Smuggling Grace

I was gathered around a family dinner table with two adults and two young children. Together, we started having a conversation about our projections for the future. We asked the kids what they thought the future would be like when they are our age. (And by the way, I don’t mean any sort of doomsday scenarios or apocalypses — just what daily rhythms might be like.) It was fun to hear their imaginative answers.

Then we started talking about what we thought, expected, or imagined. Not long after this, the children got up and went into another room to play. Our conversation moved in a deeper direction.

Initially, I said that when I was coming of age in high school, we believed that things were going to become progressively better throughout our lives. That was the assumed trajectory.

Last Friday, marked the 25th anniversary of 9/11, and as my friends and I talked about this, I realized that that day and that era greatly interrupted that belief that we carried. It’s not that we thought everything would only go downhill, but now, we expected deep challenge. We didn’t feel invulnerable. We knew that massive movements and days of historical pain could throw us off what we expected from our daily lives.

That’s when I told my friend a story I haven’t voiced out loud in a while.

On the day of 9/11, I was a sophomore in college, and that morning, I was scheduled to take my first music history exam. Segments of musical pieces would be played and we would have to identify the piece, composer, and era. It was going to be a very hard test. After the planes hit the World Trade Center, that test became a take-home test, and I remember feeling so guilty at how relieved I felt.

But beyond those initial details, around the dinner table, I also told my friend that that day, I went back to my dorm room and turned on Pat Robertson’s The 700 Club.

Most of my readers will probably recognize that name, but if you don’t, he was a Pentecostal televangelist who blended fundamentalist teachings and news segments told through that fundamentalist lens. I had moved away from this theology a long time ago, but for a few weeks, or maybe a month, I started watching this show daily.

Pat Robertson had been a mainstay of my childhood experience, and truth be told, I had a very problematic and painful relationship with his show. It was often on in the evenings at my home. During that show, in addition to talking about fundamentalist theology and telling news segments through that interpretation, there was often a time toward the end when they would air segments of people who talked about being physically healed of chronic illness and disability as Pat Robertson and his fellow co-hosts prayed.

After sharing one of those stories, they would move into that time of prayer and begin naming maladies that were being healed in the moment. They would say things like, “There’s a person out there who can’t hear out of his left ear, but right now that ear is being opened and healed in the name of Jesus.” I completely believed it.

During my fourth-grade year in particular, I would sit on the floor watching this show, hoping that somehow Pat Robertson and his co-hosts would say the right words to let me know they were healing my childhood epilepsy — but perhaps not use the most obvious medicalized terms (epilepsy, seizure, etc.) because I would feel so embarrassed in front of my family member who was also watching. We didn’t use those words in my house, though I knew what they were, and they affected me daily. “Maybe just have some secret words between me and you, Pat. That would be just fine.” I prayed about this often.

Of course, that never happened. That is why I had a very problematic relationship with this show.

But here I was now, 19 years old in a post-9/11 context, somehow returning to it for a month of my life.

Why did I do that?

I think I was looking for some narrative that let me feel as though it was easy to tell what was wrong and what was right, what was clear and what was not, what was truth and what was untruth. I can’t deny that there was something appealing about those hard lines in a time of great uncertainty.

Why did I stop watching?

About a month later, I stopped watching in horror because I began to be appalled at how Pat Robertson and his co-hosts were talking about Muslims, their faith, and utterly stereotyping them as people intent on violence.

I can’t tell you that my upbringing was diverse. It wasn’t. At this time, even in college, I did not know a single Muslim person. Later, I would meet people whom I cherish, but I already knew that this scapegoating was wrong. So it took me a month, but then I moved away for good.

Here I am 25 years later, and I’m wise enough to know that the world does not progress neatly in an upward, linear fashion. I know we ride this roller coaster at times.

I also know we’re not only at its disposal. We can act. We can change. We can support one another. We can keep building the world we wish we had.

We don’t have all the power. We don’t even always have the neat lines. But we do have each other.

Maybe certainty isn’t the only thing that can hold us when the world feels uncertain.

—Renee Roederer

I think we all know that midlife can be rocky, right?

I haven’t entered it unscathed, if I may be honest. Changes. Trauma, both personal and collective. New questions (though most of the time, those have been lifegiving, too).

Likewise, this is often an unfolding time of deepening identity. And for me, that has also mostly been lifegiving. Still, as we know, midlife has hurdles:

For people who find themselves in this era of life, this is the sandwich generation, when we’re often caring for kids and parents at once. It is also the life stage of the dreaded midlife crisis. It is an era of thinking financially to prepare for what’s ahead — both for ourselves and those who come after us. And if we’ve had any kind of attachment trauma in our youngest years (we form our initial attachment system and attachment styles during ages 0–3!), we can almost count on some of those patterns and coping mechanisms crashing out on us at some point in this life stage.

As researcher and speaker Brené Brown says, “I think midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. It’s time. All of this pretending and performing – these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt – has to go. Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all of the things you needed to feel worthy of love and belonging, but you’re still searching and you’re more lost than ever. Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you.”

Midlife is an unraveling and a becoming. If I were to write a review of this chapter of life, I would need to give nods to these storylines and possible disclaimers.

But all of that being said,

I adore midlife.
It might even be my favorite.

I truly love being sandwiched between generations. I feel wisdom moving in every direction as my life is surrounded by beautiful, brilliant people who are younger and older than me.

Sometimes, when I sit down and have conversations with those who are younger, I feel myself providing not only from myself and my own life-knowledge, but also from the wisdom and stories of the people who most shaped me. When I am learning from those younger people, I am in the moment. Yet later, I find myself reflecting on how much my elders would love these younger people if they could meet them.

Recently, I was remembering a time of great turmoil in my life in my 20s when my surrogate father told me, “Someday, you’ll be speaking to others about this and providing for them from it.”

It’s a terrible consolation prize, but it’s also true. I do this almost every day, and it’s fulfilling.

At the same time, I have some sage elders in my life who are constantly providing wisdom and guidance, letting me know that I can lean on them. And truly, I can. My elders who have passed would be so honored that these present ones journey with me now. I also think it’s good for those I care for to know that I am still mentored — of course, by those who have more years than me, but also by those who have fewer. We also become peers who accompany each other. The younger people in my life carry me in my vulnerabilities, as much as I hope they will carry a few strengths I have received.

I learn in relationship, as do we all.

So what I love most about midlife is this awareness — and this choice — of noticing and being shaped by wisdom in every direction.

As my friend Rabbi Rob Dobrusin has shared, “The wisdom of our elders must inspire us. We respect and embrace the concept of ‘dor l’dor,’ generation to generation, not only meaning the continuity of tradition but meaning as well continuing the search for wisdom.”

A lot can be upended in this era. But there is also so much space for collective care.

And I love that.

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer

I know someone who broke her tibia. I think it’s been as painful as it sounds. But from there, she had surgery and is currently in a rehab center for about a month.

Apparently, it’s the place to be.

On their own, without any staff involvement, the people in this center are setting up playdates for themselves. They’re meeting up in common areas, playing games, laughing hard, coloring — you name it.

My friend’s young grandson visited, and he asked, “Grandma, can I stay the night here tonight?”

She said no. That’s not allowed, unfortunately.

But even the youths want to be in the rehab center where all the friendship happens.

I share this simply to say that we are social beings. Like sunflowers that grow in the direction of the sun, we really need each other. And it’s pretty clear that these kinds of connections — this growing toward one another — can happen in just about any setting.

I don’t want anyone to break their tibia to have this experience, but I’m amazed at how community forms, how we can find each other, and how we can invite each other in if we open ourselves to it.

—Renee Roederer

*Story shared with permission

Tomorrow is the 25th anniversary of 9/11.

If I still myself and think back on that day, it’s not hard to remember the details — both insignificant and deeply significant — as well as the visceral reactions I was feeling.

I did not have any close friends or family in New York City at that time, so I didn’t live with the turmoil of longing for a phone call from someone who might be safe, at risk, or already lost. Years later, I came to know people who did wait for those phone calls in grating anxiety, made all the worse because cell service throughout the city was so disrupted.

For me, I remember that my first big exam in college was canceled and feeling guilty that I was relieved about it. I wasn’t sure I was prepared. I remember us gathering in that classroom and, instead of taking a test, watching the news in horror.

I remember walking back to my dorm room and regressing to watching old televangelists I had grown up with — not because my theology and worldview mirrored theirs precisely, but because somehow, in their fundamentalism, having a clearly demarcated line between what was wrong and what was right gave me comfort.

A few weeks later, in horror of their commentary, I stopped watching because I realized that my right and wrong no longer aligned with theirs.

Mostly, it was because of the way they were talking about Muslim people.

In the area where I grew up 25 years ago, there was less diversity and less interaction between cultures. I didn’t have any Muslim friends or family either. But I knew that the ways Muslim people were being stereotyped and collectively assumed to be dangerous were wrong.

And so, 25 years later, I’m thinking about that piece once more.

Today, I do have beloved Muslim friends, and I have met many people in Muslim communities who have talked about what the aftermath of 9/11 was like, when so many people in the United States made sweeping assumptions about Muslim people and began to enact forms of collective punishment through marginalization, exclusion, and violence.

I have seen that personally, and I have certainly encountered it in our news cycle over the course of 25 years.

And it’s not over.

Just this week, Rudy Giuliani, who was mayor of New York City on that fateful day in 2001, said that he did not believe Mayor Zohran Mamdani should attend the commemorations for those who lost their lives on 9/11. Mamdani is now the mayor of New York City. He is also the city’s first Muslim mayor. Giuliani went so far as to compare him with the 9/11 attackers.

These beliefs, attitudes, and forms of violence persist.

And so, when we cross the threshold into tomorrow’s anniversary, as we rightly remember nearly 3,000 lives lost, I also want to remember Muslim communities in the United States and around the world who were collectively blamed for the horrific actions of a few 25 years ago.

Remembrance should make us more careful about whom we blame, whom we fear, and whom we exclude.

—Renee Roederer

I want to share this 4 minute song called “Life Boat.” by RAYE. I invite you to let this speak in any direction that connects with you.

If you want to share how it lands with you, feel free to leave a comment.

—Renee Roederer

Gathered around a loaf of bread and a chalice of grape juice, my friend Cole said these words at Farm Church:

“As we share this bread and this cup, it may feel like a feast. For some of us, it may also feel like a snack. And we remember all that is Sacred. For some of us, we may find ourselves feeling a sense of the Sacred beyond us. For some of us, we may find ourselves connecting to the Sacred that is within us. For all of us, we will experience the Sacredness between us. As we eat this bread and drink from this cup, we are each other’s.”

I loved those words, and I thought I would share them. I hope you experience these kinds of movements, expressions, and feelings in your meals this week.

—Renee

Last week, I drove down from Durham, North Carolina, to spend a short bit of time in Charleston, South Carolina. It was gorgeous. And much was on display to make it so. I took a sunset cruise on a catamaran out on the ocean. I watched cormorants and pelicans fly through the air and dive deep into the water to catch fish. About halfway through the cruise, the sky turned yellow, orange, and red.

Likewise, beautiful flowers adorned the city, and as I turned corners, I saw gorgeous old buildings in the French Quarter with lovely windows and porches.

But alongside all of this, I was reminded that Charleston has a brutal, traumatic history as well. And though some of these chapters feel like a long time ago, they really weren’t. Their effects remain.

I visited some of this history purposefully, but sometimes, I just stumbled upon it. On the same cruise, I could see Fort Sumter in the water. No one acknowledged it. But that is where the Civil War began. Most painfully, I walked to a museum that stands on the location where enslaved people were auctioned and sold over many years. It’s hard to fathom how dehumanizing and terrifying that must have been. Families were sold apart here. Children were sold away from their families like property, right here.

I have a beloved mentor whose grandfather once told him stories about his own grandparents. His grandfather’s grandparents had been enslaved. That’s how short that history is. A grandfather could speak about his own grandparents and share their lived histories.

It’s not surprising, then, that this traumatic history is still acting upon us, particularly upon those who continue to be marginalized by its legacy.

Not long ago. But never too late to act.

—Renee Roederer

From Durham, North Carolina:

–Photos by Renee Roederer