Smuggling Grace

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.

All day long — whether we are experiencing some of it personally or simply receiving the daily waves of news — we are encountering difficult realities and outcomes. Of course, each of us carries our own particular concerns connected to ourselves, our families, and the people we love.

Meanwhile, many people are struggling with higher gas prices and inflation. Even before these recent shifts, many people were barely making rent. Some of us are parenting. Some of us are caring for aging parents. Some of us are in the sandwich generation, trying to hold both at once. Many of us are asking new questions and rethinking our priorities. And if we’re honest, sometimes those priorities don’t feel as centered as we want them to be, and we find ourselves numbing with all kinds of opportunities for distraction and dopamine.

I guess what I’m wondering in the midst of all this is: Is there anything we can make easier?

Easier for ourselves. Easier for others. Easier for our loved ones and neighbors.

Maybe we feel the weight of needing to fix enormous systems. And yes, we should be working together on those things. But is there anything we can do within our own lives, rhythms, relationships, and possibility-making that might make things just a little easier — or in some instances, a lot easier?

I had a little chuckle with myself recently when I said that I wanted a “season of ease.” Then I started calling it an “easeon,” blending the two words together.

And honestly, I think I want one.

I don’t mean checking out. I don’t mean disengaging. I mean paying attention to what can be softened, simplified, shared, supported, or carried together. What big thing or tiny thing can we make easier on a regular basis?

What if, over a period of time, we practiced this?

What can you make easier for yourself and others? Want to join me?

—Renee Roederer

Do any phrases stand out to you?

The Lord’s Prayer: Maori & Polynesia

Eternal Spirit,
Earth-maker, Pain bearer, Life-giver,
Source of all that is and that shall be,
Father and Mother of us all,
Loving God, in whom is heaven:
The hallowing of your name echo through the universe;

The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the world;
Your heavenly will be done by all created beings;
Your commonwealth of peace and freedom
sustain our hope and come on earth.

With the bread we need for today, feed us.
In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us.
In times of temptation and test, strengthen us.
From trial too great to endure, spare us.
From the grip of all that is evil, free us.

For you reign in the glory of the power that is love,now and forever.
Amen.

Do you know the phrase “canary in the coal mine”? Have you heard it, and do you know what it means? Apparently, people in Michigan do not know this phrase. Or at least, many people in my circle in Michigan.

I am not here to judge them. Because while I did know it was a phrase, I had completely invented an alternative meaning for it. Here’s what I thought it meant:

A bright yellow canary is flying through a coal mine and gets soot all over it. But you can still see it because it’s bright yellow. Therefore, the phrase means that something is obvious.

This is completely wrong.

But I also knew the phrase was often used to suggest that something was going to fail or fall apart. So I interpreted it as: “The fact that this is going to fail is so obvious that it’s like a canary in a coal mine. It has soot all over it, but it’s still bright yellow, so you can clearly see it.”

LOL.

Here’s the actual context: In the early 20th century, after miners tragically died from carbon monoxide exposure, coal miners began bringing caged canaries into mines with them. The birds are highly sensitive to toxic gases, so if a canary became sick or died (honestly, so sad) miners knew they needed to get out immediately. So a “canary in the coal mine” is actually an early warning sign that something dangerous is about to happen.

I thought my alternative interpretation was funny, so I shared it with a few people at work. And it turns out that 84% of our staff team did not think they had ever heard the phrase before. These are brilliant, well-read people.

I think this must be a Michigan thing.

—Renee Roederer

I have a vivid memory from first grade. We were learning about birds, and of course, it was always exciting to see the most colorful ones. The lesson was also meant to teach us the scientific definitions of female and male in birds.

One by one, we looked at different species and had to guess which was which. I kept getting the terms confused because nearly every time, the most colorful birds were male. To me, this simply did not compute.

How could this be? Weren’t the female ones supposed to be the prettiest?

At age seven, I had already internalized that women and girls were supposed to be beautiful, and that this was considered one of their most important qualities. I didn’t understand male birds, but already, I understood the male gaze.

–Renee Roederer

*I wonder if we would teach this differently today. Also, like humans, biological sex in birds is not always binary.

When I experienced my first spring in Michigan, I was surprised to see that some trees first formed rich red and bronze leaves before they ever turned green. At times, they took on an almost dark purple hue. If this ever happened where I grew up, I don’t remember noticing it. But it is very prominent in Michigan.

It turns out that red maples, Norway maples, and Japanese maples, in particular, often begin the season this way. They do have chlorophyll, which allows for photosynthesis, but early in their growth, other pigments called anthocyanins dominate the leaves and give them those red and burgundy tones.

Those pigments act like a kind of natural sunscreen, protecting the young leaves from sun damage. They also help reduce stress during the fluctuating temperatures of early spring. (And boy, have they ever fluctuated where I am.)

I don’t know exactly what to take away from this knowledge, other than that I find it interesting. But if you need a reminder that it’s more than okay — maybe even necessary — to have a gentler chapter before launching (or relaunching), I think that’s a beautiful thing.

—Renee Roederer