It has been a week filled with a lot of emotion.  For months now I have been struggling with a number of things.  Most of all the weight of grief compounded by loss, the inability to be with others, and the reality that the life we all once knew has become a closed chapter.  As I shared with a friend, "I'm afraid to cry because I'm not sure I will know how to stop."

The vulnerability that we all are encountering now is fresh, new for some, and filled with a lot of unknowns.

As the mother of one of my hospice patients shared as her daughter was dying, "These tears I shed are for now, but the real tears will come when I realize the loss, and when they come, it doesn't matter where I am, or what I will be doing, they will just arrive and I can't do anything to stop them."

There was so much wisdom in what she was sharing.  As one who understood the grief that she was encountering, she was living into the expectation of what was to come.

I think that I have been carrying her words with me, holding them somewhere in my mind, while my spirit seemed to hold on to the tears that were afraid to flow.  It's interesting how our mind finds ways to place things like our tears, in places where we believe that we will be safe from them.  I remember someone telling me that we all are good at "boxing up," the things that we believe will harm us if we encounter them in our mind, and then only to realize that what was in the box we have already lived through and should not be so afraid of the perceived power it has over us.  If we were honest with ourselves, our imagination creates the monster out of fear to keep us from opening the box.  When the truth of the matter is that the monster is non-existent because what we have tucked away is already behind us, and that is not where we are living.

I struggled with this.  I'm not sure why I have tried so hard to keep these tears from arriving?

In the early hours of Tuesday, I drove down to the Seawall on Galveston Island.  Before the dawn.  In the darkness.  I sat, listened, as waves met the shore, and I waited.

Funny how we try to control every aspect of our life.  I was thinking, "This is the place where I will allow my grief to be released."

I recalled the losses, the feelings, and as the sky began to create hues of blue and green, I began to become frustrated with myself because I was not wailing into the wind.  Instead a few tears among the cackle of a few sea gulls that hoped I had some bread to share as daylight washed over the shoreline.  In some way I felt like I had failed.  The insomnia, the early morning drive, and all I discovered was that I was sitting and waiting in expectation of the pain that I needed to let go of.

I think of the words I shared with God, and realize now that I cannot force myself to grieve.  It is just something that arrives on its own.  The words of the mother came back to me, and I realized  that she was right.  The real tears will come when they are ready.  

There was some sadness as I drove away, leaving behind the beautiful sunrise, and the place where I often find myself when I really need to be alone, realizing that the journey was not what I had hoped for and I felt that I needed.  

I arrived home, told my family that I was "better," and "did what I needed." Somehow they heard my words and sensed that everything I had done had helped.  In many ways, I wanted to reassure them that I was fine, and that my life would suddenly begin to be as bright as the morning sunrise.

Jesus tells us, "Do not let your hearts be troubled.  Trust in God and trust in me." (John 14:1)

I listened to these words over and over in my mind as I made my way to patient visits, exhausted from not sleeping the night before, and then as I wrestled in my sleep the next night.  

Little did I realize that what I felt like I needed so badly, was having it's own spiritual encounter, and that I needed to not be so hard on myself for feeling like I had "failed my own grief journey."  As I sat in a meeting, I felt the swell begin in my throat, and as I spoke, my voice became strained.  I had to turn off the camera to my Zoom meeting as my manager texted me on my personal phone and asked, "Are you okay?"

A quick response, "Yes, just feeling a little emotional," was the betrayal of how I was really feeling.  

I wiped my face, and returned to the camera, and once again proceeded like we all do when someone asks us, "How are you?" and we respond, "I'm fine."

Our journeys are so important.  No matter whether it is the joy of the moment, or the great sadness of the event, God knows us so well.  Our hearts, our souls and our minds have been fashioned in a way that we are to encounter life fully.  To live fully into our pain, means to live through our woundedness and to help others heal when their pain is known.  It is our woundedness that makes us able to empathize with those who have experienced loss, which then brings healing in unexpected ways.

For me, the words of Jesus to "not let your heart be troubled," allows for the grace that I need to live through what it is that I am feeling without the expectation of failure when I am unable to "force," what I am not prepared or ready.

Each of us carry unimaginable things.  Experiences that we hold on to.  Words that were told to us.  Unexpected encounters that have left wounds and scars.  Perhaps that is why we all hear these words, and seem to find a way to understand what they mean.

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

Yesterday morning I awoke to the news that the daughter of close friends had been murdered by her husband.  It was a stark reminder of how violent our world can be.  That people I love and care for are now encountering something that they never would have expected to be part of their lives.

I wish that I could say that this was the "first" time that I had encountered something like this, but it isn't.  Nearly twenty years ago, a dear friend's mother who had found the courage to leave her husband, was gunned down by him in her place of work.  As she tried to hide under her desk, he managed to find and kill her.  Then, as news helicopters circled above, the man walked outside the office building where he had just killed his wife and shot himself, with cameras capturing every moment.  My friend was a young adult.  She and her brother were suddenly witnesses of just how violent the world can be, while also becoming victims of a world that seems to thrive on eight-second news sound bytes of pain and sorrow.  

As they went to pick up their mother's car from her workplace, they were filmed, as reporters shouted questions.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

In our world today we seem to have a need to be present in the grief of those who mourn.  As I watched the news, my friend who just lost his daughter, was being asked questions by a reporter who was more interested in "getting the story," than to be reminded of the words Jesus shared on a hillside one day.

Last night I lay awake, thinking of two more children who are now left with a new life.  A life that now will exist without their mother, and a father who was shot and arrested by police.  

I can remember when I was a young Christian, I would hold out hope that the good that existed, even in the smallest amount, would find some way to prevail.  That even in the darkest moments of humanity, that small flicker of light would lead to a place where we would once again discover that we are both Divine and dust, and that we were created to live with one another in a world much different than the one we now encounter.

I think that it would be easy at this point, living in a world that seems to be filled with these dark moments, to simply become an onlooker, shaking my head, while burying my face in my hands.  But instead, I am reminded that we have been entrusted to carry hope to the hopeless, love to those who feel they cannot be loved, and to seek justice, love mercy, while being instruments of a God who became incarnate in Jesus.  Jesus, who saw anger in the faces of the creation, violence, pain, suffering, greed, death and all that we witness today.

I do not know what it is that drives us to take the most precious thing that we have to offer, life, from one another, but we do.  It began with a brother who discovered that blood on his hands was an option.  It continued with a God who asked him, "Where is your brother?"

Blessed are those who mourn.  For those who find that they are victims of domestic violence.  For children who are orphaned, and families who live with the images of what this violent world can do.  For domestic violence programs who are overwhelmed.  For those who are trapped in a cycle of violence that seems to have no end.

Lord in Your mercy...

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

If you are in immediate danger, call 9-1-1.
For anonymous, confidential help, 24/7, please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at
1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)

Yesterday morning I sat with a man who immigrated with his family to start a new life in America.  The journey was not easy, and the hurdles in which they faced were like mountains many of us have never seen, but possessing a dream that so many do as they make their way, provided strength and hope along the way.

The one bedroom apartment, sectioned off to help provide privacy for two families, shared a common kitchen.  Mangos and other fruits were piled neatly on a plate.  The smell of fresh tortillas that had been made for children as they left for school, still lingered in the small space.  There were no pictures on the wall, except for a tiny cross that seemed so small against the starkness of white walls.

Having spent his whole life working as a laborer, laying tiles, trimming trees, and painting homes, the man looked twenty years older than the forty-something age that he actually is.  His voice was soft, unlike the hands that were both callous and mended from times when they may have been broken, but still worked.

I listened as he shared of his small "Iglesia" (church), and how he shared of the same "Jesus," that we share in common.

The man is dying.  

There were no tears as we talked of the life that he has lived, the struggles he has encountered, or the fact that he will not see his children grow into adults.  Instead, we realized the strength of the journey, perseverance through adversity, and the hope that he still holds.  

He spoke of Jesus, and how at an early age his mother took him to church where he understood that God "sent His son," especially for those who were marginalized, poor, and struggled.  

He reflected how his illness would serve as the "greatest lesson of faith," that he could teach his children, and that somehow his dying would instill more than just a father's passing.  

I don't know what it is about people like this that when I meet them, I am once again reminded that our spiritual journey is our commonality.  It is where we begin to recognize and see the Creator among us, with us, and in us.  That the incarnate Jesus, dwells and exists within us.  That what we seek is beyond our mortality, and that what we bear is insignificant to what we eventually will experience when we breathe our last breath.

As my visit with the man ended, I offered a prayer for him and his family.  The translator reflected my words into words that were known to him, but even without this, our spirits understood the intentions of our heart, and the significant of the common Jesus that we both know.  He thanked me for visiting, and in his final words to me as I left he offered a simple, "God bless you."

I walked the three blocks back to my car, passing other apartments where multiple families lived.  Many with their doors open, allowing for music to reach across a playground where children laughed and played, young mothers folded clothes, and a grandmother sat and cleaned vegetables that would soon be on a market stand on the street corner.

I realized the smile under my face mask as I removed the face shield that I had also been wearing, now dripping from moisture from my breath.  I started the motor of my car.  I felt the rush of the AC as I removed my PPE, and realized the smell of alcohol as the cold gel covered my hands.  I sat, thinking about the visit, wondering about their future, and realized that this man is my brother.

Blessed are those....

Stay in God's grip!

​G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

Last week I took the time to sit down and write a blog post.  As I was finishing it up and was about to post it, my computer logged me out of the website and my words were just simply gone.  No backup.  No draft.  Nothing.  I remember thinking to myself, "God, I can't believe I found the words and now they are gone!"

As I hit the "back button," multiple times, just hoping that somehow they may reappear, my frustration increased.  Noticing the clock on the wall, I just closed the computer and headed out the door for the city where I was scheduled to attend the funeral of one of my patients.

I pulled onto the highway and all I could think about were the words that were now lost.  Why did it matter so much?  I then was reminded of a friend's last words to me, reminding me that "Last words are lasting words."

I thought of all the the patients that I meet, who find that their last days are often silent.  With the loss of the ability to speak, as the body surrenders.  

I thought about how I have struggled to find the energy just to make it through each day at this point as I continue to rebound for a dark period of depression, and how the energy that I had spent to put my words down had now suddenly been "wasted."  

I thought about the friends who have written me to say how much they missed my blog, and that they "hoped" that I would return to it soon.

I began to feel an amazing amount of anxiety.

Why did I allow it to effect me this way?  Writing is something that often brings me to a new place.  It helps me to relate my faith with my walk, even when the walk is within a dark valley.  

So yesterday I began again.  Writing a few paragraphs and then realizing that I would not have time to continue my thoughts any longer.  I seem to be so "scheduled," these days so that I don't detour from the path that I need to be on in order to meet expectations that others have placed on me.  I feel the pressure of the need to "show up," and to "perform."  

I am encountering a different world these days, where many of my patients die within the first one or two days after coming on hospice because people are waiting longer, and hospitals are discovering that people are much more advanced in their illness.  I have a strong suspicion it is out of fear of the virus, and whether families will be present with their loved ones as they die.  The stress of these families is translated into short lengths of stay on hospice, anxiety of strangers walking into their homes with face masks and face shields, and the stress of dying in a world that no longer is the same.

I am discovering that everyone I meet seems to live with some level of anxiety now, and that there is not the time to talk about life journeys because the journey is too real at this point.

The church I serve is giving me this weekend off from preaching.  I think that they, too, have sensed what I have been experiencing, as my sermons over the past month have been filled with emotional and spiritual vulnerabilities that have actually invited people to come and share their own stories with me, but have left me exhausted and empty.

I look at pictures of friends and families enjoying places, gatherings, while I still consider every place I go, every drive thru I might enter, and think of those that I have a responsibility to protect.  I find myself getting angry that there seems to be the lack of empathy, or understanding, of what is being asked of each of us at this point.  I am drawn to words such as carelessness, selfishness, and failure to see the value in others, while my spirit tries to reconcile these thoughts, realizing that people are going to live their own lives.

I realize that we have added a new layer of discrimination to the long list that already exists, and I try not to fall into the invited trap, but the well-being of others and those who are most vulnerable will always prevail in my own justice-minded thinking.   Each day I meet people who long for just "one more day," and I am a witness to those who fail to realize that their actions may bring that "last day" to someone who is vulnerable much sooner than the person might expect.

I realize that my mirror reflects an imperfect person, just trying to survive in this world that seems to be moving faster than I am able to perceive.  We are at odds with one another, and I wish that the peace that still exists under all these layers was easier to be found.

In the meantime, I will continue to ponder the weight of this all, while I continue to listen to the invitation of Christ to take this weight from me.  

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

On Friday I visited two hospice patients that I have been seeing for nearly five months.  They both had lives that were filled with many ups and downs.  Both had wonderful family support, a strong faith, and had opened their lives to me and shared vulnerable thoughts, memories, and wounds.  Each had found a way to immediately begin sharing when we got together, and like old friends, we seemed to just "pick up" where we left off the last time that we were together.

On Friday, both patients seem to say "good bye," to me.  The hardest part about hospice work is knowing that you have been invited in to be with someone in the last months of their life, and because of that, you know from the moment that you meet the person, the person is dying.

My heart seems to know when I am making a last visit with someone.  It's interesting how "something," seems to be different in those last days.  The struggle between the mind and the body seems to meet the reality that both will cease to work together, and the spirit, which remains healthy, is awaiting a final journey.  While COVID has changed so much of what I do as a chaplain, on Friday I discovered a closeness with both that seemed to make us forget that I was wearing a mask, a face shield, and noting the physical distance that now has become part of my second-nature.

My heart knew.  Maybe that's why when I left their homes that I drove down the street a few blocks to where they could not see me pull to the side of the road.  Where I could then feel the ac on my face, as I wiped a few tears away, seeming to allow for the visit to completely "sink in."

I will admit, sometimes I get really tired of saying, "good bye," but I am also honest with myself, realizing that I probably would have never have met these patients had it not been for their life-limiting diagnosis.  No, they were living their lives, raising their families, still working on projects, and making plans.  I often wonder what it would have been like to meet the person when they were in their "hay day."  Instead, I find that treatment options have been exhausted, their bodies are tired, and their minds are trying to make sense of what it will be like to finally succumb to the illness they have worked so hard to overcome.

My heart has grown to know when the person finally surrenders.  Life in itself is a gift.  It is poured into us, like the breath of God blown into the original dust, and I am reminded over and over again, that it will one day no longer sustain the body we have.  At some point, the mind and the body realize that it will never win, and that death is part of the plan to allow for peace. 

My heart is not immune to the reality that this will be my journey as well one day.   Believe me, I have considered a number of diseases that I would not mind succumbing to, and how I would prefer to die.  I guess it is a hazard when you work for hospice.  I realize that dying well means that you seem to have a grace about the process.  That fear is contained within the realm of faith, and that with the first step beyond this life is planted firmly in the next.  When the last breath is released, that there be a lesson taught about how to die with dignity for those who are present, if any, and that the words being shared by those who are left behind are focused on what eternity will mean for us all.

As I start my morning, I realize that I will be calling the families of both of these patients, as both died yesterday.  

My heart will know their pain, and will listen as I thank them for allowing me to come into their home and to be present with them.  I will remember the hospitality that was offered, the laughter, the tears, and I will listen to what this "first day" without the person is like.

My heart will know their loss, and I will find myself at the doorstep of the next person that I am to journey with.

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020

Sometimes I wish that life were easier.  Less stress, no worries.  Hopefulness realized, and joy overflowing.  The Psalmist on many occasions begins with the chapter with a question.  Often it has to do with "waiting," "wandering," or the feeling of "abandonment."

And then through the course of the chapter, problems are identified, and often by the end of the Psalm, there is the reality that God is present, even in the midst of uncertainty.

In talking with the sister of a patient of mine this week, she shared how her husband died just over a year ago, and then her sister "reappeared," and needed a place to stay.  The woman had been estranged from the family for many years, "showed up," just two weeks after the death of the sister's husband and needed a place to stay.  Her sister thought, "How good it will be to have her home with me."

Little did they realize the woman was very sick, and in less than a year's time would find that the woman who just lost her husband would now be caring for her sister who was dying.

She laughed as she told me, "You don't know how strong of a tea bag you are until you find yourself in hot water."

Being the living Christ in the world today takes on so many images.  So much of the time I am a witness to God's presence of Christ in the world, and then sometimes, I find myself like the Psalmist asking, "Where are you God in all of this?"

I was always taught that I am not to question God, or "why things happen?"  Just to accept, pray, and move on.  (I have since learned just how this kind of theology is so unhealthy!)

Since becoming an adult, spending time working with the homeless on our city streets, walking the hallways of a hospital trauma unit, and now as a hospice chaplain, there are many things that I have encountered where I catch myself asking God, "Why?"

I have learned that being Christ in the world means that we don't always find that we are "comfortable," with our neighbor.  It means that we fail to just "accept," and "move on," when bad things happen.  If we are truly to be the living instruments of Christ in the world, then we will find that we get angry at times, doubt ourselves, and struggle to understand the actions of others.

It is not a sin to fail to see others as living instruments of Christ.  The sin happens when we fail to realize the strength of our presence as Christ in a world and to see and do nothing at all.

I try to imagine how Jesus must have felt, walking among his own creation, and how uncomfortable he must have been at times.  I think of the times when my children were younger, and sometimes I would just "pray," that they would "behave," during an important gathering.  I can only imagine the times that Jesus looked around and thought the same thing of us.

But then there is this text in John, where Jesus reminds God, "As you have sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world."

Not only are we to be the living instruments of God, but we are to live as Christ in the world as well.

I'm not sure where I am heading with today's blog.  Perhaps it is my own struggle of trying to understand how this paradigm must work, when I am struggling, and leaning more towards the beginning of the Psalm and asking, "Where are you God in all of this?"

Stay in God's grip!

G. Todd Williams (c) 2020