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 |
AuthorRev. G. Todd Williams is the author of the book, "Remember Me When..." and is a former hospice chaplain and pastor. Archives
February 2024
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