Smuggling Grace

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

In Michigan, there is one prison for women – the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility – and it is near my house. I don’t drive in that direction very often, but lately I’ve been passing it more frequently.

About six months ago, I decided to create a Google alert for this prison so I would receive updates about it. Too often, people near us are experiencing horrific situations that remain out of view.

It turns out that the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility has been in the news quite a bit recently. My Google alerts have been pinging.

People have been testifying before the state legislature about mold that has run rampant for years, creating serious health problems for the women who live there. And recently, Disability Rights Michigan, an organization I admire so much, issued a report finding that, for years, women in this prison who need attendants to push their wheelchairs have been missing, on average, about half of their meals, along with a majority of doses of prescription medications for seizures, diabetes, and high blood pressure.

The report also shares:

“‘We have diabetics that at times go too low [on their blood sugar], those who have seizures,’ one wheelchair user told Disability Rights Michigan. ‘If someone feels they are not able to walk that far [to the cafeteria], they go without eating.’”

If we don’t look intentionally – individually, yes, but more importantly, collectively – we will miss what systems are determined to hide.

A reminder to keep looking.

—Renee Roederer

I stepped out of the car after about an hour of driving. I had parallel parked, and not particularly well, I might add. But it was good enough. I had made it to my destination.

I opened the door of a place that serves as both a coffee shop and a wine bar. Both of those are lovely, of course, but that’s not why I was there.

I walked across the wooden floor and made my way toward a room that had been reserved for about forty people. It was a storytelling event called Passages. I had only been there once before, just a month earlier, when I came with a close friend. His Dad hosts the event, and he and I have followed each other on social media for years. But we’re only just beginning to know each other in person.

As I reached the second door and was about to step into the reserved room, he was coming out at the same time. We nearly crossed paths mid-threshold. He looked up, saw me, and his face lit up.

“No way!” he said, pulling me into a bear hug.

He was genuinely delighted to see me again. And that felt wonderful, because I have long admired him.

Throughout the night, we heard stories that were heartfelt and hilarious. All of them true. There is a kind of energy in that space, a real sense of connection. People listen closely. They laugh together. They recognize something of themselves in one another. There are breaks built into the evening, moments to pause, talk with the people around you, meet someone new, and continue the conversation

I told a story that night, too — one of my funniest ones — and it seemed to land. But more than anything, I found myself thinking about how welcomed I felt.

“No way!”

I spend a lot of my time curating spaces for others. And I receive from people in that role all the time. But it’s a different kind of experience. There is something uniquely meaningful about stepping into a space like this and simply being welcomed, fully and freely among others who are also deeply welcomed and wanted.

There is a rhythm of giving and receiving in a space like that. There are many chances to welcome and to be welcomed. And I was reminded how important that is. It felt good to receive from this community, and then to add myself to it.

I’m thinking that we could all do this more often.

—Renee Roederer