Living Water

by Hazel Holland

I'd forgotten how heavy these jars can feel at the end of a day--but not nearly so heavy as they used to feel. Until last spring, every time a pot ran dry, it reminded me of my hollow, empty life. Looking into this jar I see the reflection of that faded smile of a stranger that wore a mask to hide her inner turmoil. But now the mask is off.

What's that sound I hear? I can't tell if it's laughing or jeering… People are coming this way--coming from every direction. They're almost here now! They look like a hunting party, ready to attack a wild animal… They are ridiculing someone! I can't see his face. His head is bent low, and he's staggering…

He doesn't look lie a rabble-rouser or a rebel. Curses are flowing from his accuser's lips, but he's silent. They’re shouting, "Unclean… pig… fool… devil… Samaritan…!"

Those chains cutting his feet… They were my chains a year ago. How I staggered under the scorn and insults of my villagers. Wait! Why are they whipping him again? He already looks half-beaten to death! Why is it that sometimes people behave far worse than animals? Watching them mistreat this poor man doesn't help me break down my walls of prejudice…

I can't stand here anymore. I've got to do something! I want to repay a kindness. He could be one of my brothers. Can I just edge my way through the jostling crowd? Oh, I hate mobs like this!

I hate the sound of those swishing whips. They remind me of the cactus stabs that day on my way to the well. Oh how I longed for the cool water to bathe my tired feet…

I had come to the well at high noon to draw water, knowing that no one would be there. No one to remind me of my failures… But somehow I forgot all about my feet when that stranger spoke…

He was a Jew, but he spoke to me-- a Samaritan-- and a woman! He ignored social customs… our mutual hatred… when he asked me for a drink! He didn't see the walls of prejudice. They didn't exist for him. He acted as if the walls were not real… as if I mattered, but the walls did not!

And then… I'll never forget his words. He gently suggested that I should be asking him for a drink! The idea! The well was deep, and he had no bucket… and yet, he spoke of "living water," and of never being thirsty again! This was not the water I had been drinking all my life…

He just sat calmly on the edge of the well as if he had the whole world in the palm of his hand…

But this mob is anything but calm! Only the object of their rage seems to calm. He stands out in stark contrast to the mob's agitation. Yet he must be hurting terribly! He's fallen again! That cross is too heavy!

Who is he-- this man they want to crucify? Why won't anybody pay attention to my questions? Maybe they can't hear me because of this noise…. He's on his face again! Why do the soldiers have to kick him? I despise people who mistreat other human beings… If only I was a little closer, I would help him up… just like that man helped me up from my fall… When he asked me to go and get my husband, I was ashamed. But he didn't try to embarrass me. He knew about my five husbands, but he wasn't playing my avoidance game. He didn't condemn me because of my lifestyle. Instead he offered me hope and total acceptance….

I remember when he looked at me and told me who he was! I felt sure he had to be some sort of prophet, but no… He was the One we had been waiting for. My desperation turned to joy!

It was springtime, but I hadn't noticed it until then. The yellow flowers along the road seemed to nod and cheer me on my way as I ran back to the village. The fragrance they left in the air reminded me of the sweet scent of acceptance that I had begun to feel in that stranger's presence. The sun felt warm on my face as it seeped into my soul. My steps had become light-- my spirit free…

Oh I want to free him! The mob has made a terrible mistake! They have the wrong man… They must! Everything about this seems so wrong… so backwards… I just know he's not a criminal. He's not guilty. He's not! The crowd is guilty, not him! I have to tell them that he's innocent… But the closer I get the more savage the crowd's hatred feels…

Just like that day as I neared the village. My old fears returned. Would they laugh at me, or take me seriously? Nobody had ever taken me seriously before… I wasn't to be trusted, was I? What if no one would believe my story? I could hardly believe it myself!

I wanted to convince them that he was the One we had been looking for--- the Messiah--- not just another prophet--- not Moses… But… when they saw that I'd left my water jug back there in the desert, they believed my story! They followed me back out there to meet this man!

I remember that moment when I returned to the well… when the light began to dawn… He was still sitting there where I had left him, and my pot was untouched! He hadn't taken a drink-- his "living water" had nothing to do with this well! I saw that clearly then. I had survived on Jacob's well all my life. Now I really wanted to live!

How can I possibly make a difference in this angry crowd? I have to try! I can see his parched lips… Water! He needs water! If only I had… but I do! I still have my jug with me!

Quick! The soldiers are distracted. They're arguing with some of the mob. I can slip past them. I'm beside him now. I can't see his face. It's all covered with blood stains from the angry thorns… He's panting… half-crazed with pain... down on one knee.

"Sir, here's water for you. Can you lift your face toward my jug? I can't see you for my tears. I hope I'm pouring the water into your mouth , sir. You said something, sir? There… I'll pour some water over your face and into your mouth… Yes, the crowd is mocking me, but I don't care! Let me dry your face with my skirt , sir. I don't know who you are, but I'm on your side.

You're looking at me like you recognize me! Do I know you? But I don't live here… Your eyes… Yes… I've seen your eyes before! They're larger… more peaceful… the most caring eyes I have ever seen! Where have I met you before? What? Jacob's…. No! You're the One who led me to believe… But… how? Why? My God! You are Him!

________________________________

I wrote this dramatic monologue one day after reading the story in John 4 about the Samaritan woman who came to draw water at Jacob's well.

A Song in the Night

By Hazel Holland

Chorus:
Carry you through
Yes, I'll carry you through
How I love you, My child
I will carry you through
I will give you a song
In the darkest night
Know that My presence
Will carry you through

Verses:
Even through the trials
Of the darkest night
I'll carry you through
Yes, I'll carry you through
You must walk by faith
And not by sight
Know that My Word
Will carry you through

Take hold of my hand
When you can't see the way
I will walk beside you
Yes, I'll walk beside you
Put your hope in the One
Who turns night into day
For My promise
Will carry you through

When the hour of darkness
Closes in like a flood
I will sing over you
Yes, I'll sing over you
Rejoice and be glad
There's victory in My blood
For My Truth
Will carry you through

Shout aloud to the Lord
Deliverance is near
I delight in you
Yes, I delight in you
Because you're My child
You need have no fear
For My Spirit
Will carry you through

Bridge:
Carry you through
The trials of the darkest night
I’ll be your guiding light
I’ll never leave you

__________________
I wrote the words and the music to this song in one of the darkest hours of my life. After resigning from public school teaching in 1998, because of the heavy manifestations of the Spirit that would come upon me in the classroom, I didn't know how I was going to support myself if I no longer had my teaching job. After a period of "testing", God miraculously began to provide for my material needs in ways that I could never have imagined...

I painted this water color 3/3/08 as I was remembering a dream I had thirteen years ago.

See Link: I'll Carry You Through

Take Me to Your Moon

by Hazel Holland

Let me relish this day
As we eat our English muffins,
And drink our morning juice.
Let me revel in the clatter
Of spoons on cereal bowls,
And knives in half-empty jam jars.
Let the streak of peanut butter
Remain on the edge of your chin.
Don’t let this morning
Be any different from all the others…

As you butter your muffins,
Please wipe no jam
From the sticky counter.
Leave behind you
The customary crumbs
Of your childish forgetfulness.

There are eight minutes left
Before the end of breakfast
And the trip to school.
There are three hundred and
Seventy-two breakfasts left
Before the end of childhood,
And the beginning of adolescence.
How many more breakfasts
Before you will be licking
From your fingers
The strawberry jam
Of growing independence?

Sunday mornings are different.
They’re gifts of time
Because there is no hurry.
So tell me before it’s too late,
"What did you dream
About last night?
What do you want to be
When the world grows up?"
Take me on another
Trip to your moon…

It’s Sunday morning now,
Soon it will be Friday afternoon,
And you will no longer
Be sitting within my reach
Making roads in your
Bowl of applesauce—
Lost in a fantasy
Of your imagination.
Instead you’ll be driving
The freeways of life
Lost in the romance of youth.

We have lived four
Thousand days together.
I wish I could remember
Several hundred.
Where have they all gone?
We have eaten twelve
Thousand meals together.
I can remember so few...
What has been the rush?

When I first saw you,
You were a squirming
Bundle of perfection,
And I was a heap of
Perfection exhaustion!
I still hear the rhythmic
Creaking of the crib,
And the gurgles
Of satisfied contentment
After early morning feedings.

I pale when I recall
The morning you leaned
Forward in your bassinet
And tumbled headfirst
Onto the kitchen floor!
At three months you were
Far tougher than I imagined.

As a baby you were
Too pretty to be a boy.
But I’m glad you were!
It wasn’t until you lost
Your curls after your
First haircut that people
Started calling you, “he”.

I remember how
You loved to make “music”.
Whether it was the jangle
Of stainless steel bowls
Grating saucepan lids,
Or a catchy tune on the radio
That you pretended to "conduct".
You were full of life and laughter,
And I borrowed your sunshine
On many rainy days…

The first step you took,
The first tooth you cut,
The first smile you gave,
The first word you spoke,
The first temper tantrum
You threw are “firsts”
That you will never remember.
Just like the first day
I left you at nursery school—
Your fears and tears
We both shared,
But only I remember
When you were three.

There have been mountains
And there have been valleys,
But what happened
To all the plains?

Thanks for your childhood.
I’m glad we still have
Many days left to share.
I will try not to let
The rest of them slide by
With music lessons,
Homework assignments,
House chores,
And lost Sunday afternoons…
We will take many
More trips to your moon.

Let’s celebrate your joys...
However small.
Let’s share your disappointments,
However large.
Let’s hope that the sadness
You feel at times
Will be swallowed up
By all the fun-loving times
We have spent together.

I will always be there for you.
I will continue to enter
The world of your imagination
Before you pass from childhood,
And enter the unexpected
Upheavals of adolescence.

Someday you will leave behind
The comfortable pleasures
Of home-cooked tenderness,
And face the harsh world of reality.
I wonder how much of me
You'll be able to afford to
Remember in your future?

Although your presence
Will be missed
And your place empty
Across the breakfast table,
I will remember you
With love and thankfulness.
I will remember the
Many close times we had,
The laughter we enjoyed,
Even the tears we shed,
And the many, many trips
We took to your moon.

______________________________
I sat down at the breakfast table one morning after I had taken my eleven-year old son, Rob, to school, and wrote this poem.

Free at Last

by Hazel Holland

He’s just a bird with a broken wing,
He cannot fly, but he still can sing.
Does he have an answer when life goes wrong?
Or does he sing ‘cause he has a song?

When we can’t change the way things are
But only wish upon a star.
Then clouds give way to starlight bright
And pierce the darkness of the night.

Just when I think I’ll never mend
I remember again my feathered friend.
He sang his song of life for me,
And then he soared, far higher, free!

_________________________
I wrote this poem in the midst of dealing with my own grief over the breakup of my third marriage...

Strengthen Your Heart

by Hazel Holland

Give me a heart that is fixed and unbreakable,
‘Cause the one I have is so impractical.
I find myself giving and wanting to share
All the joy and the laughter, the pain and despair.
When I’m all alone in my own desert places
Where is the answer to life’s empty spaces?
When I want to reach out and be touched by you
I do not wear armor as some people do.
I’m a soul that lies open and chooses to feel
All the heartache and ecstasy that makes life real.
Instead of protecting, I’ll strengthen my heart
So that life’s stinging arrow will seem like a dart.
Can I risk again and let more of life in?
God, why was I born without a skin?

_____________________________
I wrote this poem as I struggled to know how to protect my heart from ever being broken again...

Saddest Sabbath

By Hazel Holland

The temple stands in fractured silence,
Its curtain parted, rent in two
As pious people pay their homage,
They worship, but they know not who.

Yesterday’s gone down in history
As time that we shall not forget.
Today our feet drag slow and heavy,
Our minds can’t comprehend it yet.

The sky is gray—the sun’s not shining.
It seems the birds refuse to sing.
The morning dew bathes earth in tears.
His death is such an awful thing!

We dare not think about tomorrow
Or what the future holds in store.
Today the hours drag by in anguish.
We thought we knew—now we’re not sure.

He’s dead and gone from us, forever
Locked within those walls of stone…
We feel we died when He was taken
And yet we live, confused, alone.

(Go here to see poem with Temple background).
______________________
I wrote this poem for an Easter pageant that was put on at a Seventh-day Adventist church twenty four years ago. The Saturday morning service was presented from the viewpoint of the disciples who didn't know that Jesus was going to rise from the dead the next day! It was relatively easy for me to get in touch with the disciples loss, because I was was going through the death of my own relationship--my marriage that begun to crumble as a result of my husband's rage over becoming a paraplegic...

The Way It Is

by Hazel Holland

Sometimes I feel my life is being lived in the ricocheted pattern of handball court.
And I’m tired of being the ball that never knows which wall is coming up next.
I’d like to be the racquet and call the shots.
Better still, I’d rather not play this kind of game at all.
I’m gun-shy.
I’m wondering what will happen next?
Because of this utterly outrageous thing that has happened to you,
I’m feeling rage!
And that is perfectly all right
Except rage can be a very destructive force if not channeled positively.
And I’m positively mad.
I’m past the point of going quietly insane.
I’m getting noisy about it!
The neighbors must think I’m mad.
The neighbors, for once, think right!
The memory of the way things used to be keeps haunting me—
Before the wheelchair when we could run and walk together.
The bike rides we’d take, the chasing on the beach,
The laughter that was carefree…
Your face is never out of my mind.
I hear your voice and I feel soothed and warm.
I remember all the beautiful times we’ve had together,
And I want it to be that way again.
I want to plan our future
But that is where I cannot go.
I know I want to be with you in our future
But how can I plan?
How can I be sure there’s not more pain around the corner?

I tried to forget my pain—our pain.
I really did.
I tried to practice forgetting today—
Forgetting to remember what struggles you face each day.
I couldn’t.
I can’t be that objective.
I feel a deep bond between us—
A bond of intimacy and of understanding.
I miss the comfort and security of the way it used to be before…
Sometimes I’m lonely for your towering figure.
I want to look up instead of down.
And I know you would rather be looking down.

Let me lean on you until I can stand a little stronger,
Because although you cannot stand, my love
You are standing far taller...
Help me up, my friend.
Dust me off.
Hold me on your lap.
I do not want to sink into the pit again!
I do not want to draw away from you in order to escape reality--
The reality of loving and suffering that seem to go hand in hand.
Loving you would be most destructive if it were only a memory
Because in loving you I am fulfilled,
But in sharing that loving I am overflowed!

____________________________
I wrote a number of poems in 1984 as I struggled to deal with my husband becoming a paraplegic as a result of being hit in the stomach by an angry camper when we were vacationing up in Yosemite National Park. This is one of the poems I wrote at that time as I tried to fight back depression, and the possibility of divorce looming around the next corner...

Love’s Sacrifice

by Hazel Holland

I followed close behind this Man
Bent low beneath His crushing load.
How could He let men mock Him so?
Must He have reasons I don’t know?

I couldn’t stand to watch them jeer
And cruelly taunt His haggard face.
Those hands had healed; His words had led
Me to accept myself instead
Of hating who I thought I was,
And playing like I didn’t care.
He changed my life, of that I’m sure.
He gave me back myself and more…

I saw him stumble, falter, fall,
And rushed to soothe His sweating brow,
But soldiers shoved me out the way.
He bore His cross alone that day
Until some stranger passing by
Inquired to know what He had done.
Then soldiers roughly forced Him bear
His cross, alone, while I stood there.

I felt His love reach out to me
And draw me in to follow close.
In spite of pain and tortured mind
He touched my soul and let me find
That I was human… fully free.
He was the captive now, not me!

They drove Him on with savage hate
As if to banish from their minds
That God might have become a Man.
They would not stop their evil plan
And took Him up that lowly hill.
Would He display His power still?

He did, but not the way I thought.
He let them crucify Him dead
For all to see and wonder why
Was it for me He chose to die?

______________________
I wrote a number of poems in 1984 as I was struggling to deal with my husband becoming a paraplegic as a result of being hit in the stomach by an angry camper when we were vacationing up in Yosemite National Park. Watching him suffer reminded me of Jesus suffering for us. This is one of the poems I wrote at that time. I painted this watercolor 3/7/08 as I thought about the people I had painted on all fours who were "Prisoners of the Law". See following link for explanation: http://artfromhisheart.blogspot.com/2008/03/ministry-of-silly-walks.html

My Victory is the Lord

by Hazel Holland

In My distress I called out to the Lord.
His ears were open, my cry was heard.
He took hold of my hand and lifted me up.
He smiled at me as He filled my cup.
He brought me out into a spacious place
So I could stand before His face.

With His help I can scale a wall.
He keeps my lamp burning, I need not fall.
He makes my feet like the feet of a deer.
He arms me with strength so I need not fear.
He trains my hands to wield a sword.
My shield of victory is the Lord!

___________________________
I wrote this poem at a time in my life when God's anointing was so strong on me for intercession for His children that I could no longer work at a "regular" job as a special education teacher. Waiting to see how He would open up another door that would provide income for me was a struggle of my faith. I wrote this poem after experiencing his miraculous provision in my life.