Poem - A Woman Takes Up Her Calling

A Woman Takes Up Her Calling

Whoso beset her* round
with dismal stories,
do but themselves confound—
her* strength the more is.            

(John Bunyan, “He Who Would Valiant Be”, Verse 2)

 

Circled by her saboteurs,

Mocked by the Accuser,

Hobbled by provocateurs,

And labeled as a Loser –

Trying to focus on her goal,

Shutting out their prattle,

Stands the lone creative soul

In solitary battle.

She hoists up a bipartite freight:

The heft of her vocation

Added to the ballast weight

Of adverse cerebration.

“Summon all your strength!“ I say,

“The thing’s within your reach!

Stand up tall, prepare to slay

By action or by speech.”

And now she rises to full height,

And now she flies away.

And now puts enemies to flight,

Now merges work with play.

To see a woman thwarted makes me furious.

To see her at full strength -- a thing most glorious!

 

©2022 – Paul Erlandson

 

*It is of course “him” and “his” in Bunyan’s original -- PE

Heroes, Villains, and the Judgment of Charity

The Heroes and Villains part of this post comes from the great Beach Boys song of that title -- a song which I commend to you all.

The "Judgment of Charity" part comes from something I learned from Fr. Steven J. Kelly, although I've also read about it from R. C. Sproul. Basically, the Judgment of Charity is to always to assume the best possible motives for other people. This is the story of how, 15 years late, the Judgment of Charity turned a Villain into a Hero in my mind.

It was about 15 years ago, I think, because our daughter Violet was about 9, I think. Our family was making our annual summer trek to either Oklahoma or Texas, and we had stopped at a gas station (and convenience store) in Arkansas. We all piled out of the car to use the restroom. On Violet's way back to the car, and older black man approached her and spoke to her: "Are you alright? Is everything okay?"

I saw at once what he was thinking -- that a young black girl with a white couple may have been a kidnapping or human trafficking victim. He wanted to make sure that she was getting into our car voluntarily and was not a captive.

My reaction at the time was to take offense at this. If I recall, Violet gave him a "are you crazy?" look and walked a bit faster towards the car. I was offended because it seemed wrong, almost racist to me at the time that this man did not consider it within the realm of normality to have a black child raised by white parents. I viewed him (only mildly) as a bit of a Villain.

But I think differently now. He took some risk to approach her. I was standing right there, pumping the gas, watching. He put himself out there, just in case there was a chance that she was being coerced. He got involved when he didn't have to, and when it could have cost him something. Hero.

Christ Church Anglican - Columbus, Ohio

Out with the old; in with the new. The exterior shot is the former location of Christ Church Anglican, our home-away-from-home in Columbus, Ohio. The interior shot is the sanctuary of the new church building in Westerville, Ohio.

Still 1928 BCP and Hymnal 1940!! A wonderful worship service with great people, always!

Leaving Henry's Building ...

"Who is left among you that saw this house in her first glory? and how do ye see it now? is it not in your eyes in comparison of it as nothing?" (Haggai 2:3)

The consensus of my friends is that I shouldn't be so sad that I'll never work in that glorious Ford Motor Company engineering laboratory building again. When I hired on in 1992, it was the EEE building, and though I didn't work there, multiple shifts of engineers worked there each day. My friend Harland, from Texas, had also moved to Michigan, and worked midnights there. He got me into the building once in the middle of the night, and showed me the pencil markings on the pillar where "H. Ford" had marked his height to compare it against the height of his peers.

Just kidding -- Henry Ford had no peers. But he did have his office in this exact building, on what is called "mahogany row" for its GORGEOUS mahogany-panelled conference rooms ... where, up until the COVID panic, I was allowed to attend engineering meetings. All that is gone. Or rather, it's there, for the time being. But I'll likely never place my hand on the handle where H. Ford's hand gripped to pull open the ridiculously heavy brass door.

To me, places are sacred. Worship spaces especially, which is one reason that Live Streamed church is not real church. But what we think of as "secular" spaces are holy in their own right. And the building I left today forever was among the holiest in Ford Motor Company history. It was later the POEE building (not the best-sounding acronym it ever had) and currently the FEL building. But it means something to me ... the brass, the mahogany, the marble, and the spirit of H. Ford resting about the place, urging me to do better and better work.

So amid all your appeals for me to "get over it" and your admonitions that "the world is changing" ... please leave me a little space to be sad about this. Something important is being lost.

For the Purveyors of Macho Christianity

I have composed this blog entry in my head perhaps half a dozen times over the past ten years, but I never got to the point of typing it all out before, much less posting it.  It could ruffle some feathers, and perhaps hurt some feelings.  I didn't want to do that.  But the particular kind of Christian leader who pushes this kind of "hard-edged men / soft women" teaching has driven me to the point of actually writing the thing down.

Here's the teaching in a nutshell:  God has made men and women to be very distinct.  They have different acceptable gender roles, and should pursue different sets of virtues.  Men are to pursue the hard, aggressive, combative virtues, and women the soft, nurturing virtues.  Additionally, we must look the part.  Most of these teachers mock men who choose not to wear beards as being not fully Christian and not fully male.  They do things like form pipe (or cigar) clubs at the churches they pastor.  They may cultivate a taste for single malt whiskey.  They talk about pirates and warriors and sports.  A lot.

The motivation for at least some of these purveyors of macho Christianity is not hard to find.  Our entire culture is howling wasteland of gender dysphoria.  They seek to clarify male and female roles.  Typical of the burden they lay on people is the responsibility of every Christian to emphasize, as far as possible, the differences between males and females.

And, for the male Christian, their prescription can be boiled down to a single word:  hardness.  Christian men should be courageous, strong, immovable, unyielding, but mostly hard as (well, you fill in the blank).

The thing is, nearly all these Christian priests, pastors, and thought leaders are fat.  They are incredibly soft.  Maybe if they were not sitting at 20 to 25% body fat, I would take serious what they say about the hardness, and about being warriors in training for battle.  But, with a few notable exceptions, they are fat or even obese.  I know one priest who competes in bodybuilding and other who runs marathons.  Perhaps I could stand to hear such a teaching from one of them.  But not from these doughnut-scarfing fatties.

So to you fat purveyors of hard-edged Christianity for males:  Just stop!  You look ridiculous doing it!

A (new) Poem in Praise of Scar Tissue

Scar Tissue

How often I have bloodied up these hands,
These arms, upon some jagged engine block,
Or on the razored shrouds of cooling fans,
And left upon my flesh a mark or pock.

O opener of many lesions, Thou,
Who rule the world we were allowed to spoil;
God of the thistle and the sweaty brow,
Ordainer of the blood of all our toil --

These scars are very agents of your grace.
We might have bled to death from modest cuts,
Except new tissue fills each wounded place.
Scar tissue heals us from those bloody ruts.

The scars are stark and most corporeal.
They neither fade, nor leave our lives to cease;
But of each hurt they make memorial,
And from each gaping wound they grant release.

© 2019, Paul Erlandson

The Rival (a Poem I Wrote for My Wife 5 Years Ago)

My wife likes birds.  She is smitten with the cardinals that are with us in the good weather. 

The Rival

My lady arises and opens the shade,
And bends at the waist to peer out of the pane,
Where my rival intones his melodious refrain.
I lie on our cool morning bed, yet unmade.

His love song enthralls her, she hears and obsesses.
No part of her mind is on me or our bed.
Her thoughts are ablaze with his feathery red.
I gaze on the form her brief nightgown caresses.

On guard, my opponent, I’m stealing your tune!
I’ll learn it, refine it, and bring it alive.
I shall serenade her at five-forty-five,
And steal her attention away from you soon.

But no, there’s your color. She aches for a glimpse
Of your bright apparel. My clothing is lame.
I’ll hie me to Kohl’s™, for a shirt bright as flame!
My color, not yours, shall then capture her glance.

But, no, there’s your flying; she loves you for this.
Had she wings of her own and the power of flight,
She’d fly off to find you, and with you alight.
You’ve won her, my rival, by bringing her bliss.

But still I’ll adore her fine form from this view,
And watch her as closely as she watches you.


© 2014, Paul Erlandson

Language

I like hearing English spoken with many and varied accents. I remember that at my company, more than 20 years ago, there was an Accent Reduction Team, formed by Indian-American engineers who felt that their career fortunes would improve if they spoke like native Michiganders. I remember objecting at the time, stating that I loved to hear English spoken by my Indian-born colleagues. The musical lilt they gave to my native tongue was something wonderful to the ear. Whenever God reverses a curse, he does more than simply put things back to the way they were before the curse. So, when God in Christ redeemed the world, he did not simply put men back to the original Edenic state. No, he went far beyond that, taking humanity into Himself in the Person of Jesus Christ. Thus, a Redeemed person is even more blessed than an unFallen person. It is the same with language. When God reversed Babel's curse, He did not merely put us back to a common language such as Esperanto. No, He did something FAR more glorious. He allowed us to keep the rich diversity of languages, and one step beyond that. He allowed us to have each language spoken in a plethora of accents. The whole things is just so rich and beautiful and glorious. It is far more than a simple utilitarian solution of allowing us to comprehend each other's words. It is a majestic amplification and magnification of language. It is a phenomenal enrichment of human experience.

Another New Poem - The Small Commission

The Small Commission

When school yearbooks are thrust forth to be signed,
We give out life advice.  We speak our mind,
And charge our classmates to keep some small vow:
“Recall our good times!”  “Stay as you are now!”

As Christ did with his Great Commission bind
His church to teach and baptize all mankind,
So do the yearbook’s Small Commissions urge
Obedience to some much less solemn charge.

If we look back to that glad time remote,
Shall we have held to what our friends then wrote?
Were Small Commissions in our hearts enshrined?
Or were their words forgotten over time?

Well, one of these at least I’ve kept so far:
“Dear Paul, please stay as crazy as you are!”

© 2019, Paul Erlandson

Merry Christmas - 2018

For this year's Christmas cards, we are recycling and old poem of mine from 1997.   Here it is:

A Prayer (Poem?) of Thanksgiving

Today, I give thanks for the circular (trigonometric) functions, for rising and falling, advancing and receding, cresting and troughing, swelling and shrinking, for every wave, for all things periodic, for the seasons, for weal and woe, for the song of the cicada, for rising up and for lying down, for eccentric and concentric contractions, for spinning cranks and reciprocating pistons, for sine, cosine, and tangent, and for all the variegated vibrations of this life. Amen.

A New Poem - Gifts for the Pawn Shop Man

Another Old Poem - "Mansmith"

This poem is from 2005.

Mansmith

Inventor of Inventors,
Father of parents,
Judge of judges,
Almighty God, I honour Thee.

Teacher of teachers,
High priest of priests,
Servant of servants,
Son of God, I adore Thee.

Architect of architects,
Healer of physicians,
Lover of lovers,
Holy Ghost, I embrace Thee.

Author of authors,
Cultivator of gardeners,
Sculptor of sculptors,
Thou great Mansmith, I worship thee.

© 2005, Paul W. Erlandson

Old Poem - "Pwned"

This is a poem I wrote back in 2007. See this link for background on the word "pwned."


Pwned


By my love, my heart is pwned.
On love's whetstone it is hwned.
And her body, taut and twned
Makes me tremble, as if stwned.

Oft in loneliness I grwned,
Till she emailed me, or phwned.
Then to her my poor heart mwned;
"Thou art on my heart enthrwned!"


© 2007, Paul W. Erlandson

(New Poem) -- Internal Combustion – Vision for a New Dark Age

Internal Combustion – Vision for a New Dark Age

“Come with me, child, past all this camouflage.”
“Is there a secret garden there, Grandpa?”
“Not quite.  It’s just a small, padlocked garage,
To keep out the enforcers of the law.”

I keyed the lock, and lifted up the door
For just the time it took us to walk in.
The bulb inside was 60 Watts, not more.
I closed the door, and she began to grin.

“What’s that, Grandpa?  It’s like Ezekiel’s wheels!
Or like some dragon, full of majesty!”
“That, my girl, is called an automobile,
The way that God intended it to be.”

“In old times, men were brave and women fierce.
We steered our own machines, commanded flame
With pulsing, violent roar I know would pierce
The souls of timid moderns, grown too tame.”

“’Autonomous’, back then, pertained to men
And women, whom these brute machines obeyed.
But now, we’ve yielded all control to them,
To these completely soulless cars we’ve made.”
 
“May I please touch it Gramps?” she asked me, keen.
“Oh, I insist!” I said.  “Learn every curve.”
She moved with reverence to the machine,
And measured it with heart and hand and verve.

“Imagine now the thundering exhaust,
And rubber smoke from crisply chirping tires.
Imagine mankind not enslaved to Cost,
But free to race, the way the heart desires.”

“These were not fashioned by some gamer geek,
But crafted out of elbow grease and passion.
Their power would make faint the modern meek,
And cause their sissy faces to turn ashen.”

“These fire-belching dragons we adored
Commanded our respect but not our fear.
So, here’s to Harley Earl and Henry Ford,
And everyone to ever grind a gear.”

“Their spirit, child, I see it in your eyes,
Or else I’d not have brought you here to see
What others of your age would just despise.
But you will keep this car alive for me.”

“Alive for some bright day when, once again, 
The riotous act of driving is reclaimed.
Then, you will start this hot rod, and weak men
Shall gaze upon its glory and be shamed.”

© 2018, Paul W. Erlandson

A new poem - "The New Christian"

The New Christian

Make way, make way, I now believe the truth!
I’m here to show you all a better way.
Pay no heed to my ignorance or youth,
But let my zeal and earnestness hold sway!

I’ve got a few choice verses memorized,
To cause all unbelievers to convert.
My former friends will all be quite surprised,
To see me as a Gospel extrovert.

The hour is near when Christ returns to reign,
So time is short, and humor is a waste,
And making future plans is all in vain.
In these Last Days, the watchword must be “haste!”

I must prepare my soul for His return;
I’ll make sure it’s all sparkly and clean.
I’ll get so holy, people’s eyes will burn.
Like Moses, I will need to wear a screen.

But I’ll not only sanctify my soul –
I’ll earnestly convict all those around.
Extinguishing their sins shall be my goal,
Each one in Piety’s chill waters drowned.

So, no, my friends, no time to share your feast,
No time to plow or sow, no time to marry.
But maybe just a brief head nod, at least,
If for one moment more the Lord should tarry.

© 2018, Paul W. Erlandson

Incident at CVS (in which it is discovered that, yes, perhaps I am a Racist after all) ...

This happened yesterday at the CVS at Newburgh & 5 Mile. I went there to get some zinc lozenges to ward off the cough from the guy at work who refuses to stay home even though he is hacking up pieces of his broken lung (so to speak). In the back, near the cold remedies, I saw a young black mom with her 3 or 4 year old son. The kid was all bundled up against the Winter chill, like Ralphie in Jean Shepherd's "A Christmas Story." The woman was slim, and wore stylish plum trousers and Spanish-heeled ankle boots. The boy was asking for a toy, and though I couldn't hear her reply, it sounded as if she was going to refuse him. And that's when I had a thought I later regretted: I thought, if she can't afford to buy the kid a toy, maybe I'll offer to get it for him. But then my mind became engaged in finding the right kind of CVS generic ZiCam knock-off, which can be tricky. By the time I found the right stuff, the mom and son had walked off to the checkout. But, as fate would have it, I walked up to the checkout line right behind them. The kid was clutching a toy, so Mom had indeed agreed to buy him what he wanted. But now, he was holding a small bag of chocolate candy in his other (left) hand. And that's when I began to see what a great mother this woman was. The boy held up the candy and looked at his mother beseechingly. "What about this?" he asked, with his sad brown puppy dog eyes. "What about it?" asked the mom. The kid seemed stymied. Surely his mom must know what he meant. He wanted the candy in addition to the toy. Finally, he managed to softly say something to her, indicating that he would like the candy as well as the toy. "Maybe next time we come to CVS," Mom answered. "OK," the boy said, and put the candy back on the hanger he'd taken it from. His face was angelic. Compliant. He clearly adored and respected his mother. And then, it hit me about how evil my thought was of intruding on this amazing lady's mothering. She CLEARLY had everything well in hand. But even if she had not, my idea would have been a usurpation of her parental office of the rankest variety. In fact, it represented a treacherous attempt to sabotage the good work she had already done in raising her son. But not only that. Would I have had the same thought if this had been a young white mother? Possibly not. And then it hit me: The Bigotry of Low Expectations! How many times had I complained about Leftists when they exhibited this pernicious trait? A lot. And now I had been guilty of it. By now, the mom and son were gone, and I was paying for my items. But I caught up to them again in the parking lot. Their vehicle was parked next to my salt-white, once-orange Fiesta. I had caught them because it had taken Mom a while to fasten Junior into his car seat. I gave a smile and a grimace at the same time, as she zoomed off in her nice, clean, late-model Mercedes.

Poem for Our 32nd Anniversary

Power of Two

(for Cindy on our 2⁵ Wedding Anniversary)

Two-to-the-fifth years of both weal and woe.

All of those wedding guests, where did they go?

Thirty-two years ago: ring, kiss, and vow.

Where is the face of that company now?

Two for a honeymoon, four till we moved;

Eight for adoption to double our love.

Sixteen for schooling the children God gave.

Thirty-two closer to rest in the grave.

Doubling and doubling again down the years.

Two, four, eight, sixteen, each new power premiers

Doublings of joy, love, and high adoration;

Growing by binary multiplication.

Thus do our marital blessings accrue,

Exponents, both, for the power of two.

--Paul Erlandson, 2017

2nd Annual Shinoda (Slot Car) Reunion!

It's almost time for the 2nd Annual "Shinoda Reunion", to be held at Downriver Speedway in Lincoln Park, Michigan.  Saturday, December 16.  Doors open and Noon.  Racing begins at 5pm.

Here is one of the entries that has been sent in to be raced by proxy.  This is a scratch-built, period-correct "Detroit Slider" style Thingie slot car.  The body is a Shinoda "Bullet" created by Gene Adams.  I've seen this in person, and it is exquisite!  It belongs in an art museum.

Lindsay Shepherd - Canadian University Goons Deny Her Free Speech

This is long, but SUPER important!