Smuggling Grace

A multi-generational bunch of us stood together at the corner, waiting to cross the street. Between the four of us, about three and a half generations were represented: me, and three people who were all related — a 3–4-year-old kid, his Dad, and his Grandpa. In age, I probably fell somewhere between the Dad and the Grandpa.

Behind us stood an old building made of gray stone. It looks old, and it is, though still beautifully constructed. I happen to know (thanks to a quick Google search) that it was built in 1882. But the youngest among us, taking it all in, asked:

“Is that building from the ’60s?” he said with a sense of marvel.

“Oh no,” Grandpa said. “I think it’s much older — from the 1800s.”

“Does anyone live there?” the boy asked.

“Not anymore,” Dad said. “But a wizard used to live there.”

“He did?!?”

“Oh yes,” Grandpa said. “He had a very long beard. Sometimes he braided it, and sometimes he forgot.”

“And he wore a hat that was a little too tall,” Dad added. “It kept bumping into doorways.”

“Did he have a wand?” the boy asked.

“Of course,” Grandpa said. “But he was always misplacing it. Half the time he used a wooden spoon instead.”

I, the stranger, chimed in, too. “And even though he’s not with us anymore, the impact of his magic is all over the town.”

The light changed, and we started across the street.

He didn’t question it. He just looked back at the building, like he understood this great mystery. And honestly, I think he’s right. You can still feel a little bit of that magic around here.

—Renee Roederer

Yesterday afternoon, I went to Evensong at a local Episcopal church. A choir led the service, and it was reflective and beautiful. They began at the back of the sanctuary with an introit — Stephen Paulus’s Pilgrims’ Hymn.

More than 20 years ago, I sang that piece with my collegiate choir in Germany. I hadn’t heard it in years, but as soon as it began, I could anticipate every word and note. It lives in my body.

I remembered how connected we felt as a choir when we sang this piece in performance. Time seemed to slow down, and we found ways of inhabiting the words and making meaning of them. When I heard the choir in the back of the sanctuary and found myself remembering that music, those memories felt very present to me.

Music opens these kinds of memories to us. How many times have you struggled to remember a song on your own, but the second you hear it on a streaming service or the radio, you can suddenly sing every single word? We don’t always have full access in our recollection, but when the right note or phrase returns, something opens, and we remember. It lives in our body.

And I wonder if this is true of more than music — like the presence of people who have shaped us: those who have been in our lives for the long haul, those who have passed through our lives, and those who have died.

Perhaps we carry them with us, waiting for the right kind of initiating experience to make them feel present again.

Yesterday reminded me not to force those moments, but to stay open to them. I want to let them find me. And when they do, I want to recognize them for what they are, and to receive them with gratitude.

Here’s Pilgrims’ Hymn by Stephen Paulus:

–Photos by Renee Roederer

Honey is kind of a miracle.

A dear friend of mine is traveling overseas today, and she’ll be abroad for a month. She’s revisiting a country where she spent her young adult years, and this is a joyful return.

Have you ever lived somewhere, visited somewhere, or returned repeatedly to a place where life feels simpler? Not simpler in a basic way, but simpler in a deeper way beause you feel more grounded?

My friend resonates with that. I have places that feel like this, too — including somewhere I visited last month. “In this place, I feel even more connected to myself,” I shared with her.

I think some places hold memories, loved ones, or parts of ourselves that we need. Sometimes they hold pieces that we need to reclaim.

Do you have a place like that? Can you make a plan to visit soon?

—Renee Roederer

Every morning, an Australian composer named Dean Stevenson writes a new piece for string quartet. Then, each afternoon at 4 p.m., four orchestra musicians gather to rehearse and perform it together.

This is part of an exhibition at the Museum of Old and New Art in Berriedale, Tasmania, and it will continue daily until May 11. They’ve been doing this for more than a year. There is also a YouTube channel where people can watch the rehearsals and each day’s performance.

I’m not really sharing this for any particular reason, except that I think it’s fun. I learned about it from The Good List, a weekly newsletter from the New York Times, curated by Melissa Kirsh.

But after reading this, I found myself thinking: if we have daily rhythms that matter to us, maybe we can invite other people into them. And if we have a day when those rhythms fall apart, it’s nice to know we can begin again tomorrow.

—Renee Roederer

We are often inundated with waves of heartbreaking news — each article, podcast, or breaking news alert sharing details of real-life devastation, both near us and around the world. In the midst of this, it is easy to feel overwhelmed, flat, or cynical. How can we possibly make a positive impact on all of this?

This may sound simple, and perhaps even simplistic, but sometimes the most meaningful thing we can do is to be a caring adult. We can be a steady, trustworthy presence — not perfect, but steady — for children and youth, and for the adults around us as well.

Last week, I came across a set of statistics that stopped me in my tracks. I realize this may feel like one more wave of difficult information, but it also brings into focus just how significant this kind of presence can be:

• Percentage of Americans who say that, as children, they knew a compassionate, nonjudgmental adult: 35%
• Of those, the percentage who say that person was their mother: 50%
• The percentage who say it was their father: 5%

These figures were published in the May 2026 Harper’s Index, which compiles statistics from a range of underlying sources. In this case, the data is attributed to BSM Media, a research and marketing firm.

What if you can simply be a solid, trustworthy version of yourself and make that much of an impact?

—Renee Roederer

I have several elementary school–aged children in my life who use their imagination abundantly throughout the day. Nearly everything can be made into a game, a discovery, or an opportunity to pretend. And I admire this. We adults don’t often get to daydream for long stretches of time or turn our office into a game of tag or leapfrog.

But maybe we could let our imagination flow more often. Maybe we could leave some space for our minds to drift.

People often share that some of their best ideas emerge in the shower. In those moments, we’re not often thinking linearly, and we’re definitely not scrolling through our phones.

I experience something similar when I’m biking. I’m paying attention to my surroundings — I have to — but I also have imaginative thoughts based on what I see along the way. Sometimes, they make me laugh, too.

For instance, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the dumpster I was passing, except it was from a company called “Dignified Dumpsters.” Those words were displayed prominently on the side. What would make a dumpster… dignified? What would you need to have in order to think, “Oh yes, well, this one is dignified?”

My mind went in that direction for a while, and it’s not a question I ever thought I’d ask.

About fifteen minutes later, while passing by many houses, I wondered, “If the multiverse is real, and there are parallel universes, do various versions of me know various versions of every single person in this town?” If so, I think that would be neato.

However your day is going, I hope you have time for imagination and a few stream-of-consciousness thoughts.

—Renee Roederer

We have reached the week in our spring season when the gorgeous, pink crabapple trees are collectively in bloom. I love seeing them throughout my town. When this process starts, they are only in bloom for about 10–14 days. That’s such a short time, but they are certainly noticeable — not only because they’re remarkably beautiful, but because they are all in bloom at once.

As I was riding my bike and admiring them, I thought about how these trees have faithfully bloomed every late April and early May for decades. But then, that led to another thought.

Every flowering tree blooms for the first time.

Out of curiosity, I wondered how long it takes for crabapple trees to bloom. I looked it up, and it usually takes three to four years. Young trees spend their first years forming their roots, establishing themselves for the long haul.

That’s just a fact, but I like knowing it. There is a kind of patience built into it. The visible beauty comes later.

And every one of those trees has a first spring — a year when, after seasons of unseen growth, something finally breaks through and becomes visible to the rest of us.

We notice them when they are in bloom. But the work that made that possible began long before we ever paid attention.

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer