A graphic with a rainbow, and under the rainbow, in black letters, it reads, “Choose Kindness”.Public domain image.
We should never underestimate a kind, affirming word.
Maybe someone has been grieving, Maybe someone has been depressed, Maybe someone has been anxious, Maybe someone has been lonely, Maybe someone has been stigmatized, Maybe someone has been scapegoated, Maybe someone has been exhausted, Maybe someone has been vulnerable, Maybe someone has been hope-seeking.
There’s nothing particularly deep or creative in lifting up the importance of a kind word. I’m just saying something obvious. But I can point to several moments lately when people have done this, and it’s had even more power than they knew. We may never know fully what someone is carrying.
A kind word might not only land well. It might transform well.
A pocket watch, surrounded by sand. It appears to be in motion, as if it’s being washed on the shore of a beach.Public domain.
Trauma distorts our sense of time. This is true of both personal and collective trauma. As a gentler example, many of us noticed this during the pandemic — how difficult it became to locate ourselves accurately in time. Experiences from long ago felt recent, while things that had just happened already felt distant. I still notice this in myself sometimes, and I hear it echoed often by others.
More deeply, when trauma lives in our bodies, the painful past can feel as though it is being re-lived in the present. At the same time, we may project our anxieties into the future, and those imagined scenarios can begin to feel just as real. Past pain and future fear converge inside us. Time collapses. Our bodies respond accordingly, often through fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.
But what if we could also interrupt this process, intentionally bending time in our favor?
What if we choose to recall the most supportive and affirming people, experiences, and chapters of our lives, remembering them in ways that allow their presence to be felt in our bodies? What if we let those memories feel present?
And what if we imagine a future shaped by care, belonging, and resilience — one where things may not be perfect, but where we are held and able to adapt? What if that future, too, becomes something we can feel in the present?
In this way, an affirming past and a supportive future can converge in the here and now, not by accident, but by choice. We begin to work with time differently, using its perceptions not only as something that happens to us, but as something we can gently reclaim.
A brown welcome mat with black writing. It reads, “Home,” and the ‘o’ is a red heart. It’s placed before a salmon colored door and is placed on top of a gray porch.Source: Kelly Lacy, Pexels, Public Domain.
I was recently listening to a Mumford & Sons’ song when one of their lyrics really caught my attention:
“… before I tumble homeward, homeward.”
I thought that was intriguing phrasing. It made me reflect on the times when I suddenly found myself in a homeward direction, perhaps when I wasn’t even expecting it. There are also times when I found myself feeling a sense of home, even though its process and arrival of getting there was messy.
Thank goodness these moments can happen.
I have had moments of return — to place, to family, to communities, to memory, to states of mind — that were sudden. I have had estrangements suddenly end. I have had reconnections with community open wide after this was previously closed. I have had moments when I realized I could reconnect with the feeling of a loved one’s presence after they died.
I have also had moments of tumbling home to uncharted places. I have moved across the country three times to live in four different states. I have weathered a pandemic from inside my house. I have been accompanied by friends and loved ones through daily living. I have come to feel at home in my body.
Last week, I watched one of the best conductors in the world in concert. Yannick Nézet-Séguin conducts more than six orchestras around the world. Most frequently, he works with the Metropolitan Opera, the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the Orchestre Métropolitain in Montreal. A year and a half ago, he and the Philadelphia Orchestra traveled to Ann Arbor to perform Brahms’ A German Requiem with the UMS Choral Union, the choir I sing with. It was a delight to work with him. Last week, he returned to town with the Chamber Orchestra of Europe. I bought tickets in the second row. I wanted to see how he does what he does so well.
For someone who has never done it in any formal way, I think about conducting often. I wish I had studied choral conducting while I was in music school, and these days I find myself wondering whether there might be avenues to learn without going back to school. I would welcome that.
I imagine it would be immensely gratifying to conduct. But deep down, I suppose I’m a bit like a football player who wants to learn ballet in order to be better at football. I’m a nonprofit leader and community curator who wants to learn conducting so I can be a better nonprofit leader and community curator.
It really is the best analogy.
When you’re conducting, you don’t face the audience. It’s not about you. You face the performers. You find ways to look in their direction and see them in their strengths. You make eye contact and invite them in. You try to maximize the ways different sounds and rhythms work together. Sometimes you aim for the best possible blend of voices. Sometimes you make sure a particular voice part has the spotlight.
And as much as you need to stay in touch with the performers — really listening — you also need to stay in touch with the music itself. You need to internalize what is central. The vision, shape, form, and execution. You need to embody it. You need to live it in those moments.
See how this is a helpful analogy for serving community well? And for being a good leader?
Last week’s concert was incredible. As I watched Yannick Nézet-Séguin conduct, I noticed so much. He was absolutely locked in, connected relationally to the ensemble. And he truly embodied the music. He had most of it memorized, and he moved like a dancer up there —so expressive. And yet, the attention always remained with the performers.
The experience was deeply relational, even intimate. When the concert was over and it was time to acknowledge the soloists, he didn’t simply gesture for them to stand. He went over to each one, hugged them, and bowed to them. His appreciation was evident, and he was present throughout the entire evening.
Here’s one of my main takeaways: This conductor, who was embodying the music and gesturing to bring people in, was also receiving from the ensemble the entire time. I noticed a great deal of trust between them. He was receiving their energy, too. He wasn’t just keeping time or marking beat patterns. He was gesturing expressively with the music and connecting deeply with the performers onstage.
And yet, he wasn’t the center. That relational posture allowed others to shine.
So how do we lead by receiving? By marveling at the strengths people show in our communities? By inviting them in?
A framed painting at Parables. Four fish are swimming in a river. The red fish is moving in the opposite direction of the orange, green, and white fish. There is a bridge above the fish that reads, “Love is the bridge between you and everything” — Rumi. On the bridge, there are three flags that read, “Understanding,” “Belonging, and “Friendship.” The painting is signed, “J Herman, 2019.”
Once a month, I lead a congregational service called Parables, designed for the whole community but crafted especially for, with, and by people with disabilities and neurodivergence. At one of our services, we read the story of the Syrophoenician woman from the Gospel of Mark. Frankly, it’s one of the most powerful stories in the Bible, and it always invites me to reflect.
In the story, Jesus has left his familiar surroundings and travels to the region of Tyre, a Gentile area. While he’s there, trying to keep a low profile, a woman whose daughter is suffering approaches him. She’s bold. She asks Jesus to heal her daughter, but his response is remarkably out of character. He tells her, “It’s not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” It’s a shocking thing to hear from Jesus, especially considering how he consistently embraces those on the margins.
But the Syrophoenician woman doesn’t back down. She won’t let herself be defined by those words. Instead, she boldly responds, “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” It’s a snarky, powerful reply. She claims her worth and her daughter’s worth—asserting that they too are a part of this healing and belonging. And this boldness is recognized. “For saying that, you may go,” Jesus says, and tells her that her daughter will be healed.
This story challenges us to think about how we claim our own worth, and the worth of those around us. It invites us to proclaim boldly that healing, dignity, and belonging are ours too, no matter what words or barriers might stand in our way.
Years ago, I attended the “Why Christian?” conference in Durham, North Carolina. One of the preachers, Rev. Gail Song Bantum, delivered a powerful sermon on this very story. After her sermon, we were invited to communion, and she urged us to claim the bread and cup with boldness. When we were handed the bread and told, “This is the body of Christ, given for you,” we were invited to respond, “Yes, it is!”—to assert that this gift, this grace, this belonging was really ours.
This was the spirit we carried into our time at Parables on Sunday. As we shared communion, our servers said, “You are a Child of God,” and each person was invited to respond boldly, “Yes, I am!” It was a simple but profound moment of claiming truth—about ourselves and about each other.
What would it look like for us to claim boldly? To declare that our identities are treasured? To insist that our neighbors, especially those who are often marginalized, belong fully? What possibilities might we see if we assert the truth of who we are, if we stand firm in the knowledge that we are cherished?
Today, I invite you to ponder what you want to claim boldly. Maybe it’s the truth of your worth. Maybe it’s the belief that life has more possibilities than you’ve imagined. Or maybe it’s the sacredness of your neighbor’s identity and the shared call to community.
An envelope, a fountain pen, and two wedding rings. Public domain.
Mother Teresa used to say, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten we belong to one another.”
I certainly don’t need to remind anyone that we have many ways of forgetting that we belong to one another. At times, we neglect our shared belonging; at other times, we create barriers purposefully, excluding some people and labeling some people, marking them as ones who stand outside our community circle.
For this reason, perhaps we underestimate the power of an invitation and forget how transformative it can be. I’ve been thinking of this after hearing a meaningful story that I would like to pass along to you today. I extend my own invitation for you to listen. It is well worth the 8 minutes:
The Rev. Bill Golderer talks about the rhythms of invitation at Broad Street Ministry, where people regularly hold dinner parties, extending to everyone in their neighborhood and including people who are rarely invited to other community events. The story above talks about what happened when a couple decided to share their wedding day with the whole community at one of these spontaneous dinner parties and what it was like to be invited.
Smuggling Grace 