Smuggling Grace

Yesterday, I wrote about a Taizé service I participated in this week, sitting outside and singing together, accompanied by guitar, harmonium, and banjo. It was lovely.

Another hallmark element of a Taizé service is an extended time of silence. We made space for that as well. But because we were outside, it wasn’t entirely silent. We stopped everything we were doing and listened to the birds singing as dusk approached.

Before that moment, I noticed they were there. But until we entered into that silence, I had not realized how abundant they were.

First, I smiled and took it in. Then I had a thought that might seem a bit silly, but it was sweet in its own way. Last month, I watched a four-part series on Netflix called The Dinosaurs, created by Steven Spielberg. Imagine watching a nature documentary of dinosaurs going about their lives — eating, mating, migrating, and fighting — and instead of David Attenborough providing commentary, it is Morgan Freeman. It was fascinating, and I learned a lot.

Of course, the series explores in great detail what happened, and what might have happened, on the day an asteroid collided with Earth and nearly all life was lost. It feels remarkably tragic (though it also made way for mammals to become more prominent, which in turn allows me to sit here and type about dinosaurs.)

As we sat in the silence, I thought, “Hello, Dinosaurs.” Here are their descendants, chirping into the evening. And I suppose that, too, is a kind of resurrection.

—Renee Roederer

We were gathered outside, sitting on benches and blankets. I sat next to three people playing guitar, harmonium, and banjo, and I helped lead the singing. With those instruments, you might be surprised to learn that we were leading people in quiet, reflective songs. But we were, and the instrumentalists made it possible in such a beautiful way.

We were singing Taizé choruses. There is an ecumenical monastery in Taizé, France, known for its music, which includes short, repetitive choruses. “By night we hasten in darkness to search for living water”… or “Come and fill our hearts with your peace”… or “Stay here with me, remain here with me, watch and pray.” This is what we shared together last night.

Before we began, my friend Cole spoke about the vision for the evening and what we would be experiencing. They said, “When we sing together, we begin to breathe together. And when we breathe together, our hearts start to beat in sync.” Then they added, “Welcome to attunement.”

I imagine that sometimes, even without singing, we move into this kind of attunement with others without ever realizing it. But I also imagine that within the systems and realities that so often isolate us, we do not experience this nearly enough.

“Welcome to attunement.”

We may need to find ways to prioritize this. And we may benefit from noticing it when it is already underway.

—Renee Roederer

Before the wheels left the ground, the pilot told us that our descent would likely be bumpy. It was a bit turbulent, though I have experienced far worse. I wonder if it felt calmer because he prepared us with that expectation.

This week, I have been thinking a lot about expectation and the unexpected. You don’t need me to tell you that our lives are filled with both. But I have been wondering about the beliefs we carry about each, and how those beliefs shape our imagination.

Recently, I spoke with someone who has experienced something remarkably tragic. And at the very same time, she is witnessing new life that no one thought was possible. These have unfolded side by side. I don’t want to frame the second as a silver lining. It feels important to honor grief for what it is and give it the space it needs. And still, we found ourselves talking about how goodness can accompany pain, often unexpectedly. “The mystery of goodness,” a friend and I call it.

This weekend, many people will enter three days that honor the pain of an unjust death, followed by the unexpected arrival of resurrection.

Within this story, and beyond it, isn’t it true that they often come together? There may be seasons when we need to give more space to one than the other. But still, they often arrive side by side. And thankfully, in community, we are able to hold them both together.

—Renee Roederer

We Shake with Joy

We shake with joy, we shake with grief.

What a time they have, these two
housed as they are in the same body.

— Mary Oliver, Evidence

Here’s some helpful, compassionate advice from Jeff Guenther, LPC, known as @therapyjeff on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube. (I recommend following!)

He asks,

“Are you able to see your problems clearly but find it almost impossible to do anything about it?” Here are his suggestions:

When I ride my bike (and it’s been warm enough to ride my bike!) I often cycle past a chiropractic center. More than once, I’ve noticed messages on their marquee that are rather anti-medication. And every time, I get very snarky inside.

This week, their marquee reads, “Pain and sickness is not a drug deficiency.” Except sometimes, it really is.

I work with people who have epilepsy, and missing a single dose of medication can cause a seizure. In fact, that is one of the biggest seizure triggers — missed medication. That means that when people don’t take medication, they can have medical experiences that disrupt their lives, like losing the ability to drive. It can lead to injury. It can even lead to death.

So yes, sometimes sickness is a drug deficiency.

And I find all of this to add to stigma. To point to one example of that, there is a tremendous amount of mental health stigma in our culture already. If we add suspicion to medication, it may lead to someone never finding an important tool that can help them. It may lead to people abruptly stopping their medication, and that, too can create more emotional pain, relational stress, and medical emergencies.

So yes, sometimes pain is a drug deficiency.

I don’t think medications are people’s only tools to health and wellbeing. But for some people, they are life-changing, and even life-saving.

So stop it, already.

—Renee Roederer

I was sitting in a coffee shop, doing some writing, when I looked down at my phone and saw a message from a friend in a group chat. We have had our own Slack for years, and she shared how much she misses when we all lived in the same place. Me too. Many years ago, not just one move ago but several, we gathered as a whole group each week, and smaller groups of us would meet throughout the week as well. We had a rhythm of community.

Last week, I was reading an essay where the writer reflected on this moment in the United States. She suggested that people are not only longing for community, but are increasingly willing to make meaningful changes in their lives to move toward it. She was careful not to call this a silver lining, but instead named it as something more substantial, a kind of counterweight emerging in response to our current context.

So many systemic and political forces have contributed to experiences of isolation. At times, our own life rhythms and connections have shaped that reality as well. And yet, I see people responding. I know several who are looking to buy land together so they can build community. One of my deepest places of relational investment is out of state, and I travel there often, continuing to nurture those connections.

What about you? Where does that longing for community live in your life? And what steps might you take toward it?

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer

Very cute.

Earlier this week, I mentioned that I attended a storytelling event with a very welcoming community. Anyone could tell a five-minute, true story on the theme of “Traditions.”

It turns out, I have a 17-year tradition. Not something I’ve done for17 years, but something overly-specific that happens once every 17 years.

Enjoy this very silly story:

Two people I know are experiencing newfound love with one another in their later decades of life. They did not expect this at all, and they are finding deep joy in this chapter.

One of my closest friends has started making quilts. She had never tried it before, but as soon as she began, she discovered both a gift for it and a genuine delight in the work.

I received an unexpected gift in the mail, and it made me believe that exciting new opportunities are possible.

Spring has come. We are entering the Easter season. Everywhere, there are signs and stories of new life. You do not need me to tell you that our lives hold chaos, unexpected turns, joy, and surprising new chapters alike. But when we are feeling low, or when it seems like nothing meaningful lies ahead, it can help to remember: When has joy found us unexpectedly before? Where do we see it unfolding in the lives of others even now?

And when we think about our collective lives, I know that many things are feel grim. But once, the Berlin Wall fell — also quite unexpectedly. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was once passed. Disabled Activists once occupied a federal building in the late 1970s, demanding protections in education and employment, and reshaping what was possible.

Resurrection is rarely predictable.

And still, new life comes. Even when we cannot name its form ahead of time, we can trust that goodness can be found, and perhaps even more importantly, created.

—Renee Roederer