The other day I got up early and drove down to the beach on Galveston Island.  It is a place where I can sit, listen to the waves as they break on the jetties, and watch as the miracle of the sunrise announces a new day.  While I sit, I often find my mind wandering.  It's a place where I can exist without a plan or purpose.  Just simply, be present with me.  No one calling.  No newsfeed reminding me of the chaos in the world.  Just me, and a few seagulls.

As much as I love these moments, I am also being reminded that there is "another place," being prepared for me.  

Living in the present, and being faithful can bring about many challenges. But knowing that while I may struggle with the things in present, God is busy creating a place where I will spend eternity.

It's an interesting way to look at things.  

Our faith, and even scripture, remind us that what we see and know now shall pass away... all of it. That there will be a new and amazing place we will call home. Our hearts and our souls long to be there.

So often as I sit with patients in their final moments, I am drawn in to watch and listen.  Wondering what they are experiencing, seeing, and feeling.  Sometimes I wish they could describe for me all of these things, but most of all, hoping for a glimpse of what is being revealed.

Years ago I was with a patient who got a glimpse of heaven.  She described the most beautiful wooded park.  She had grown up in one of the poorer parts of the city, and had lived her entire life within a 6 block radius, razing six children on her own, and working multiple jobs, never getting a break.  I remember her opening her eyes widely, smiling, and telling me that she picked out a bench where she and I would talk about "this day, one day."

She then told me something that I can't wait to experience.  "There is no such thing as time in heaven."

I immediately thought of the times when I have shared, "I don't have time for this."  Of course there would be no such thing as time in heaven.  That within itself would BE heaven.

I looked at my watch, and realized that I needed to get ready for a meeting.  Once again, leaving this place, and entering back into the world that I currently live in.  I looked back one more time.  

For me, heaven will need to have an ocean, with waves that wash over the memories of this life. It will be home to family and friends that I have loved and now miss each day. The most amazing thing is that the voice I have felt calling me over the decades will be calling me by name, and I will be able to see into the eyes of the One who first saw mine.

Stay in God's grip!

​G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

I have been on a journey.  Yesterday while sharing with my therapist, I told her that I have decided to make my depression a, "sacred journey."  I'm not sure what prompted this.  Perhaps it is because I find it easier to talk about my depression in the context that somehow God is still present, while realizing the darkness of this valley, and how I need to know that the shadow I cast is because there still exists a small flicker of light in the distance.  

Perhaps I consider this journey as, "sacred," because I realize that something "within me," is changing.  Often I look to these changes as God once again creating something new in my life.  

I think of the most faithful of followers in scripture, and even consider Jesus' own words, asking for a cup to pass from me.  But this cup I am drinking from currently still sits before me and seems to be waiting.  

I've tried to think about what has happened to bring me to where I am now.  

There are many things.  The pandemic is revealing much about who and what we are as a society.  The number of people who now say that they are grieving some kind of loss has increased beyond measure.  Our work, family, and life in general has suddenly been altered into something that we were never taught or prepared to encounter.  

Recently seeing a picture of my mother, a woman I have not seen or spoken to in over a decade, reminded me of a loss, surrounded by years of addiction, and a painful journey that sometimes leads to distance and time without words, or understanding.

Perhaps it is the ongoing pain that I experience in the homes of hospice families that cannot plan for funerals, or experience the bedside visit of a family member that has not been able to travel due to the virus, leaving a final conversation, smile, or hug to a cell phone that now is held close to the ear of a loved one as they make their final transition.

I know that the battle between friends over politics, why black lives matter, and how those who are not marginalized live each day in a society that presents no challenges because of the color of their skin.  

Maybe it's the struggle that I feel when I don't know what to say, or to do, when my black spouse hears another verdict, watches another black life senselessly murdered publicly and then displayed on every news outlet.  I seek to understand what is sacred, or holy, about these moments, and how they effect my own well-being.  My spouse lives each day being reminded of his blackness, while my own father ends a text message, "All lives matter," failing to realize the privilege that he has always known.

I know that I cried when it was announced that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg died, while looking at my hand, realizing the wedding ring that I wear is due to her persistence and understanding of law, and how love cannot always be defined.  I remembered the day that I said, "I do," on the National Lawn in Washington D. C. before these words could be said across our country, and because we are a land of laws, I understand how laws can change.  I am reminded daily that the, "Good old days," for many, were more like the, "Dark Ages," for others.

A few weeks ago when my therapist asked, "Do I need to worry about you?" I realized the long pause before I could find the courage to tell her, "Yes."

I felt as if I had taken the first step off the "invisible cliff," that I had created for myself, and that somehow the sacredness of the journey had been surrendered.  So, I withdrew.

I have always been a person who finds comfort in the words that I write, but in these days, I couldn't write what I was feeling because so often, I see my words as something that inspires, brings about change, or causes those who read them to consider what I am sharing.  I thought that writing down my words would somehow overshadow what hope I still possessed, and that my words then would serve as a map to lead me deeper into an abyss that has no bottom.  And so, I have waiting until now, when I feel strong enough to tread the water above the darkness, while realizing that I must be gentle, and remind myself that if I simply lay back, I can float without effort when I become tired.

Tears are something that I encounter daily in my life.  Whether they are mine, or those shared by someone else.  In ancient times, mourners would place their tears in a lachrymatory, and leave them in the tombs of those who died as a reminder of the pain they felt when they lost someone they loved.  I have thought about what my lachrymatory vessel would look like about now.  As I shared with my therapist, "I am afraid at this point that if I started to cry, I would not be able to stop."  

For me, my lachrymatory would be the vessel that could not hold the tears that I need to cry.

Last week I preached on Paul's words to the people of Philippi, when he shared, "For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." (Philippians 1:21)  As I prepared my sermon, I realized the words of a man who would welcome death, but would be satisfied to continue to live, even in his struggles, for the sake of others.  I understood his mindset, having considered my own circumstances, and my own, comfortable relationship with mortality.  So often I hear people tell me that they are not afraid of death, they are afraid of dying.  I don't think I am afraid of either.

This sacred journey of depression has been filled with many moments.  It is impossible to define the "what," or the "why," but to realize that the "box" where I have placed so much of these things, still sits, like the cup, in front of me.  It has taken for some of what I am encountering, years to finally work its way to the top of that box.  I am reminded that not all lives end with complete closure, and that for some, that completeness is not necessary.  I think I am becoming one of those people.  

When Micah asks, "What does the Lord require of you?" I have to stop, take a breath, and remind myself that I am to, "To act justly and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Your God." (Micah 6:8)  Or in my case at this time, "to stop, rest, and let God simply be with me on this sacred journey."

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

In today's environment it's easy for folks to become concerned. The election, race issues, the economy, and on and on and on.

These issues can consume our thoughts until we discover we are living moment by moment, news story by news story and sound byte by sound byte in fear.

It makes me begin to wonder, "How can I keep it together when there is so much out there to worry about?"

In the midst of the chaos of the world, I need to remember, there is NO ONE other than God who knows each of us so intimately. It is up to each of us to consciously realize that God keeps each of us nestled and protected, intimately together.
​
When we begin to take note of our spiritual life, then we should realize that we should not be afraid.

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

Over and over again, the Bible is filled with Jesus exhibiting love.  Love for the stranger.  Love for those who are paralyzed.  Love for a criminal.  Love for even the least of these.  We are encouraged to love those who despise and hate us.  To sit and eat with those who are our enemy.  While I keep hearing the words of Jesus, I am torn by my own humanness to respond, "I simply cannot."

I am reminded that loving others opens the doors to relationship with others, but it also creates opportunities for pain as well.  Some of my deepest wounds have been inflicted by those whom I have loved the deepest.

Years ago I volunteered for a violence and sexual assault hotline.  I learned about the "Cycle of Violence," and the pain that abuse in relationships can cause.  Not for those directly involved, but for family members and friends who are witnesses to the pain that can be caused as well.   Abuse suffered by those who we love does more than just cause broken hearts, it can also result in broken lives.

In spite of these wounds and the brokenness we may feel, we are encouraged to love.   Of course, I am a firm believer that perpetrators of violence must be stopped, and that consequences of their actions must be brought into the light of day, with the hope that the person being victimized can move from the situation to being a survivor, free from the worry of the, "next time."

It is harder when those who have inflicted the pain are those that we love.  For some, including myself, it takes extraordinary steps to once again trust and allow for the person to participate in the love that I have available for others.  If we are not careful, we can certainly become bitter.  Sometimes it is a matter of allowing for time.  While time does not heal all wounds, it does allow for distance.  And then there are those opportunities to stand where you are, and allow for the stance you have taken to take root and grow into something stronger.

So much of what happens in these times are encountered among days that seem to operate on a different understanding of time.  The days that follow can seem to be endless.  The love that we experience in Christ allows us to find our pathway to new joy, even while our sorrow guides us.   When the initial tears of our pain arrive, they serve to wash the pathway ahead, and allow for a clearer view.

I do not know how it is that we reconcile  when we have been so deeply hurt that joy fails to arrive, and the tears  fail to stop flowing.  When we acknowledge how the pain has left us feeling abandoned, and we cannot find the breath to even whisper, "I forgive you."

It is in these moments that I begin to fully understand God's omnipotent presence.  Somehow, even when we fail to see God's image staring back at us in the mirror, there are still these words, "I love you."

Do you hear His voice?

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

I often recite the 23rd Psalm at the bedside of patients who are in the final days of life.  It's not uncommon for this to be the Psalm that families seem to cling to as a reminder of God's presence while in the, "valley of the shadow of death," and the promise, "that I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

While the depth of the Psalm changes with the situation, for me, I am often grateful when I arrive at the line where I am reminded that, "surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

It is the reminder that I often need when I look to the day ahead and realize that I believe in a God that desires these things for me.

So often, we end our prayers, "Lord, in Your mercy," we are reminded that mercy is essential in our relationship to God.

Our cry for mercy exists when we find that we are willing to confess that somehow, somewhere, we ourselves have something to do with our losses.  The longer I live, the more I seem to understand that mercy  happens when I realize the truth of what I have done.  Accepting blame, even when I have been a bystander, helps me to better understand the pain in the world.  Accepting blame always helps us to understand our own role in human brokenness.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me," is an invitation that is a prayer lifted from our heart where God's mercy knows our brokenness.  Owning our pain and brokenness allows for God's mercy to flow through us, and ultimately to others.

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

Even though this happened a year ago, still today it is not unusual for me to go from the home of a patient who is Hindu, to a patient home celebrating Muslim rituals, sing a hymn at my next visit with a Christian patient, and then lift a prayer to "Adoni" with a Jewish patient.

You really have no idea just how similar the journey looks towards the end of life for each of us.... even in the midst of our differences.

My role as a chaplain for Houston Hospice can be anything but typical, but I wouldn't want it any other way.

Last year on this day I had to....

Find a Chinese speaking Buddhist Monk... CHECK

Find a Spanish speaking Roman Catholic Priest... CHECK

And I had a friend calling to ask if I knew a Rabbi that could do a bedside wedding for an older couple...CHECK

While on the phone with my friend, a dear lady from Nigeria was sitting beside me while I waited in a hospital waiting room where I had been called to attend an extubation of a patient while I was on call.

The family had decided to end treatment and placed their mom on hospice so that we could care for her as soon as treatment was stopped in the hospital. This is something people often don't realize is available.

Houston Hospice will alert an entire team of people to be present for the family during the process, making sure that the patient is comfortable and the family has someone present with them.

I had arrived before the family. I sat in the waiting room and began a conversation with this woman. She shared that she just lost her brother and she had overheard my conversation I had with the friend who needs a Rabbi.

She turned to me and said, "They just expect you to have the answers and find these people?"

I talked about how Houston is this amazing American "melting pot," and that because of that, I meet people from all over the world who represent so many faiths.

She then asked, "Aren't you a Christian? Why do they expect you to take care of all of these things when they aren't Christian?"

I didn't think about what I was going to say. I just shared, "And miss all the chances to understand who God is?"

She just smiled and then asked if I would pray for her, "but to be sure to include Jesus. Not all those other things." ...CHECK (and a chuckle)
​
​
​

At some point we all encounter darkness.  Even the sundial encounters cloudy skies, and sleeps while the moon crosses it's path.  Our encounters with darkness are marks in our life that some of us find hard to face.

Even God reached a point where the words, "Let there be light!" were declared.

Darkness is something we avoid.  Like death, we don't discuss these moments.  The death of Christ.  The days in the tomb.  The darkness of the sky.  The darkness in our humanness, filled with uncertainty.  But then, the stone is rolled away.  Christ emerges.  Although scarred and marked by the journey, we declare, "He is Risen!"

One of the things that I struggle with is helping others understand their own mortality.  I have moments in my life when I sit and try to remember the faces, the names, and those that I have journeyed with in the final chapter of their life.  Often I can remember a story, laughter, tears, or the words to a final prayer that I prayed with the person.

The times that we live in now seem to create a new understanding of our mortality.  For some, this pandemic is creating a desire to take a different path.  In Christ, the resurrection meets the earthly journey, and all darkness is gone.  No more pain.  No more sadness.  No more... no more...

I feel like the world seems heavy lately, while encountering darkness everywhere.  Even the good guys that used to wear white hats seem to have turned dark.  The things that I knew were right, seem to be lost in problems and principalities.  Even friends that were once close, seem to be distant.

The struggle is not the darkness, but remembering that the darkness cannot overcome the true light that lies within each of us.  It seems that hope has been lost, but then, I remember...  Even the smallest flicker of a candle cannot be overcome by the darkest of rooms.  

Although I seem to be embracing this time of reflection as something a bit dark, it is certainly shining light within and I still believe that there will be sunny days, where I won't just count the moments of happiness, but I shall remember the moments when darkness tried to overcome and failed.

Let there be light!

Stay in God's grip!

​G. Todd Williams (c) 2020