A Handyman's Praise

On the day when Bill died, he had fixed one clogged sink,
A fountain, two gas leaks, one bed and a chair.
He sat down to rest some. Then, quick as a wink,
He found himself Elsewhere, but nothing was there.

The most he could see was a mist all about,
Save that off to one side was a powerful light.
So he set out to seek it, to try and find out
What was happening to him, just to learn what he might.

As he walked, came a Voice that proclaimed, "Hello, Bill!
Sit down; take that rest you so richly deserve.
I'll just finish preparing the place where you still
Can be helpful and happy, where you can yet serve."

Then there was a chair, so he sat down to wait.
A table appeared, with a drink and a snack.
While he ate, the mist cleared and he saw a white gate,
Then a fence round a house, and a garden in back.

"Welcome home", said the Voice. And the town next appeared,
Beyond it, a forest; above, all the sky.
Bill then beheld people, and what was so weird
Was he thought that he knew them but didn't know why.

Bill asked, "Who are these folks that I find me among?"
The Voice said, "They're people you've helped all your life
Who arrived before you did -- but now they're all young
And their health has returned. See, here is your wife."

Just then she appeared by his side with a smile,
No longer wizened, once more in her prime.
"Hey, Bill, I knew you'd show up if I waited a while.
And finally, you're here. Well, it's about time."

"But look, see your mom and your dad and Aunt Faye?
There's old man Jenkins. There's Sergeant Malloy.
Over there are the Johnsons and Mrs. O'Day,
And that handsome young man was the sick neighbor boy."

The Voice then cut in, saying, "Everyone's here, Bill,
The people you helped with your handyman's kit.
Their lives are all new. And it's time, if you will,
For you to step into new work, a job you'll just fit."

"I have it in mind that your talents will make you

A praise group director of peerless repute."
"Now wait," countered Bill, "Handymen don't do
Thinks like that. This just won’t compute."

"What I know about music would fit in a walnut."

The Voice said, "Now son, I can take care of that.
The music's no problem. What you do have is all but
Impossible to find, but it's there 'neath your hat."

"Every job you have done, you've performed to your best.

You held out for excellence, always took the hard route,
When some folks advised you should cut corners, lest
You go broke and your family be left destitute."

"But you trusted your God to provide all of your need,

And you just went ahead and delivered your best.

In front of the world, you planted this seed:
You showed how this life of dependence was blessed."

"Bill, the essence of praise is not musical skill.

It's not shouting 'Praise God' at the top of your voice.

But rather, it's showing, by act and by will,
That I'm what I Am and that I’m the best choice."

"So thank you, my son; it's now time to come in
To the joy of your Father who loves you in ways
That you fully revealed to those still mired in sin,
Those who just might be saved by a handyman's praise."

Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

A Note on Anonymity

I recently emailed a question to an old friend of mine, with the suggestion that he might care to write about it -- and that, if he did, I'd love to read his thoughts. Without getting into the details of the question, which are not important to the thought of this post, I'll just say that it was theological and sociological in nature and that my friend is somebody who is eminently qualified to opine on theological and sociological matters. He is neither a theologian nor a sociologist by training, but his life experience and personal study qualify him to express opinions that I shall read with great interest, even if he disagrees with me. He's that good a friend and that good at what he does.

He replied that it was a good question and that he just might write about my question on his blog -- anonymously. That was an interesting thought. He feels obliged to perhaps quote from my question and then react to it, without letting anybody know who asked it. I believe he thinks that he's protecting me.

Well, maybe he is. It's a question that could get quite a lot of people very upset -- just the fact that the question was asked.

But on another level, I don't really care to be protected in that way.

I am a member of a community. The only way to function as a member of a community is to have an identity by which people can know me and relate to me. If I dissemble, trying to make some of these people think that I am what I am not, that deceit does not serve me in the long run, and it does not serve them at all. I believe that I must be who I am, flaws and all, with no attempt to convince people that I am something else. This does not mean that I want to slap people in the face with the reality of me. I, like most people, can be a turn-off if taken in large doses under the wrong circumstances. Forcing people to see me in my full reality, when they have no desire to do so, would be the height of arrogance. It just wouldn't be polite. But trying to seem like I am something I am not does not seem to me a wise course.

Nowadays, there are a number of technologies that aim to let people have anonymity on the Internet. There are a lot of people who will avidly take advantage of those technologies. One of my brothers refuses to have a Facebook account, because it would reveal too much of who he is to too many people. He's concerned that people might not like what they see -- he could even face negative consequences in social and business relationships.

I can't live my life that way. Here I am. Like me. Or don't like me. It's entirely your choice. If you don't like me, I can live with that. If you disagree with one of my opinions and want to tell me, "You can't be a Christian and hold that opinion", that's okay. I'll pray for you. And I'll think about your opinion. You might even convince me that you're right. But what I will not do is try to be who I am not.

So, here on my blog, I openly claim to be "Paul H. Harder II, Ph.D." In the one instance when I wrote a short article on Wikipedia, I posted it under the handle "PaulHarder2". I use my own name throughout the World Wide Web, the huge community of which I am a part. Google me. You'll learn more about me than you care to know. You'll find that I am an Esperantist, that I have something to do with an independent Christian choir, that I teach for the University of Phoenix, that I have written an ebook about statistics for my students, that I was credited as a co-author of a scientific paper about the use of Nimbus 7 satellite radiometry data to investigate snowpack properties, that I worked for my brother-in-law's church architecture firm, that I made a YouTube video of Lenny Solomon's song "Global Warming Blues", and many more things, some of which you may like and some of which you may detest me for.

This is me. It's who I am.

A Boy and His Doll

“A pretty toy, but I’m a boy,
And pretty stuff’s for girls,”
Or so he thinks until she winks
And shakes her tiny curls.

The pretty thing extends a wing,
Then leaps into the sky,
Takes birds for pets, and races jets
Wherever they may fly.

She drops her snares upon the stairs
And captures half the force
Of army guys whose target lies
Upon her chosen course.

His rubber duck is out of luck.
It’s circling round the drain.
The angel hurls it from the whirls
And now it’s safe again.

“My pretty miss, give me a kiss”,
Demands the evil giant.
She knocks him flat for asking that.
She’s strong and self-reliant.

The passing years bring laughs and tears,
But never quite the joy
That once was seen to pass between
This dolly and her boy.

Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II 

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Highway Fog

Sandburg was wrong: There's no kitten in sight,
No silent observer with mild intent,
But an angry invader with teeth in its bite,
Its tiger claws ripping, its fevered mind bent
Upon wanton destruction.

Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

I've Been Here Before

I've been here before and seen all of this mess
That no one can ever clean up. I guess
It's normal that everything seems to be less
Than it could be and things don't get done
By the folks with the job, and that virtually none
Who put systems in place for the rest to endure
Take pride in their work or take time to ensure
That things will work right. Yeah, I've been here before.

I've been here before, and it's no great surprise
That some people cheat or that every man lies
About whatever makes him seem small in his eyes.
I wonder why some people don't seem to know
That doing the right thing's the best way to go,
That the best of all worlds is what happens whenever
Each one of us tries to do right and just never
Gives in to temptation. But I've been here before.

I've been here before and I've stood in this line.
It won't last forever – this wait will end fine.
But I just have to wonder what genius design
Has been mangled so badly that nothing quite works,
What failure of foresight makes good people jerks.
Yet... somehow it happens that some of us strive
To pick up some pieces and somehow contrive
To make some things better. See, I've been here before.

I've been here before. I have seen all these things,
Wrestled these demons, survived all the stings,
All the bruises and bangs, all the cuts and the dings.
And so there is hope that the best of the best
May yet be in reach, that what's broken and messed
Up can yet be repaired. You know, if we all could stay
Truly committed to fix one thing each day,
A lot could be done. Well, I've never been there before.

But wouldn't we all like to be?

Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Fortune Cookie Reflections*

#1 - New and rewarding opportunities will soon develop for you.

Nothing's exactly like anything else,
So whatever happens is new.
With all that occurs, opportunity wells
Up with interesting projects to do.
Whenever you're challenged or upset or tired,
When everything piles on your head,
Remember to look up. Most chances are wired
To what we most commonly dread.


#2 - A visit to a strange place will bring you renewed perspective.

There are places we see, there are places we feel.
Some places are only prospective.
Some places are bad and some others ideal,
And some of each kind are elective.
But when places are strange and defy all we know,
Where circumstance doesn't obey,
There we have chances to learn and to grow.
There, for a time, we should stay.


#3 - Be yourself and you will always be in fashion.

When others want naught but to critically boo
And to load you with grief in full ration,
You've got only one self to be, and that's You!
So treat your one self with compassion.
Ignore the false chatter of those less benign,
Regardless how mean or how vile.
Rely on your self, stick to your own design.
Tenacity's always in style.


#4 - One learns most from teaching others.

You don't understand it. You can't comprehend.
The prospect of learning it smothers.
You're left with vain hope it will come to an end.
You'd give up if you had your druthers.
In this situation of fear and of fright,
The way to be done with the thing
Is to teach it to someone, till you've gained insight.
Do this and it loses its sting.


#5 - Keep true to the dreams of your youth.

Some dreams are impossible, others are vain,
And some are, quite frankly, uncouth.
Some dreams are quite fancy and others are plain,
But some pursue ultimate Truth.
Remember the dreams that you had at sixteen,
How the whole world would be your own workplace?
Hold fast to the fire and keep it routine.
Let the wonder be seen on your face.


*From dinner with family and friends at P.F. Chang, Austin, TX, July 1, 2011

Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

A Cautionary Christmas Tale, Texas Style*

'Twas the morn before Christmas and all through the West,
Every young human critter felt happy and blessed
'Cause Santa was comin'. He'd be there right quick,
With toys and enough candy to make 'em all sick.

But they didn't know that a problem was near.
Santa'd traded his sleigh for a new one, that year,
With heater and radio and navsat location,
All the newfangled gizmos for sound aviation.

He'd taken delivery just one day before,
And the styling and speed led Mr. Claus to ignore
The advice of his missus to wait just a few days.
The old one went straight to a lot for used sleighs.

Not willin' to wait, Santa just scoffed.
He hitched up his team and took 'em aloft.
He had to move fast, not a moment to lose
For takin' the sleigh on its shakedown cruise.

Santa soared through the Arctic and crossed Hudson's Bay,
And everything seemed to be goin' okay.
The ride was real smooth, with no shimmies nor shakes,
So he went supersonic above the Great Lakes.

The new sleigh had passed all but one final test,
So at Memphis, he pulled fifteen gees and turned west.
What a rush! This new craft was so fleet and so snappy!
Kris Kringle relaxed in his seat, smugly happy.

Down in the heart of each redblooded man
Lives a deep-seated need to go fast as he can.
Even magical elves feel this tug to be free.
On the outskirts of Shreveport, Santa kicked in Mach three.

But somewhere near Longview somethin' came undid.
A rattle took up in the fore starboard skid.
In less than a minute, it grew so acute,
Old Santa had no choice but to open his 'chute.

Now, yer not s'posed to jump at high speed nor great height,
But when your motion has totally ceased to be flight,
Sometimes there's no choice, so you just trust to luck.
Santa tumbled and turned and blacked out 'fore he struck.

A mere mortal man would've died from that blow.
Santa recovered by daybreak, although
'Twas the morn before Christmas and nothin' was right.
Santa'd woke up in Waco, not a reindeer in sight.

Well, you might be thinkin' that's the end of my tale,
But even in Waco you can send out email.
Mrs. Claus picked him up in her reindeer-drawn surrey,
And that night she drove -- the kids needn't worry.

There's a moral right here you can hold to for life.
If you are a husband who's got him a wife,
When she says it's not time yet to trade in yer sleigh,
Just give in to fate. Let her have her way.

Copyright ©2003, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

*The idea for this poem comes from my brother-in-law, Steve Upham. Years ago, he had a coworker who showed classic signs of alcoholism, often phoning with creative excuses for not coming to work. One day when Steve answered the phone, it was this coworker saying, "I don't know what happened, but I woke up in Waco". When I heard the story, it seemed to me that "I Woke Up In Waco" cried out to be the topic of a C&W song or a Baxter Black poem. A Google search found nothing, so I decided to use it in a poem for friends at a Christmas dinner party at the Upham home.