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
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“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 See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. ~ Isaiah 43:19 Howard Thurman is quoted as saying, "Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
One of the most radical demands for you and I is the discovery that as Ecclesiastical people we live our lives as seasons, or as passages that create our life narratives. When we are born, we begin our B As I looked at them, I was reminded of how different our lives were then, and then turned to realize the woman that she is today. Emily continues to work for a non-profit that helps people with mental illness and addiction, while also attending nursing school full time. This morning she walked in after spending the night with a coworker that had to have an emergency C Section, with no one available to be with her. Emily volunteered to help, and was present for the birth of the baby, and was the first person to hold the baby. I just smiled as I shared, "You were the first person to show this baby love." I think back to the first months of her life, getting up in the middle of the night when she would cry, taking her to her mother so that she could be fed, then taking her back, walking the hallway, and sometimes sitting in the rocking chair while thinking about who I had hoped she would be. I remembered many of the dreams that I had for her, and how I had hoped to protect her from so many things of the world. God has blessed her with gifts I never knew she would have. She is living her life in a way that it is bringing life to others. Besides the dreams that I had for both my son and daughter, included in those dreams was a prayer that included the people that they would fall in love with later in life. My prayer for those that would fall in love with them was simple. "Dear God, keep this person safe from harm, protected for wounds that would prevent the person from loving completely, while giving the person eyes only for my child, and a heart that knows and is filled with the love of God while sharing that love with my child." I know for some parents, watching their children grow up and move out on their own, somehow makes their life less meaningful. I am simply reminded that for each of us our lives continue to change. Each day I encounter folks who are at the end of their journey, and I am reminded that at some point we all will encounter daily "new normals," as we age and come closer to the end of our life. Whether we realize it or not, we are always passing from one chapter to the next, gaining and losing someone, some place, something. As Thurman reminds us, we are to discover the things that make us "alive." I have always found that finding ways to unconditionally love, recognize the sacred among one another, and a desire to ask God first, seems to help me remain focused on being my best self, for myself, and others. These things also what that make me, "feel alive." While losses remind us that life is not always perfect, we cannot let them disillusion us from knowing that each day is an opportunity. The question is how do we choose it as a passage, and live our life more fully each day, rather than as a loss that we will never move beyond? Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020 "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God and trust in me." ~ John 14:1 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 "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." ~ Jeremiah 29:13 The acceptance and understanding of unconditional love can and does have so many effects upon us and those persons in our lives.
Once again, realizing that the church is one place where we can develop that love with God, but then there are those other places where we see Christ. One of my favorite songs is, "Seek ye First." It's simple melody prompts harmony when sung, and when sung in any size group, I often discover Christ. Identifying Christ can be done in so many ways. Within the walls of beautiful cathedrals, and among the outstretched arms of forest canopies. Within the tiny ripple of a stream, and among cheering baseball fans. In the words shared in the Psalms, and in waiting rooms when a doctor shares the results of a surgery. While we seek Christ in the church, finding Christ in one another is what gives presence of that love for others. As the Divine and dust merged through God's breath of creation, so it is with the creation and the world when the love of Christ is shared with others. We are the fruitful presence of that love to the world, who seems to be seeking all kinds of things. When we are present, allowing the love of Christ to dwell and live in us, then we make that journey for others easier. In their seeking they will soon find the love they seek! In a thought process shared by Gandhi, "Be the change you wish to see," we must, "love as Christ in order to be the change others need!" Love one another, because you are loved! Stay in God's grip! G. Todd Williams (c) 2020 Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~ Matthew 5:4 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) For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. ~ John 3:16 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 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. ~Matthew 11:29 - 30 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 "As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world." ~ John 17: 18 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 "For we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard." ~ Acts 4:20 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 "Jesus wept." ~ John 11:35 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 The Lord is my light and my salvation -- whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life -- of whom shall I be afraid? ~ Psalm 27: 1 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 |
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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