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.