In Memory of our Daughter

CHRISTINA MARIE WILLIAMS


"Evil thrives when good men do nothing"
- Touched by an Angel
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Picture of Christina-Apr 1998

There have been a number of poems which we have received. I would like to share a few of them for you. Our heartfelt thanks to the authors


I found these two links while I was searching the Web. Please visit the sites as they both contain a lovely poem about Christina.

This poems was sent to us in the guestbook just after the remains were identified as those of Christina. It is beautifully written and is one of our favorites.


Little Sparrow

Little sparrow with big brown eyes
Sitting in a cypress tree, gazing at blue skies
Watching the fluffy clouds drift by
Dreaming of the day when she can fly
Nestled in the branches of the tree
She sings her sweet song for you and for me
Whilst meadow flowers sway in the ocean breeze

Her voice falls upon God's ear
He leans down from heaven to hear
God knows the time has come
To call home this little one
Hearts will break with the pain
Tears will fall like the rain

Tenderly, God takes the little sparrow in his mighty hand
Gently sets her free in the promised land
With a golden halo and wings of white
Little sparrow sings with angels in the moonlight

Lonely, stands the cypress tree
Quiet is the sea
Empty is the world
Without Christina Marie...

By: Deborah Roberts



The story behind these two poems speaks volumes about how God works.
On Jan 18th I was to speak at a Memorial Service for my daughter at the local base Chapel at 7PM. At about 2, I was trying to figure out what I was going to say that evening. Since I liked poetry I thought about writing a poem that expressed how I felt during the perceding week. Although I enjoy reading poetry, I am not very good at writing it. Try as I may, the words escaped me. I even spent time looking at the poems that I received via e-mail. But nothing captured what I was looking for. After spending a couple hours without getting any closer to the poem I desired, I was about ready to skip the idea when the doorbell rang. Although I have never meet the man at the door, I assumed he was like so many hundreds of others before him who wanted to express their condolances about my daughter. He of course stated how sorry he was and how he could not possibly understand how I must have felt. He then said that a couple of days earlier he wrote a couple of poems to try and gain some sort of perspective about the location that Christina's remains were found and also how I must have felt like during the past week. He was not planning to give them to me but he said that an hour earlier something told him to come to my house and give them to me. - Of course he too is a Christian...
Both of these poems are very beautiful. The Lord gave him true insight, since the first one "The Secret Place" was exactly what I was looking for for the Memorial Service. The other "Spanish Moss" is just as lovely and captures the area where my daughter's remains were found perfectly.

The Secret Place

My dear, my precious, precious little girl,
my trembling hands and quivering lip betray
that out nearby a trail in wooded rural,
they've finally found the secret place you lay.

How many nights so still have you there lain,
while all the rest of us passed so close by?
Although my search for you turned out in vain,
you need to know I never ceased to try.

The heartbreak that I felt grew deep and vast,
no sea could hold the anguish that I knew;
there's only one thing that I know surpassed
my grief--and that's my depth of love for you.

And flowing out the basement of despair,
now that I know for certain that you're gone,
is knowledge that you're in the Savior's care,
which to this hellish nightmare is the dawn.

And so unlike the place where you were found,
I know and am assured each time I pray,
that in the arms of Jesus, safe and sound,
is now the only secret place you stay.

By: Van B. Vradenburg


Spanish Moss

The Spanish moss
hangs down like floss
from limbs above the ground,
in wooded swail,
off sandy trail--
right here where she was found.

Just past the dirt
and the medow's skirt,
past where brush starts to grow,
the moss droops down,
soft green on brown,
in where the oaks are low.

It does not tell
what scenes from hell
it witnessed months ago,
what it beheld
when horror dwelled
upon the ground below.

But to a girl,
a precious pearl,
subject to evil men,
the moss was tears
from heaven's spheres,
wept for what went on then.

Oh, Spanish moss,
you morn the loss
and pour out God's own soul;
you stream down low
like tears that flow:
you saw, but couldn't console.

Yet, Spanish moss,
you know the cross,
and show the Savior's love,
for like His hands,
your soft green strands
reach down from up above.

And yes, you knew
when His hands drew
Christina to his place,
where all her fears
and sorrowed tears
were wiped from heart and face.

So now your strands
are tears, they're hands
they're grief and joy expressed;
our tears, too flow
but this we know,
she's gone but yet, she's blessed.

By: Van B. Vradenburg