one key on the piano, or a single string on a violin. Hands that are versatile, simultaneously wielding an ax and swiping a fistful of pinch berries from a nearby bush. Hands that clasp themselves habitually in prayer-giving thanks for food, for rain, for sun, for late frosts, early springs, good yield, for soil, for health, for a newborn calf. Hands that are strong, squeezing out a pail full of milk in just no time, pulling strands of barbed wire taut, carrying mountains of hay and oceans of water to hungry, thirsty farm creatures. Hands that are gentle, marveling at the softness of a furry kitten, rescuing a pheasant's nest from the path of the plow, patting the shoulder of a disappointed child. Hands that are inventive, twisting, pounding, pinching, until a machine is fixed, shaping an idea into something useful. Hands that are tired from over a half century of tilling, planting, weeding, harvesting. Hands that we loved, a farmer's hands, Our father's and our grandfather's. God saw he was getting tired and a cure was not to be. So He put His arms around him And whispered, ?Come with Me.? With tearful eyes we watched him suffer And saw him fade away. Although we loved him dearly, We could not make him stay. A golden heart stopped beating. Hard working hands laid to rest. God broke our hearts to prove to us He only takes the best."