Author: gracesmuggler

Dr. Ellen Langer, scholar and researcher on mindfulness, uses a particular phrase to describe the ways we become disconnected from the present moment. She says that so frequently, we live in a perpetual state of constant partial attention. 

Constant partial attention. . . Isn’t that a perfect way to describe that kind of experience? So often, we move through our days simply going through the motions, rarely paying attention to what is right in front of us. Instead, our minds gravitate toward our to-do lists and the situations that make us most anxious. We get stuck mulling over the past or worrying about our imagined future. In the process, we miss the present moment.

And sadly, this means we lose some awareness of our surroundings, our inner life, our neighbors, and the deep stirrings within us.

Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning has a creative way of capturing this as well. She says,

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries. [1]

Sometimes we experience the daily delights of what’s in front of us; other times, we’re more disconnected than we’d like to be.

The good news is that we can keep reorienting ourselves again and again.

–Renee Roederer

We have never once —
not even one time! —
charted a path that has been taken previously.
Nope, never.
Not even one time!

In the history of our lives,
In the history of humanity,
In the history of the earth as we know it, and
In the history of our solar system,
We have never repeated the same rotational pathway.
Not even once.

We have never resided in the exact same physical space we inhabited
two minutes ago,
two years ago,
two millennia ago, or
two zillion millennia ago.

Why?
Our universe is expanding.

The earth is not traveling the exact same path,
year by year, around a static sun.
We are charting new pathways on June 23, 2021,
which are entirely different
from the pathways of movement and physical space
we forged collectively on June 23, 2020.

BECAUSE
The sun is not standing still.
It has never done so.
It is shooting forward
(as if we could know in the cosmos which way is forward?)
through the Galaxy,
in an ever-expanding universe.

So tell me again. . .

. . .why do we think our lives cannot change and adapt?

. . .why do we think we have to stay in the same rut?

. . .why do we think “But we’ve always done it that way…” is an accurate or appropriate argument?

Perhaps, grounded to this very earth,
with our eyes to the skies, and
with our feet firmly planted,
we might just accept that our personal universe
Can
EXPAND
Too.

–Renee Roederer

How are we taking time to rest these days, or how might we?

Rest is often the first priority to go. Rest is often culturally railroaded.

In order to receive it, what do we need to clear out of the way? What do we need to prioritize?

Just some questions to think about.

–Renee Roederer

Over the last few weeks, I’ve enjoyed leftovers after eating out at restaurants with friends, preparing meals for guests at my house, or cooking delicious feasts together.

These are the best kinds of leftovers. After a year plus of a pandemic, I hope I never take shared meals for granted.

I never thought warming up dishes in microwaves would make me smile so big.

–Renee Roederer

This week, I had the occasion to provide the Voice in the Wilderness segment on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast.

It takes place toward the beginning, right after the intro. If you’d like to check that out or hear the whole podcast (I always love this one!) feel free to have a listen here.

–Renee Roederer

In the Christian Century magazine, the Rev. Mark Ralls recounts a beautiful and unexpected experience he had while visiting a local nursing home. [1]

Pastor Ralls had gone to the nursing home to visit a resident who was a member of his congregation. While they were sitting together and conversing in the atrium, he heard some strange, intriguing words.

“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”

These words soon became a playful refrain. Pastor Ralls and his friend heard these words innumerable times throughout their conversation. They were spoken by a woman who was sitting nearby them. She was a resident too, and though she was sitting close enough to touch them, she paid no attention to their conversation. He writes, “During my visit to the nursing home that afternoon, I must have heard this sweet, odd rhyme more than a hundred times.” She continued to look out the window, and with a broad smile on her face, she let her refrain fill the room.

“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”
“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”
“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”

She seemed continually delighted by these words.

After inquiring of a staff member, Pastor Ralls learned that this woman had been a first grade teacher for decades. Each morning, when the children entered the classroom for their day at school, she would lean down and speak these very words into each beloved ear.

What a beautiful, playful ritual.

I love this story because it invites me to imagine what those words must have been like for the children in her classroom. . .

. . . I wonder if they would giggle before she could finish, each one anticipating the end of the phrase.

. . . I wonder if they would smile before she started, each one anticipating that they were loved and valuable.

. . . I wonder if they would ever add their voices to the chorus, each one rehearsing the truth of their worth, silly as the phrase may be.

I also love this story because it invites me to imagine how those words must have formed her as a teacher. . .

. . . I wonder if she spoke these words on days when she was feeling discouraged, and they lifted her mood just a bit.

. . . I wonder if she took pleasure in speaking these words to particular children who struggled to trust love.

. . . I wonder if the rehearsal of these words helped her love herself more fully too.

No matter how these words were spoken or received in her classroom, it is clear that they resonated deep within her psyche many years later when she was challenged by dementia. The refrain is delightful and silly. It is also so meaningful.

It makes me wonder. . .

Who has told you that you’re beloved?
Who has told you that you’re loved through and through?
Who has told you that you’re valuable and worth it all?

Do we rehearse those words and memories? Do we recall them and let them sink into our very being?

We can always begin that rehearsal again.

And if we doubt those words within us. . . guess what?

We can rehearse them again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

And if no one has told you today,
And if you’re struggling to tell yourself,
Please hear this truth:
You are Beloved,
Loved through and through,
Valued and worth it all.

–Renee Roederer

“I’ve had so many rainbows in my clouds. I had a lot of clouds. But I have had so many rainbows. And one of the things I do when I go stand up on the stage, when I stand up to translate, when I go to teach my classes, when I go to direct a movie, I bring everyone who has ever been kind to me with me — Black, White, Asian, Spanish-speaking, Native American, Gay, Straight — everybody. I say, ‘Come with me. I’m going on the stage. Come with me. I need you now.’” — Maya Angelou

I love this video from Maya Angelou.

Where do we each need support today? How can we call forth that internalized support? How can we ask for it?

“Come with me.”

While taking a walk, I found a cute, little caterpillar and snapped a photo. I shared the photo on Facebook and Instagram.

Later, I found myself thinking, “This caterpillar knows nothing about humans, let alone that this one used a device called an iPhone to take a thing called a photo that could be shared on a thing called social media that involves a thing called websites.”

There’s a complex, larger reality that this caterpillar knows nothing about. Is it any wonder that we could be a part of realities much larger than we can comprehend too?

Then later, I thought, “How much does a caterpillar know about its own lifespan? When it begins spinning a cocoon, does it know what’s ahead? Can it know that it will dissolve into goo and then emerge transformed with wings?”

There’s a complex, seemingly miraculous reality this caterpillar likely cannot anticipate fully even in its own lifespan. Is it any wonder that more transformation might be ahead for ourselves too?

–Renee Roederer

When I was six years old, I sat in a very small building with a handful of other kids, most of them much older than me, and together with a Vacation Bible School teacher, we looked at a world map.

I can’t recall what we were discussing on that day. But I do know that the very small, Southern Baptist congregation of my early childhood thought a lot about missionaries and prayed regularly for them. I also recall that there were photos of Lottie Moon, the Southern Baptist missionary who had lived in China for 40 years, in the church itself. So it’s quite possible that we were talking about missionary work (… which was often religiously-sanctioned colonialism).

At some point, while looking at this world map, I said to the teacher and the other kids, “When I grow up, I want to live in Switzerland!” I’m not sure how I had come to this conclusion or what I might have known about Switzerland at age six. But I suspect I had seen some photos or scenery on tv because I began to talk about how beautiful it is.

But I didn’t get very far because the teacher cut me off. He was also my neighbor across the street and the husband of the woman who sometimes babysat me. He felt he needed to address me and all the other kids with utmost seriousness. He even seemed a bit offended.

“Don’t ever say that,” he said. “We live in the United States, and it is the best country on earth. We are so lucky to live here,” he added, which seemed to shame me for my ungratefulness. “The United States is the best country on earth.” I think he probably said that statement more than once. Or at least, he said it strongly.

In that moment, I felt badly for not upholding the greatness of my nation. But mostly, I felt sad because I really wanted to be able to live in Switzerland. And I wanted to be able to tell people I wanted to live in Switzerland. But that was clearly the wrong thing to do. I learned quite early that the United States always had primacy.

And then, already ever the people pleaser at age six, I immediately found a way to redirect any criticism. I told the classroom some other news too: Earlier in the day at VBS, “I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior.”

“I want to be baptized,” I said.

That changed the mood.

But also, I meant it. I had been raised Christian since birth, yet in this tradition, you typically have a moment when you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior for yourself. That’s the framing, and that’s the language for it. The teacher asked me a few questions, probably trying to make sure this was a genuine moment, and then, he concluded that it was. A few weeks later, I was baptized at age 6, a very young age for a Southern Baptist.

Now, I return to this scene again…

I recall this moment looking at the world map… this moment when national supremacy and faith formation were built into the same conversation … I remember hearing that the United States is the best nation on earth and internalizing that this should never be questioned… or that it might be wrong even to make space to admire the beauty of another nation.

Now, I return to this scene again…

I thought about how I grew up feeling a distanced sense of pity for people of other nations who knew war and hunger but “didn’t know Jesus” (even though there were fellow Christians in those nations). My distanced sense of pity was also an internalized dismissal which seemed to say, “Things are bad there, but that’s just how it is.” I accepted violence. I accepted poverty. I numbed any of the obvious feelings that would question those things. “That’s just how it is for those people.”

This primacy — this sense that the United States is the best and only nation that gets to count, or matter, or deserve empathy; this internalized belief, sometimes conscious, sometimes unquestioned and unconscious, that white people are superior to others and more worthy of resources; this warped theology built upon a belief that God loves Americans more than people of other nations — it kills.

This primacy kills.

–Renee Roederer

Have you ever felt loved in limitation?

I’m not talking about failure, though we certainly need love and grace when it comes to that.

I mean, limitation. I mean, receiving love precisely in the place that feels challenging. Accepted fully as you are. Cared for in the unique particularity of your being, including what may be difficult.

That’s when vulnerability and connection become very sacred. That’s when they become very transformative.

–Renee Roederer