 Clarence and Audrey Faye (Swift) DeAtley, my great-grandparents. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever." ~ from the 23rd Psalm Someone asked me the other day if I could remember my "first" death? Over the years of serving as a pastor and chaplain, I have encountered death more times than I can even remember at this point.
The first person that I remember having "died," was my great grandfather, Clarence DeAtley. I remember the phone ringing at our home as we were up, getting ready for the day, and then my dad suddenly grabbing his coat and running out the door. I have a clear picture in my mind of my dad's face that morning. I hadn't thought about it until this moment, but my dad's face in my memory is much younger. It is a reminder that often moments, or life milestones, can seem to be encapsulated in our memory for a lifetime. I can still see his car, pulling out from the alley beside our home, and the tailpipe of his car, blowing out gray smoke into the crisp, Indiana March air. I can still see my mom's face as she told me, "Papaw DeAtley died." I still am not sure if I really understood what that meant. I loved my Papaw DeAtley, even though he was a much "different man," than the man he had been most of his life. His mind, confused, and so much of what he had been, replaced by a man who would sometimes get angry, but would welcome a great grandson to sit and share time with him while eating a fudge ice cream bar. I remembered a man that would sit at the small table in a farmhouse kitchen that still contained the wood stove that once was used for cooking, and the 1940's gas stove that had replaced it. My great grandmother, turning on the broiler, and making toast with a little sorghum and butter. Occasionally, she would fix a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, adding to the flavor of the toast. Hot tea would be steeping on the blue counter, and I would watch as she would add teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar, and then gently stir the mixture just prior to taking a sip. I can still remember watching her do the same thing with her iced tea, and watching as the granules of sugar would float in the mixture as she would take a drink. I would watch as "Papaw DeAtley," would take the silverware from his place setting, and with the cloth napkin provided, would wipe down each utensil that he was about to use. To this day, I don't remember asking why he did that? I just remember that it was part of the routine at each meal. "Papaw DeAtley died." I was six months away from turning 7 years old. I had no idea really of what this meant, but that the news upset my both my mom and my dad. The next thing I do remember is pulling into Myers Mortuary in Lebanon, IN, and my mom struggling with my coat. It was a cold day, and like to many late winters in Central and Northern Indiana, it is not unusual for there to be cold rain and sometimes ice. The funeral home seemed dark to me. Heavy fabric draped windows, and organ music played over speakers that were sometimes filled with static, could be heard. I looked at the tall lamps that were in the front of the room next to what looked to be a shiny box, surrounded by flowers. I remember the ceiling, lined with small tiles that were plain white, illuminated by the lamps that seemed to make the room look pink with their light. The first person I saw was my "Mamaw Williams," and I noticed the white handkerchief with a little embroidered blue flower with yellow dots, raised to her face, where she wiped tear after tear. She took my hand, and I could feel the moisture from the handkerchief, touching my hand, as I tried to pull away. I felt the hands of someone that I do not remember, picking me up. The person was behind me, but I clearly remember seeing "Papaw DeAtley" laying in the box. He looked like he was sleeping, but he wasn't bothered by any of the people that were talking as they stood beside the box. I remember thinking, "Why is he asleep? I would love for him to ask for ice cream about now." I'm unsure why I ended up sitting next to my Mamaw Williams as people sat down for the service. My head rested on her lap, and I can still feel how her belly shook as she cried. "You know he was my dad," she said to me. I didn't realize then, but do now, that she was wanting to make sure that I knew this connection. It's hard to believe that it has been 16 years now since Mamaw Williams died, laying in another box, in the same room at Myers. To this day I can still associate the name of the mortuary, with the smell of aged carpet, fragrant lilies, pink lighting, and the sound of a shoe shine machine that sat near the entrance, where men would step up, turn on a switch, and it would buff away any dirt or scratches. I can still see Papaw DeAtley, Mamaw Williams, and a few other relatives and friends that have died over the years in that room that has changed over the years, but the location and reason for gathering has been the same. It is the place in my memory where death becomes a reality. I am drawn to these memories as I encounter patient families when one of my hospice patients die. Sometimes, as I see young children encountering their first death and trying to understand, that six-year-old inner child in me, still wishes that the person would sit up and ask for ice cream. Death is as much a part of life and breathing. It is the stark reality that none of us can escape. In my Christian faith, I understand that death is the gate that opens as we live fully into eternity. For me, I try to remind myself that I am already part of that eternity, that my death will be a mark on a timeline that has no ending, and that those early childhood memories will be only a memory, forgotten, as I encounter those who died before me. I am not afraid to die, but like all of us, if truthful, the journey to that death will sometimes leave me anxious as I consider the path, and ask God to help me when it comes. Perhaps that is a reflection to be written for another day. In the meantime... Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2021 Pre-order Todd's new book, "Remember Me When..." at Chalice Press and receive a 20 percent discount.
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 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. ~ Galatians 5:22-23  I'm not sure that I realized "exactly," what was happening the day that I sat down with one of my hospice patients and she began asking me about "ways to talk," to her grandchildren about dying and death. I'm still not exactly sure what I was thinking a year later, with an envelop full of notes and a few pages with pictures, when I sat down with my friend, Ciara, who listened and said, "Sure," when I asked if she would be willing to take everything I gave her and to illustrate a few pages to give me an idea of what this "might look like," if I were to pursue this project as a book.
Two years later, after that first visit with my patient, Ciara and I are about to find that this "project of the heart," is about to be released as the first Children's book for a publishing company that is over 100 years old and one that has never published a book for children in their long history. As I write my blog today, I realize that it has been over a month since I have taken the time to sit down and "actually," write about what has been happening. Behind the scenes there have been meetings with the Editor, a marketing team, and numerous texts between Ciara and myself. I never knew that there was a scientifically created font that allows people with dyslexia to be able to read "more at ease," but I do now, as Ciara in her educational journey at SCAD in Savannah has learned, and is implementing it in our book. As the marketing team met with us, we discovered that there is now a group of people who have fallen in love with our book, and how this will be such a wonderful "conversation starter," for grandparents everywhere for years to come. For a moment, I stop writing and I think about the afternoon that I walked into Tony Carrol's office, a therapist who agreed to see a me, even though I didn't have insurance, but was suffering from a bought of depression that seemed to have paralyzed my life. I am overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude, and wish that he were alive to see the lasting results. I remember Tony asking me to take a photo of something that brought me, "joy," into his office so that we could talk about what it was about the picture that seemed to speak to me. I remember laughing as I took that first picture in. It was a photo of a bumper sticker I had seen on a car that said, "Save the Ta Ta's!" It was a bumper sticker about breast cancer awareness. While it was childish in nature, it was a photo that began to free me from my depression and started a journey that now has brought me to this place, as I moved from just taking a photo, to also writing about what it was that made me "feel" joy. I think for any of us, finding our path in the world today, takes more than just looking for joy. Projects of our heart takes courage, and whether we realize it or not, someone to also believe in what we are doing. I knew that Ciara was a gifted artist, but to "see" how she has brought this project to life is a "new joy," that I'm grateful to be experiencing. I am reminded that God always seems to have something more for us. More joy. More opportunities. More, more, more... Stay in God's grip! Todd G. Todd Williams (c) 2021  "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him." ~ Luke 15:2 Have you ever been embraced by arms that made you feel absolutely welcomed and safe?
As a child, I was blessed by the arms of family members that were open to me, and made me feel that way. However, no pair of arms made me feel that way more than the arms of my grandmother, Margaret "Mamaw" Wilkes. Mamaw Wilkes was a person who paid attention to fine details. An artist, she sewed magnificent pieces, painted beautiful pictures, and offered a home of hospitality that any stranger would feel welcomed to visit. Even though it has been over 40 years since I last knew those arms, to this day, if I smell Jergen's hand lotion, I still think of her. Funny how our mind remembers. There was something about running to greet her, her arms embracing, and the words, "I'm so glad to see you." I always believed and knew those words to be true, even when my own life was filled with uncertainty, struggles, and living with the choices that I had made as someone coming of age. Lately I have been drawn to reread Henri Nouwen's book, "The Return of the Prodigal Son." I have been thinking a lot about where he shares of his own struggles in life, and that how sometimes we invite darkness into our lives just to "make God," prove that the light of God can overcome all darkness. In many ways, the open arms of my grandmother were that light. I have to believe that the son who returns home after making a mess of things in his life, was greeted and felt worth, even after all he had done and experienced. For those of us who have experienced arms that embrace when we have known hurt, sadness, disappointment or failure; they are the very thing that doesn't just embrace our wounds, but they are healing. I have been asked many times why I use the phrase, "Stay in God's grip!" I guess it's because I want us each to know that embrace. To be reminded that when we experience the presence of the arms of God, that there is a sense of wholeness. When we hear the words, "I'm so glad to see you," we somehow take the things that the world has taught or told us, and relinquish the power that it seems to have over us. That in a moment, we see ourselves as God sees us and knows us to be. It's knowing that everything will somehow be alright. For me, it's not necessarily going out and making a mess of things, returning home to a party, and a disgruntled sibling. It is a story that we all can relate to. It's knowing arms that love, and hands that hold, when we need them most. I'm thankful for the human hands that have held me, and the arms of God that are always open! Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2021 The picture with this post is of my sister, Laura Williams Barker, with my grandmother, Margaret Vivian Ross Wilkes and myself in 1978. This was the last visit that we shared with her as she died a few months later. Be sure to watch for my new book coming out later this year, "Remember Me When..." being published by Chalice Press.  "But the person who is forgiven only a little will love only a little." ~ Luke 7:47b Sometimes I wonder why it is that my soul can become so restless. My family will tell you that I am two very different people who juggle to be one. One is the person that struggles to make sure that the image that others see is one of a faithful follower, secure in his faith, and focused on the journey, while the other side of me is often weak, insecure and anxious, who fails miserably to make healthy choices for me life.
The painful reality is that I am both. At times one will overtake the other, and when the two are in conflict, I will often retreat, rather than facing what needs to be done, while failing to admit that the struggle is real. I think that if we were all honest with ourselves, we all have things that we juggle. Some are just better at keeping everything moving in the air. I remember as a kid watching a man take a plate and place it on the top of a pole, spinning the plate, and then standing the pole straight up. The plate would remain safe as long as the speed was correct, and that it didn't begin to wobble. The man soon had a dozen plates, all spinning, entertaining the crowd. He then removed each one safely, and the audience cheered his accomplishment. I don't have to attempt this to know that I am not someone who can spin plates on a pole. First, it is not something I feel like I am called to do. The other, for me, is that I know that the risk is too great, and the audience, or the world, will see a clumsy man, out of control, and destroying a perfectly good set of dishes. Let's face it, sometimes life is just not easy. In many ways I know that both of the people that my family sees juggling, sometimes with the precision of the man who could spin plates with perfection, while sometimes seeing the man who literally destroys the set of plates, in reality is me. While I struggle, I also realize there is a God who is present as well. That with the dawn of each new day, seems to say, "I believe in you..." A God who knows me so well... all of me. A God, who like the father of the prodigal son, waits. A God, who looked at a shepherd boy and saw a king, knew. And a God, who took a man who didn't see the strength in his voice to free a people, pushed. Our God, who understands us better than we do ourselves... I will admit, it is hard to share about the times when I struggle, but it certainly does not hold the same power it once did, when the struggle finds it's way into the light, and is met with love and those who have the courage to walk with you until you find a place that is safe. Stay in God's grip! Todd God of the Current... God of discovery and re-creation, help me to know that there will indeed be times of wandering, but in my wandering lead me to green meadows; I understand that there are times of darkness but while in that darkness, I know that there will also be the dawn; that in my heart which seeks You through my whole being will begin to flow a river washing over the valleys of my soul; and that I will journey wet from the experience when again I find that I am wandering. G. Todd Williams (c) 2021  And as he passed by, he saw Levi the son of Alphaeus sitting at the receipt of custom, and said unto him, Follow me. And he arose and followed him. ~ Mark 2:14 Years ago while living in Texas City, Texas, near the Galveston Bay, I would get up early some mornings and make my way to the Texas City Dike to watch as men with their nets would walk out onto sandbars that were only present at low tide, to try their luck.
So often, I would watch and marvel at the techniques many had developed. The sway of the net, the right turn of the body, and away, the net would be cast, opening for maximum coverage and hitting the water. Then I would watch as a rope would be pulled, tightening the net, and securing the bounty. As I watched, I often would think about the fishermen that Jesus came upon, and with two words, "Follow me," the men left their fishing nets, empty, along the shoreline, leaving behind not just a way of life, but their families and everything that had been their life for a new journey. The act of "following me," means that we are willing to surrender our current journey for one that is new. To "follow," means that we relinquish our illusion of being in control. In many ways, following Jesus means that we relinquish our small vision of who God is, for a greater understanding of what God is willing to do to be in relationship with us. The incarnation, walking among the creation, and the power of that presence, simply saying two words, and the rest is "history." The gospel is given life, and in that life, the lives of even more people are changed. When we come to the "Follow Me," moments in Jesus' ministry, I am reminded that it did not end with simple fishermen. No, it continued beyond the dusty roads that Jesus shared with the disciples, and even beyond the cross. These words can be found today on street corners, on buses, in hospital waiting rooms, and even while sitting in our car stuck in traffic. Our encounter with these words is as varied as each one of us. To "follow," doesn't mean to no longer be who we "once were." While it is an invitation to relinquish the life that we once may have lived, that life "lived," is filled with many gifts, experiences and expressions that will then help with the journey. Our wounds, our gifts, and our experiences, will continue to be an important part of the journey. These are the very things that make it possible for each of us to follow, and to invite others to walk with us. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2021  "Be transformed by the renewing of your minds." ~ Romans 12:2 One thing is for sure, none of us could have planned for all the events that have taken place over the past year. As I am encountering more people who have had their initial COVID vaccine shot, I am begin to sense that there is a feeling of "hope."
Hope is definitely something that when it takes up residence in your life, things begin to look differently. In many ways, I'm grateful that hope is not dependent on peace in the land, justice in the world, or a list of successes. Hope is our willingness to leave unanswered questions unanswered and unknown futures unknown. Hope seems to allow for us to see God's guiding hand, not just in gentle, sacred moments, but also in the shadows of uncertainty. One thing is for sure, if someone would have asked the question, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" five years ago, I sure would have not responded, "Living through a pandemic." If anything we have learned from the last year is that we hold lightly to dreams and fears, and that we must be open to receive each new day as a unique expression of God's love for each of us. I remember a woman from one of my first congregations I served saying, "As long as there is life, there is hope." If anything the past year has taught us is this, "As long as there is life, there is hope." This new sense of hope that I am encountering seems to be giving power to live in a new way, with new strength. It's not that our life has changed that much since yesterday, but there is this underlying understanding that at "some point, hope will prevail." While the pandemic continues to be very real, the paradox of the expectation is that those who believe in tomorrow can better live today; those who expect joy to come out of sadness can discover the beginnings of a new life in the midst of the present condition. It is important to have hope, and to Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2021  While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them. ~ Luke 2:6 - 7 This morning I was greeted by photos of a friend of mine with her newborn grandson. The baby sleeping, nestled against the nap of her neck, along with the family dog sleeping just beyond the two, keeping watch, caused me to stop and realize the many things that were happening in this photo.
My friend lost her spouse to cancer just days within the time period that their daughter shared that she was pregnant. It was one of those moments where joy and pain were inseparable, and then to try to find the words to describe that feeling, impossible. I had been present with them the night before her spouse died, and I remember what I saw. My friend, nestled up against her spouse, as soft music played. The dog, again, just within arms reach, sleeping, but yet alert to anyone entering the room. Their daughter, rolled up in a blanket, silently watching, and waiting for the last breath to finally come, while her husband slowly stroked her hair, and offered support. Two images of the same family. Two images that describe significant chapters, and both offering the image of peace and love. This is their first Christmas with all the changes that have happened this year. Again, there is the joy and the pain. I think in many ways the two are connected. If it were not for pain, would we recognize when joy arrives, and without joy, would we ever move from beyond the pain? The photo this morning also reminded me of the first Christmas that I experienced after the birth of our daughter. While she had been born at Eastertime, that first Christmas just seemed to be extra special. Somehow I could suddenly relate to an infant story that was part of my own experience. The feelings that I had about keeping her safe, doing anything I could to ensure that her needs were met, and knowing what it felt like to hold within my arms one of the most amazing gifts I have ever encountered in my life. Somehow it impacted my faith in a way that I suddenly realized that the only true way for God to be truly with "us," was that God had to come to us incarnate as an infant. How else could we truly trust God? God came to us in the truest form of vulnerability, as an infant. The infant sleeping on the chest of my friend did more than just bring comfort, he also has brought healing. The infant born in the darkness of the barn, nestled against the chest of a young Hebrew woman, brought hope. The infant that we celebrate this season reminds us that beyond all the pain that we may experience, that there will once again be joy. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  "A human being is a vessel that God has built for Himself and filled with His inspiration so that His works are perfected in it." ~ Hildegard of Bingen It's a sunny, but cool morning here along the Gulf. The cold front that moved in earlier this week, managed to take with it most of the remaining colors of summer and fall, and now I find in the brisk air, a moment of rest.
As I rounded the patio to survey a few of my potted plants, I noticed nestled, in the petals of one of my daisies, a small, but significant gathering of water. Water always amazes me how it gathers light, reflects colors, but yet, is transparent. This drop is vulnerable. It depends on the strength of the petals, the coolness of the morning that prevents it from evaporating, and the calmness of the air, that won't disturb where lays. In many ways, it has been provided the perfect vessel. Interesting how perfect vessels work. They are often overlooked, and many times, even they do not recognize their gifts or strengths. A young boy gathers five stones from a brook, and finds himself face to face with a giant. Just one of those stones was all that he needed to bring the giant crashing down. A father yells to his servants to prepare a meal because the son that was once gone has returned home, and he opens his arms, a vessel of grace and forgiveness, and welcomes him home. A Hebrew girl is visited by an angel who tells her that God has found her to be the perfect vessel for the Word to become flesh. All too often we forget that we are among God's most important vessels God has ever created. We fail to listen to what God is encouraging us to do because another voice is telling us that we lack the ability. Our voice, a vessel that can offer hope, and words of encouragement, stops short of finding the words, just because we somehow believe that we cannot make a difference. Or the most important vessel, God's son, who was, perhaps, the greatest vessel provided to us, made of the Divine and dust. Both sacred and human. The perfect vessel for a creation that seems to have forgotten that it carries within itself the very breath of its Creator. David was the perfect vessel to restore a people. The father was the perfect vessel to welcome home his prodigal son. Mary was the perfect vessel to bring forth the incarnation, Jesus. And Jesus, of course, is the vessel that carries the reminder of a God who still loves you unconditionally and never forgets your worth as a vessel. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him. ~ Matthew 2:1-2 It has been several years now since I took this photo of my son and daughter as we made our way across the Houston Ship Channel on the ferry late one night a few days after Christmas. We had gone to New Orleans following the final Christmas Service at the church I was serving. Along with my dad, the kids and I enjoyed walking historic streets, eating beignets covered in powdered sugar, and simply relaxing. On the last part of our journey, we took the ferry from Bolivar to Galveston, where we would then just drive across the Causeway Bridge and be home.
The night was dark, with no moon. The waves lapped at the boat as we made our way, and the lights from the refineries along the Galveston Bay reflected along the water's edge. My children stood at the front of the boat as the December wind rushed past their faces. I just remember standing, watching, and realizing I was experiencing one of the last trips that we would take, just us. Brad would have a son in the next two years, and Emily, was already in college with checklists before her as she made her way towards her degree. I'm not sure where my dad was. I think walking the boat after having driven for nearly five hours. No doubt, surveying the way the vehicles had been loaded. I look at this photo now and I think back to when I was so sick just over a decade ago, being told that I could die. While I prayed for God's healing, I also remember asking God to allow me to watch my daughter fall in love for the first time, and for my son to grow into a man. Funny how I look at this picture and I also realize answered prayer. The season of Advent always seems to catch me, staring off in the distance, like my kids on the boat that night. Staring into a night that is dark, filled with unknowns, but yet, given passage to the exact spot I need to arrive at each time. I wish that I could say that I always trusted. That I am always faithful, never doubting. I'm thankful these moments are often short-lived, or are overshadowed by other things. I look at this photo and remember being a kid growing up in Owen County, Indiana, standing just above the tassels of a September corn field, wondering what the next season would bring, while also feeling the need to wander. About this time I imagine Mary, looking at her belly, feeling the child within, and staring into a night sky, remembered how she glorified God with her song with the announcement that she would be with child, while perhaps already feeling the first twitches of labor as the darkness of night surrounds her, now feeling unsure as the reality of childbirth drifts into her mind. I have to wonder about the Magi, who were already watching the night sky, noting peculiar changes. The first twinkles of a star that would soon overtake the darkness, and serve as a guide as they walked dusty roads, lighting each step of the journey. Once finding the newborn, the Magi were then told to travel back a different way. Joseph and Mary would once again go into the night's darkness as well, as they became refugees in the land of Egypt, carrying a son that was only days old. Following one's heart is nothing new. Although the star of Bethlehem is said to have shone bright and provided the way, for those living today, we look to the sky, and for many, only see darkness. As I think about that night on the ferry, I realize now that my grown children have become the embodiment of the dreams they were having as they stared into that cold dark night. We have become the indwelling light of Christ in a world that has seen some dark days. Seeking to find the Christ child in each of us is something we all know about. It is a journey. It's arriving safely and opening the door to find hospitality and love. It's the feeling of being hugged after a long journey by those who have waited to greet you. As this season of Advent continues, may we remember that some are still staring into a dark, night sky. For all of us, Advent isn't just a period of waiting. It is a journey. May we all seek and discover.... Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1 As I walked outside this morning to let the dogs out, I could see among my flowers the effect of the freeze that we had along the Gulf the other night. Where the foliage was exposed, frost had settled in the early hours of the morning. Someone had asked me if I was going to cover my flowers earlier in the day, and I really had not thought any more about it until I had woken up the next morning and noticed the blanket of frost covering everything in sight.
Unlike my youth, when walking out into the grass on that first morning with frost, where the grass would crackle under my feet and I would take in deep breathes of air to produce a foggy cloud to celebrate the cold morning, I knew that this would turn the leaves of my tropical plants black, and the last of summer flowers would succumb to the seasonal change. As I took this photo this morning, thinking about the zinnia that once celebrated the summer sun, I found myself thinking of all the people I have met who have been told that they too, would succumb to a season that they could not avoid. We are like the flowers. We do everything that we can to avoid the season that we know that will arrive, and overtake everything that we once knew. The person who wrote Ecclesiastes reminds us that there is, "A season for all things." As I look at the fading flower, I think to myself, "Had you just covered this flower, it would still be okay," but then I remind myself, "At some point, this flower will fade away, and I will still be left with a flower that has died." But then I realize the deeper truth. Because this flower has lived, I now have the seeds to plant in the spring, to offer up more flowers next year. Because this flower has lived, I will again have flowers next spring. This flower still matters. So much of the time I have to remind my hospice patients and their families that they are still living, even when they are facing a life-limiting illness. The act of dying will always include life. Even as I look at the fading flower, I am moved by the beauty that it still holds. It draws me in, to look, and to reflect. The fading flower makes me realize the seasons that I have lived, the current season I am experiencing, and to know that even if I am touched by something that causes me to begin my final season, that I will remember that I am still alive, and that my life has meaning, even to those who watch and witness as I surrender to the season that I cannot avoid. This morning I am reminded that even the fading flower has beauty, and I am grateful. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  "Behold, He is coming with clouds, and every eye will see Him, even they who pierced Him. And all the tribes of the earth will mourn because of Him. Even so, Amen" ~ Revelation 1:7 This morning I woke up thinking about the words that I will be sharing during worship today. It's the beginning of another Advent, and I discover that I am still waiting and watching.
The husband of one of my hospice patients believes that he will see the return of Christ in his lifetime. The ninety-seven-year-old man always smiles when he shares this with me, and often, the smile will bring a welling of tears to his eyes, and he will often look upward. This morning's text tells of the return of Christ as being found among the clouds. I remember laying on the hillside just beyond our pond as a child, and staring at the clouds, often with my stepbrother, Jimmy. We would watch and wait for shapes to form, and then ask one another if we could see the same thing. Dragons, dogs, and the occasional eagle would appear. The locusts would sing their summer song, and often we would drift away like the shape that once held our attention. I have realized that as I have grown older that the second coming will need to be big and loud. The world hardly recognized the small child that was born in seclusion. Well, there were those angels, shepherds, a few wise men, and star, but for the most part, Jesus comes into the world through the birth by a young Hebrew girl, in the darkness of stable. The return of Jesus will come on the clouds and we are told to be "ready." I will admit, there are many things that I have encountered in my life, that when I look back I realize just how unprepared I would have been had the second coming happened. When I fail to stop and help the stranger, or when I abandon the opportunity to give rather than receive. When I look at my closet of clothes and realize the multiples I have of "things," and I talk about what I have, rather than what I could share. There are too many times, and that does not include the moments when my mind is focused on some goal of my own making, rather than listen to the still small voice offering another way. No, Jesus will have to arrive in a way that the world has to stop and take notice. The small flicker of a candle cannot compete with the latest LED strobe that spells out words across the sky. I think in many ways I'm glad it will be bold, because even for many of us who claim to be Christian, we don't know how to be bold for a God who expects us to love one another unconditionally. Instead of allowing for judgement by a Divine being, many Christians today would rather point their fingers at those who don't measure up to what their own God of their making expects. No, for me, Jesus in the clouds finds me once again on a hillside in my mind and being amazed to proclaim, "Look, I see Jesus!" May we all on this first Sunday of Advent find us living in hope of the One who will return on the clouds! Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! ~ Psalm 27:13 - 14 This morning I took time to walk in my yard and see the changes that are occuring as autumn embraces the breeze, and leaves turn to gold. Over the past week I have been checking in on this monarch chrysalis. When it first appeared, it was a gray color, nearly matching the boards in the fence, blending in, and protecting the miracle that was happening within.
This morning, I can now begin to see the outline of a wing, and the markings that will soon define the wings of the monarch as it appears. It's amazing to think that last week this was a caterpillar, and soon it will soar over the trees. A few years ago, one of the families from the church I was serving encountered a health crisis while out of town. Don had received a kidney transplant nearly two decades earlier, and as with all things and time, the kidney was slowly falling behind. Don had to be lifted by helicopter from Dallas to Galveston. There, the kidney unit where he got his kidney years ago, was waiting for him to arrive. His wife called and I shared I would be there to meet him when he arrived as she made the drive from Dallas. I arrived just as the helicopter was approaching the hospital. I watched as the tail spun around, making a soft landing, and the team from the unit, taking him from the helicopter up to where there was a room full of staff waiting. I stood outside the door as vitals were taken, and initial assessments completed, and then I was invited to sit next to him and wait on his family to arrive. Don was not conscious, and appeared comfortable. I remember making just some light remarks, always remembering that people who are not conscious are always listening. I remind my hospice families of this all the time, encourage them to say positive things to the patient, and remind them that our hearing is the last thing to go when we die. I often will continue to talk to the patient, even after death for some time, thanking them for allowing me to be present for this important milestone in their life, and that I will see them again. Don didn't stir. I began to hum "Amazing Grace" among the sounds of an occasional beep from a monitor and the rise and fall of the automatic blood pressure cuff on his arm. As I began to hum the song again for the second time, I could begin to hear Don humming the tune along with me. No movement. Not even the slightest lift from an eyebrow. Only the sound of the tune, flowing along with me. I don't remember how many times we hummed the tune, but I could sense that his spirit was present, and that somehow I knew that "this time," things were going to be okay. In many ways, I was seeing Don as I do the monarch chrysalis. It wasn't so much as to what my eyes could see, but what my spirit understood, as I listened to his spirit within, still humming, and lifting up a song that brought joy to the moment. Like the chrysalis, I don't understand how the miracle of this transformation takes place. I guess in many ways, I don't care to know, because of the joy I encounter when wings push forth, and the butterfly emerges. As I was reminded by Mary, one of the oldest members of the very first church I served who was bedbound in a nursing home years ago, "Don't let this old body fool you. My spirit is good and I am a warrior when it comes to praying for things. Just let me know what I need to pray for." I am thankful for the miracle of the chrysalis, but moreso, I am thankful for knowing that my spirit, no matter what my body may encounter, belongs to a God whom I will sing to, even when my body is no longer able. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." ~ Matthew 7:13 - 14 I'm not sure what it was about this morning. Walking out, I was greeted by cool weather and a soft breeze that welcomed me. As I let the dogs out, my eyes were drawn to one of the trees in our back yard. "The leaves are gone," I said to myself. "How did I miss that?"
I will be the first to admit that I have not been myself for nearly two months now. I'm not sure if it is the new reality of living during a pandemic, or the fact that I live in a country that has just gone through one the most divisive political seasons since the Civil War. Perhaps it is because I am learning to live with a chronic pain condition, and that instead of waking up in the morning and beginning my day with my normal time of reflection and writing, I now begin the morning slowly pulling myself from my bed, trying to do some stretches that are to help with the pain, and then consider what today's "normal," will be. Whatever it is, this morning I realized that I seemed to have missed leaves that changed, and fell to the ground. I feel as if I have become a backseat driver to my own life that seems to be driven by someone who looks like me, but does not see the road ahead as clearly as I once was did. The driver doesn't maneuver sharp turns as carefully as I would, or drive slower, when entering areas of my life where moments to reflect should overwhelm the need to push through. Speed bumps jar me, as I realize that I am not as prepared for the ups and downs as I encounter both hills and valleys. I want to get out of the backseat and place myself firmly behind the wheel, but I can't seem to get the driver's attention, and I feel trapped by this driver. The leaves are gone, and I seemed to have missed the end of a season. I readjust the chair that I am sitting on while I am typing, as I feel the pain once again, and I think to myself, I must remain in the driver's seat today. I remember back to when I was married with young children at home while in grad school full time and working several jobs in order to keep afloat. My friends know that if you ask me any trivia questions that involve the decade of the 90's, I will not be able to answer them as this decade seems to be a blur in my life. I remember telling someone that my life was filled with "have to's" and it did not belong to me. It belonged to a person who was in the back seat, being driven by someone else. I have to stop here for a moment, and let my mind catch up with my hands. You see, I realize that I am sharing what we all know something about. When I was a child I remember telling my grandmother that I was "bored." I can still see her face, her eyes, gazing at me as if I had just blurted a word that would guarantee the taste of Ivory liquid soap in my mouth in the morning after having had it washed out the night before. She said, "People who say that they are bored, are boring people. You don't ever want to be one of those." I realize that we all are afraid to slow down. We surrender ourselves to the backseat of our life time and time again. Our health begins to suffer. Relationships are strained, and we forget to take the time to reflect, dream, and embrace the life that God, not the world, has for us. For many, it is not until you find yourself pounding on the window of the backseat door, that you realize that you have lost the ability to stop. I hear the words of Jesus, "Peace I give to you. My peace, I leave with you," followed by the Psalmist, reminding, "Surely peace and mercy shall follow after you." I am comforted to know that if I surrender all these things that I am feeling, and the perceived expectations of a world that is full of people riding in the back seat, that I will still hear the words, "My good and faithful servant, welcome home," when I reach my real destination. That when I realize that I have missed a season, not to beat myself up because I missed it, but rather, remind myself that I need to be more gentle and kind to myself in the coming days and weeks. Most of all, to remember that I didn't get in the backseat overnight. It came with moments when I decided to surrender to the expectations of a world that fails to yield, or to slow down, for those of us who really would prefer a different road that takes us closer to where God would really like for us to be. Stay in your lane, and in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away. ~ Revelation 21:4 The text came just a little before 7 am yesterday, "Mom passed this morning at 5:20. Tom and Andie are going to tell my grandparents in person this morning."
It was news that I was expecting, but it came at a time that I was rushing around, trying to get ready for the day, and was already feeling the pressure of a Monday morning that just seemed to be anything but ordinary. My heart quickly turned to Herman and Helen. A sweet couple I have known for some time, who both are in their nineties, and the reality that this morning they would hear the news that their daughter has died. As I lifted a prayer for them while tying my shoes, I remembered the experience that I had, watching my own great-grandmother, stare at an old man in a coffin, and her saying, "I know that I have lived too long when I watch my children die of old age." "Parents are not supposed to outlive their children." I have heard these words more times than I can seem to remember. Interesting how these words seem to resonate some great "order," in a world that is filled with imperfect realities. I remember being at the bedside of an eight year old girl who unexpectedly hemorrhaged a few days following surgery. Her mother, who refused to leave the room as hospital staff reopened a surgical incision in an attempt to reach the area, stood and watched. I held her, while a doctor asked me to take her out of the room, only to hear the mother tell me, "No, I'm not going anywhere, I told her I would always be here for her. This is that moment." The attempts were futile, and the girl died. The scene still plays out in my mind, as I remember the images from the room, the words of the girl's mother, and how powerful her presence was. I had just visited Dee a few days ago. It had taken all of her energy to convey to me the words she shared during our time together. As I think back now, I watched her form words, and thought how her lips and mouth reminded me of her mother's. Her mother, Helen, has one of the most beautiful smiles, with a laugh, that is undeniably her own. Dee's eyes were reflective of both Helen and Herman, but they were now tired, and slightly dimmed by what was going on within a body. We all knew that this would be our last visit with one another. I remember our tears when I first entered the room. They were both reflective of the love that we had for one another, with the salty reality that sometimes life is simply not following the perceived reality of how children should die once their parents have breathed their last breath, and that golden years should not include watching your children die before you. I am drawn this morning to think of another child, who had a mother that gave birth to him when she was still a young woman. Who nursed him, and watched him take his first steps. Who smiled the first time she heard him call her, "mom," and would laugh with him, when she found that place on his body that would result in giggles. A mother who would tell him stories, and would scrape the dirt from his knee, providing the healing kiss that only a parent can provide, when that is the only true cure. I think of how this mother must have scolded him when he did wrong, because we know that all children are shaped by what they are taught, with both good and bad experiences, that are shaped by behaviors, both good and bad. I know that this mother also watched, helplessly, as this child was taken from her and the friends that he loved when he was a man, sharing about what the world would be like if only people would listen and respond. She saw him beaten, and hung on a cross, while hearing him tell a man near her that she was now his mother because he would no longer be present in her life to care for her as sons are taught to care for their mothers as they grow old. Another reminder, that even in the life that Jesus lived with his mother, Mary, the order of how life "should have been," failed to be realized. I am reminded each day of the imperfect world in which we live. We live with the results of not just our own decisions, but the decisions of millions around us, and generations that have lived before us. Within our faith, uncommon realities teach us that we must not forget to have hope, and to pray for miracles that cannot ever be imagined. So many times, I hear mothers and fathers tell me how they feel so "hopeless," while their children suffer, encounter life-limiting challenges, and succumb to their uncommon reality that their child will die before them. My heart is filled with with sadness for Herman and Helen who have just lost their daughter, and for Dana and John who have just lost their mother. I am also realizing the grief that I am encountering, as I have lost a sweet friend. I long for the day when there will be, "no more death," and a time when mothers and fathers will no longer encounter the reality that their child has died. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. ~ John 14:3 Yesterday I visited a close friend in the hospital who has decided to only proceed with comfort care as she has exhausted all treatments. I had not seen her in some time. When I entered the room, I was greeted by one of her children. We all seemed to recognize the journey of this life is drawing to a close, and tears just naturally began to gather in our eyes, as we smiled, hugged and said our initial words.
One of the things that they don't really teach you about ministry in seminary is that your presence as a pastor in a faith community, can create lasting relationships. I thought about meeting this person's parents when I first interviewed for the position as "Pastor," for this small faith community near the Gulf. They were among a group of elders that reached out and welcomed me. I enjoyed listening to their stories of growing up in Kansas, going to the "city" for the first time, never having seen stop lights, and what it was like to encounter traffic while trying to cross a street without knowing to wait for the signal to change. Over the years I met their children, grandchildren, buried this friend's husband, and I visited them all at various times when a health crisis would arise. While I have not served this faith community in some time, our relationship has continued, often in light conversation and "howdy-do's." Yesterday was the culmination of all of these experiences. It was the reality that a milestone was going to arrive whether we were ready for it or not, and that final words, lasting words, needed to be shared. I always remind people that I am in the business of teaching others how to say, "Good bye." It still remains hard for me at times to say "Good bye" when it comes to my own friends and family. I am reminded that our faith continues to bring us closer together, and that eternity has already presented itself to us. I sometimes wonder how different these milestones would be if we realized that our time in eternity means that we just have a change in location, and that death is the means by which we move. It is not a finality. Jesus tells the disciples that he goes to prepare a place for us. I have to remind myself that there is that place for my friend, and for me. While I will miss this person, and I am sad for all those who love and care for this person, I know that eternity will be a greater blessing knowing that we will all be together once more. Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020 |
AuthorRev. G. Todd Williams lives in the Houston metro area and is a Hospice Chaplain at Essential Hospice, Webster, Texas, and is an ordained Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) pastor. Archives
February 2021
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