Tag: grief

Awake in the Night

The news about the school shooting at the elementary school in Nashville today has been so hard. I’ve been wondering what I would say to all of those who are hurting. All those families who lost someone, who know a person who was killed. All the teachers and parents and first responders and pastors and — oh, gosh, all of us who keep realizing with a sinking feeling that we can’t ultimately protect ourselves and our loved ones from the terrible things that sometimes happen in this world. 

We had this job here — to learn to love this earth and the people on it. To treat folks the way we would like to be treated. And it feels like that things have gotten away from us and our world is racing along towards disaster. 

And here I am, awake in the night. Feeling afraid, alone, full of grief and bewildered about how we got to this place of brokenness. 

We are held captive by the false idolatries of the Second Amendment, beliefs in conspiracy theories, a multimillion dollar industry of guns.

And where is the holy one tonight? 

God is weeping in a hospital hallway where parents seek their injured or murdered children and loved ones. 

God is holding a first responder overwhelmed by the scenes they saw today. 

God is sitting beside the bed of every parent who lies awake trying to figure out how to keep their child safe as they go to school, the mall, the movie theatre. 

God is reaching out to hold the heart and mind of the one so wounded that this horror gets acted out. 

God holds the space between us as we numbly see the news, read the latest statistics. 

Have mercy, dear creator of the universe. We are danger of tumbling into the abyss. 

Metamorphosis

Help me be patient with myself
During this metamorphosis.

This shedding of what has been:
Working Monday through Friday,
Week after week,
Year after year.
The security of routines
and institutional cycles.

I am disoriented, befuddled,
Unsure of myself
And what the future holds.

Let me surrender to the uncertainty,
To the discombobulating feelings.

I have outgrown the cocoon of the familiar
And hear the calling of something new
Beyond this comforting, shabby enclosure.

I am preparing to emerge
(A rehearsal for my final metamorphosis?),
Transformed,
And ready to fly.

We Have No Words

We Have No Words

We have no words
To express the depths of our grief,
Our sorrow, our outrage, our despair.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

For parents and grandparents,
Aunts, uncles, siblings, and friends
Who have lost someone
They knew and loved.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

For first responders
And all those who witness violence firsthand.
For survivors and their loved ones.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

For all held captive by fear,
And those imprisoned by wounds,
Minds twisted by mental illness and rage.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

For the leaders of our country and our world,
Who seem powerless to stop the violence
That fills our news feeds,
Our schools, churches, grocery stores …
The public places that used to feel safe.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

Holy One, we stand before you in grief,
In sorrow, in outrage, in despair,
And we cry out …

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

Blue Christmas Service

Join us on this day of the winter solstice as we gather for a Blue Christmas service — to give voice to those who are grieving and to remember those whom we have loved and lost. Even in our darkest times, God offers us hope and comfort.

The service is led by Rev. Todd Outcalt, author of Blue Christmas: Devotions of Light in a Season of Darkness, as well as Rev. Beth A. Richardson, Rev. Dr. Jacqui King, Rev. Bryan Tener, and Dylan White. Music by Rev. Dr. Cynthia Wilson, Dr. Diana Sanchez-Bushong, Tim Bushong, and Doc Hall.

The Ruler

I brought home my last load from the office on Wednesday and am starting to unpack and get things situated here at home. Plastic Jesus is sharing a cubby with Grandpa Tom’s wooden ruler.

More treasures from the office — A ruler from the pre-digital printing days.

Who knows how many years this ruler sat in the office of the Assistant Editor at Alive Now. When I arrived there in the 80’s the magazine was still being produced the old fashioned way. We sent the copy to the typesetters (amazing people who could key in strokes faster than anyone). The copy came back to us on really nice paper with the margins already set. These sheets were glued down on large sheets and marked up by the designer. The boards were then photographed and turned into plates that fit onto the printing press.

My job would be to read through the boards before they went to the production department and check the type and the instructions. That’s when I might use the ruler to try to imagine whether black words on an 80% screen of a color would be easy or hard to read.

I’m not remembering which was our first digitally-produced issue of the magazine. For a few years, the magazine was produced sometimes in the old way and sometimes in the new way. By the time the magazine was redesigned in the late 90’s, it was all digital production.

I loved the hands-on tasks of those early days of printing. And I’m so amazed to have gotten to see how much things have changed in technology since I started working at The Upper Room.

I remain deeply grateful for this wonderful work.

Related post: “Saying Goodbye to the Office.”

Saying Goodbye to the Office

So many people have lost so much this year. I’ve been fortunate in many ways. I have kept my job. I’ve not lost any friends or family to this disease. And I’ve even thrived by being able to work from home. When, six weeks ago, we learned that we would be working from home permanently and would need to clean out our offices by the end of the year, the grief of this time of massive change really hit me.

I’ve had an office at 1908 Grand Avenue for over thirty years. As I’ve worked through the process of cleaning out, throwing away, digitizing, and packing, I’ve felt both deep loss and profound gratitude. The people with whom I have worked these years have shaped and formed me. The Holy One has guided my path through the most amazing jobs. I have not reached the end of this journey just yet, but things will never quite be the same again.

I’ve been taking photos of the treasures in my office as a way to help me remember the stories; as a way to help me let go of possessions. I’m hoping to share a few of these photos with you.

This plastic Sacred Heart of Jesus has been with me since before I started working at The Upper Room. It was a gift to me from friends celebrating my calling as I began Divinity School. We were at a camp in Colorado for some days of renewal. We ate together, laughed, and sat up late at night dreaming about how to change the injustices of the church. The presentation of this plastic Jesus to me was a lovely affirmation of my calling — and a reminder not to take myself too seriously.

Jesus has graced a shelf in all of the eight offices I’ve inhabited. Now Jesus will watch over me in my office here at home.

I am grateful.

P.S. Friends, The Upper Room is not closing. 　 We are just going to be doing our work in a new way. The chapel is closed now because of Covid. Hopefully it will be open again after things are safe again.

I Hear the Sound of Breaking Hearts

I hear the sound of breaking hearts.

Tender, young hearts, open and hopeful,
Facing betrayal from the church which formed them.

Scarred, resilient, older hearts,
Once-healed wounds torn open by hatred and prejudice.

I know the pain of a breaking heart.
The shock, the sadness,
The emptiness that has no end.

Beloveds,
You are held,
You are loved.

Your wounds are tended
By the One who knew you before you were imagined,
The One who whispers,
“I created you,
And I love you
Just the way you are.”

Henri Nouwen said it this way:

Long before your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your school, your church touched you, loved you, and wounded you — long before that you were held safe in an eternal embrace.
—Henri J. M. Nouwen
Our First Love

Broken Wide Open

As soon as we laid eyes on you

Our hearts rushed in, unprotected,

Held captive by you

With your bright, smiling eyes.


Even with your hair grown long

Like a Highland cow

Those brown, trusting eyes,

“They’re under there somewhere,”

Reflected love.
 Unconditional love.


We fed you, watched you grow,

Cheered your every milestone,

Forgave your every transgression,

(Even that time you unraveled

the berber carpet in the bedroom.)


We loved you with wild abandon,

Ignoring the certainty

that some day we’d lose you.


And now you have gone.

And our unprotected hearts

have shattered, quite completely.

Broken wide open with the sudden loss of you.


“Thank you” is all we can say.

Thank you for being our very sweet pup.

Stealer of hearts.
 Such a good dog.


Hearts will heal, eventually.

But they will be forever reconfigured

By loving you.


Stand Witness

There are forces that flow
Through this universe.
Forces of life, of death,
of good, of evil.

Today a person dies.
Tomorrow a child is born.
We witness these events and
Stand in awe
At the holy immensity of it all.

Sometime we are swept up,
Blown around,
Knocked to the ground
By these powers
That we cannot see or hear,
Understand or control.

We stand as witnesses,
To the forces of evil,
To the oceans of love.

We stand as witnesses
To hearts broken open
With sorrow,
To voices speaking quietly
With courage.

We stand as witnesses,
Holding these sacred spaces,
Remembering and trusting
That our presence
Is enough.

Stand witness.
Be present.
Trust.

To Michael

I came home today and
Starting looking through boxes of photographs.
I was looking for the photo of you and me
At the United Methodist children’s educator event way back when.
The theme was “Peace” and you and I told the story of
Sadako and the 1000 Paper Cranes.

In my mind, the picture shows me, in white face,
Portraying Sadako.
I’m sitting in an old-fashioned wheel chair,
Wearing a hospital gown and surrounded by paper cranes.
You are standing in the background, narrating the story.

I see you in so many of my memories. …

I picture you smiling as I pop into your office —
The only one in the buillding with a rocking chair.

I see you standing at the microphone at annual conference,
The only clergy-person-not-from Edgehill
Speaking out for lgbtq folks.

I picture you sharing your stories
And teaching me how to tell my stories.

I see us preaching at Edgehill on Pentecost Sunday
Both of us wearing albs, weaving the story in two voices.

And then I found it …
Not the picture I had in my mind …
But a hidden treasure from the year
I was welcomed into full-time church ministry.

There I am. There you are.
Your eyes lighting up
As I introduce you to my Grandpa Tom,
The man I’d been telling you about in my stories.

Thank you, Michael.
I picture you and Grandpa Tom sitting on a porch in heaven,
The two of you swapping stories.

You are surrounded by
All the saints who went before.

You are a friend.
You are a blessing.
You are love.

Reverend Michael Williams passed away suddenly on March 19, 2018. We hold all who loved him in prayers and light.