Smuggling Grace

Today is Memorial Day. Earlier this week, I read a May 23rd post by historian Heather Cox Richardson about the origins of Arlington National Cemetery, and I have been reflecting on it since.

During the Civil War, the United States government transformed the former plantation of Confederate General Robert E. Lee into a burial ground for Union soldiers. Over time, thousands of people who died defending the country were buried there. One detail from that post has especially stayed with me — the proposed triumphal arch in the nation’s capital will visually frame Lee’s mansion rather than the graves of the soldiers themselves. That image strikes me deeply, and it raises questions of what we center, what we honor, and what stories we choose to frame.

Memorial Day is complicated for many people. I don’t want to glorify war, nationalism, or violence. I also think it matters to remember that there are people who have given their lives resisting slavery, fascism, and other forms of oppression. Human beings have made tremendous sacrifices in the hope that other people might live with greater freedom and dignity.

And I think remembrance can also make us more attentive to the present.

This week in my own community, a Black, Queer, houseless woman experienced horrific police brutality, was dragged across the ground by officers, and at least initially, was denied medical care. There is video of it. And as people debated, defended, argued, and explained how this happened, I found myself thinking again about what we choose to see clearly, what we normalize, and whose dignity we protect.

There are needs for justice wherever we live. Not only in history books, battlefields, memorials, or national cemeteries, but in our own towns, streets, systems, and relationships.

Maybe one way we honor the dead is by remaining awake to the living. We can refuse indifference. We can also ask ourselves what kind of world we are helping to build now, and whose humanity we are willing to defend when it becomes inconvenient, controversial, or costly.

I think remembrance is meant to do more than make us look backward. I think it can sharpen our moral vision in the present.

—Renee Roederer

1. This week, I was deeply moved by a poem written by Yodit Mesfin Johnson, which speaks to this incident of police brutality and the myriad of ways that people are disbelieved. It’s called “What God is This”.

2. Heather Cox Richardson writes,

“May 23, 2026 (Saturday)

President Donald J. Trump’s proposed triumphal arch would sit at a rotary on the Virginia side of the Arlington Memorial Bridge between Arlington National Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

The proposed arch obscures the Lincoln Memorial, built to honor the president who steered the country safely through the Civil War, but perfectly frames Arlington House, the mansion built by enslaved Americans and once owned by Confederate General Robert E. Lee. The arch does not frame the nation’s honored dead, but frames instead the home of the man who led the armies of the Confederacy that killed them.”

—Renee Roederer

Probably some new things to learn!

I was playing trivia with friends recently, and one of the answers was “spork.” I got the answer wrong, but it immediately sent me into a memory, which I then shared with a friend.

I remembered the first time I ever heard an episode of This American Life. I was in a large van full of college students driving home from an annual ski trip. One of the students had just discovered the show and played an episode for all of us. At the time, it still felt relatively new nationally.

The episode involved spending time with the staff of the satirical publication The Onion and listening to them pitch joke headlines to one another. At one point, a writer stood in front of the group and read this headline aloud:

“Man Uses Spork as Knife.”

It completely bombed.

The writer thought it was so funny, and honestly, I do, too. I mean, a knife! It’s the one thing it isn’t.

As my friend and I were laughing about this memory, we started asking ourselves what it would be like to go back and watch twenty minutes of our lives from that time. Just to observe the conversations happening in that van.

“I bet we were so cute,” I said.

And honestly, I think we probably were.

Of course, it would be fun to revisit milestone moments in our lives. But I found myself thinking that maybe the most meaningful scenes to revisit would not be the landmark moments, but the ordinary and simple ones — long drives, inside jokes, wandering conversations, stopping for snacks, sitting around waiting for something to begin.

And then I had another thought:

Aren’t we living inside moments like that right now?

Maybe twenty years from now, I would love to revisit twenty minutes of my present life. Not because anything extraordinary happened, but because this, too, held lovely moments.

I think that’s a reminder to pay attention.

—Renee Roederer

I was walking around downtown Ann Arbor when I happened to look down and found myself delighted to discover some of David Zinn’s famous street art. I love what he does.

He travels around Ann Arbor and finds unique features on sidewalks, roads, walls, and buildings, then creates little chalk scenes around them. He’s wildly creative. I think what I love most is that he simply leaves these pieces around town for people to discover.

I’ve lived here for 13 years, and I’ve only stumbled upon his art a handful of times. Every single time, I feel lucky to have spotted it.

I admire his skills. These are not skills I possess in the slightest. But I love when people use their abilities and passions to create little moments of joy for others to unexpectedly encounter.

We should never underestimate the impact of that.

And so maybe, like me, you’re not a chalk artist. But I bet you have something.

What if you made life a little more joyful for someone else today?

—Renee Roederer

There’s a concept within Celtic Christianity that I appreciate — “thin places.” A thin place is a location where the distance between ordinary life and something larger feels somehow thinner. Some people would describe this as a sacred experience. Others might describe it as mystery, transcendence, deep connection, or simply feeling profoundly alive and awake to the world.

Often, people speak this way about certain types of places: remote islands, monasteries, mountains, coastal cliffs, or pilgrimage sites. Certain places seem to hold this feeling more easily. We might speak about them as if a veil between this reality and something larger has become more permeable there.

Lately, I’ve been wondering whether there can also be an experience of “thin time.” This is not a place we visit, but an era of life that carries this same feeling — moments when life suddenly feels more vivid, connected, and meaningful.

These kinds of experiences might especially emerge during life transitions. Maybe they are periods where old structures in our lives are crumbling while new possibilities are quietly emerging. Maybe they are times when we feel unusually connected to what matters most — even in the midst of uncertainty or change.

Of course, many seasons of life do not feel this way at all. Sometimes life feels repetitive, exhausting, or numbing. Sometimes we are simply trying to make it through the week while carrying responsibilities, grief, stress, caregiving, work, parenting, or the relentless pace of the world around us.

But there may also be periods where something within us becomes especially attentive. Some people may experience this as spiritual or supernatural. Others may simply feel more connected to what matters most — the deepest parts of themselves, care for loved ones, or to a renewed sense of possibility.

Whatever language we use, I wonder if many of us know this feeling.

Have you had an experience of thin time?

—Renee Roederer

I’ve been thinking lately about the paths we didn’t take. Not in a regretful way, exactly. More in a curious way.

There are directions many of us could have gone that never became our primary lives. Maybe we almost pursued a different vocation, moved somewhere else, studied something different, or followed a particular relationship or opportunity. Sometimes those paths close quietly. Sometimes they change dramatically.

But what I find interesting is that even when we truly move in another direction, parts of those paths sometimes find their way back to us.

Early in college, I thought I might spend my life in music composition and music theory. Later, in seminary, I imagined teaching theology in an academic setting. Neither became my primary vocational path. And yet, music, reflection, meaning-making, teaching, and community formation still show up all over my life and work now. Not in the exact form I once imagined, but in ways that still feel connected to those earlier selves.

I wonder if this happens more often than we realize. I find it strangely comforting.

What about you? Are there paths you didn’t take that somehow still echo through your life now?

—Renee Roederer

Once a month, I lead a congregational service called Parables, designed for the whole community but crafted especially with, for, and by disabled and neurodivergent people. It’s a joy, and you can learn more about this community here (midway down).

Likewise, once a month, residents from a local community center come to the service. They have intellectual and developmental disabilities, and I love the ways they participate and lead at Parables. During the service, we have time to mention celebrations or concerns, particularly lifting up loved ones who need care or challenges in our world. Because these residents are very eager to share during this time, we often encourage people to share just once — though they can mention anyone they would like.

Often, it turns into lists like this:

“I want to pray for my dad, my cousins, my boss, my roommate, and my cat.”

Then we all say together,

“God, because you are mercy and justice, you always listen and care.”

Sometimes, these lists become very long. Not onerous in any way — just a chance to truly name the people who are closest to us. And I realize that in addition to praying for people, this becomes an opportunity to be seen and heard while naming the people we love. These are people we want lifted up, and whose names we want voiced aloud.

Whether we pray or not, I find myself thinking… Wouldn’t it do us all good to name aloud a list of our loved ones? To remind ourselves that we are connected, that we care, and that we are cared for?

—Renee Roederer

—Renee Roederer

So wild.