Smuggling Grace

–Photos by Renee Roederer

Thanks to an innovative effort to support fish migration, you can watch a livestream and ring a doorbell to help them pass through locks in the Netherlands.

I admit these were strange songs to play joyfully in the car with the windows down. I didn’t even select them. They came on shuffle. But I certainly chose to enjoy them. There I was, cruising through Ann Arbor on a 70 degree-day with the wind blowing through my hair, listening to Mr. Rogers.

It’s such a good feeling to know you’re alive!
It’s such a happy feeling you’re growing inside,
And when you wake up ready to say
I think I’ll make a snappy new day! (Snap, Snap!)

Of course, this is the closing song of every episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. And at the end of the song, Fred Rogers would always say the same thing. This also played out of my window.

“You make each day a special day. You know how, by just your being you.”

I’ve always found it interesting that he chose to say “your” being you. It could have been less clunky if he said, “You know how, by just being you.” But I wonder if he said “your” because it’s good for us to make “being you,” something that is really ours — a kind of specialness that can’t be taken away.

Good lesson.

Next the hymn “How Firm a Foundation” came on. I don’t make it a habit to play hymns in my car (though no shade to anyone who does) but this one is special to me. I used to love watching one of my most formative and influential people sing this hymn. He would come totally alive singing these words:

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to its foes;
that soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no, never, no, never forsake.

He was so deeply convicted, and you knew that his fervent singing was connected to stories of prevailing in struggle and feeling loved within it all.

I remembered that Fred Rogers also used to say,

Values “are caught, not taught.”

I caught this one. We watch others and internalize so much — for good and for ill. I’m grateful for the ones who have shaped us well.

Good lesson.

—Renee Roederer

Just checking in: How are you all doing after we became aware of a dire ultimatum with a timeline on Tuesday – that genocide, even nuclear weapons, might happen?

That situation really shook me. And there were many reasons for it. Now we have an unsteady ceasefire, and that’s a good thing… sort of. It still has a time clock. I joined many in being deeply concerned for the people of Iran, as well as the globe itself, and the fallout of hearing that “an entire civilization will die tonight.” And if you, or anyone you know, has been a victim of abuse in their own personal lives, that intense line in the sand,

“If you do this, I will…” level of threat gets deeply activated.

And I experienced that in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. For the first time in a year, I was doomscrolling. I usually have personal practices to get me out of this freeze state. But I went there. And maybe you did, too.

For me, the cycle went like this.

1. The administration is physically activating me and connecting to early life experiences I’ve had.
2. I am checking my phone to not feel crazy or alone.
3. I am getting triggered by the intensity I’m seeing on my phone.
4. The administration is physically activating me and connecting to early life experiences I’ve had… wash… rinse… repeat.

And if you were feeling overwhelmed or alone, I am telling you this so that you know you aren’t alone.

Most of all, I’m angry that Iranians are living with immense danger and instability. And I’m angry that many – if not most – of us have to feel this, too.

—Renee Roederer

I was driving down the street when I noticed the bare branches of a row of trees. “Those will soon be filled with pink blooms,” I thought.

I only know that because I have lived here long enough to become familiar with the trees near my home. I suppose, in their own way, they are neighbors, too. When you live in a place long enough, you begin to know its rhythms.

I am not knowledgeable enough about trees — especially when they are bare — to identify what kinds they are. For me, that part is always a discovery. It’s a joy to notice their patterns for the first time each year. And it’s also a joy to have internalized them and be able to anticipate what is coming.

—Renee Roederer

I had just dropped off a rental car and stood in line for the shuttle that would take a group of us to the airport. There was a toddler — probably about two years old — who was absolutely delighted to be “taking the bus.” He was adorable. Even before his excitement began, I noticed him because he was wearing a fedora. Very stylish, little man.

We carried our luggage up the steps and found our seats, and it felt like everyone was tuned in to this little one, taking everything in with glee. The shuttle driver was playing Gospel music, and a chorus repeated:

Grateful,
Grateful,
Grateful,
Gratefulness
It’s flowing from my heart.*

Soon, the little boy began to sing along. And then, so did others.

You never know when a sweet moment like that will emerge and find you.

—Renee Roederer

*Upon returning home, I searched, and the song is “Grateful” by Hezekiah Walker.

Frederick Buechner shares that when we witness a sacrament, we catch a glimpse of the almost unbearable preciousness and mystery of life.[1] All our meals, conversations, music, laughter, and delight in the natural world can be considered sacred. In a world marked by deep pain, these gifts are truly, even unbearably, precious.

— And —

If no one has told you this,

YOU are an embodiment of unbearable preciousness and mystery.
I hope you know that today.

—Renee Roederer

---

[1] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 82.

–Photos by Renee Roederer

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