This morning, I’m sharing words from Farm Church, a congregation in Durham, North Carolina as they shared them on social media:
When has someone offered a question in conversation that was so lovely, so inviting, and so spacious that it was, to you in that moment, sacramental? Can you remember a time when someone’s curious, non-anxious questioning presence created for you “a glimpse of the almost unbearable preciousness and mystery of life”? (Frederick Buechner’s words to describe the witnessing of sacrament.)
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How people come, from delight or the scars of damage, to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.
This hasn’t been my favorite two weeks of my life.
But I will start with the positive: Over this span of time, some incredible things have happened, especially in my work community, including a record-fundraising gala and a movie premiere. Truly fabulous.
But also… two weeks ago while e-biking, I collided into another biker. We were both safe from major danger. Though I’m nearly always in a bike lane or on the road, we were both on sidewalk when this happened. It’s actually hard to say who ran into whom. It felt like a mutual collision.
We were also very kind to one another and helped each other a lot. It wasn’t a meet cute, but it was a fall off your seat cute — or at least, nice.
But it also hurt. Big time.
I ended up with bruises, but more challenging, a lot of road rash on my arm. Remember that book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? This has been a bit like that. Unbeknownst to me, apparently, I have an allergy to the adhesive of bandages. So on top of my road rash, my skin exploded with an allergic reaction that I’m still recovering from. And then that delayed a minor surgery I’ve had scheduled for six months.
Can someone give me a cookie? But with no ill effects?
I pushed through a record-fundraising gala and a movie premiere (I’ll probably say more about the movie soon). And during this span of time — ironically? — had the incredible invitation to give a talk about my e-biking adventure at a city event. That is, the 3,100 miles in Ann Arbor, and not the fall.
But finally, last weekend, I truly rested. And I’m taking three days off this week.
And you know what’s amazing? I’m not at 100%, but my skin is truly healing. It has made great strides in the last few days. Almost night and day. We’re not some sea creature that can regenerate limbs, but isn’t it amazing that we can regenerate skin? My immune system did this for me, warding off infection (even with a major allergic reaction, I never had that!) and repairing and creating cells. That’s wild. And sure, maybe it’s done that before in some other ways, but it’s never done this. It’s never healed road rash and an allergic reaction. How does it know to do that?
Anyway, I’m glad my body can do uncharted things. And yours does this, too. Grateful.
I plan to go 3,100 more miles with no more falls. Cookie, please?
I pulled into my driveway at dusk, and in late September, I noticed a single daylily in bloom. I have about ten daylily plants, and almost all of them flower in June, with a few lingering into July. But there, in a row of green with no blossoms except one, was a lone latecomer — a bright flower opening in autumn.
That’s a nice image, and it brings me to this thought:
If you have an intention, a project, a relationship, a community, an introduction, a reconciliation, an idea, an endeavor, a vocation, an opportunity to rest, an occasion to play, or anything under the sun that emerges later than expected, it still matters. It can form and thrive in its own time — and that, too, is worth celebrating.
This past week, so many needs came at me at once. When your to-do list is long and the opportunities to care for others keep multiplying, it’s easy for the main motivation to shift into “just get it done.” In that mode, we can lose touch with The Why—the deeper sense of meaning we carry into our work, our reflection, and our actions.
I noticed that happening to me this week.
In those moments, it helps to pause and capture a snapshot of The Why. When you see it, notice it. Hold onto it. Internalize it.
That practice can renew us and remind us what truly matters.
She wasn’t my candidate for a Presidential race, but I do think that Marianne Williamson hit the ball out of the park with this beautiful quote from her book, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of ‘A Course in Miracles’:
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
I listened to an NPR podcast yesterday, and I’m still thinking about Caleb, Taco, and Broccoli. You can hear it here: NPR Transcript.
The story was about the administration’s freeze on federal research funding for universities. On paper, that might sound like a budget issue. But in practice, it’s people’s lives and work being disrupted — professors, students, staff. And it also impacts people who need the innovations that this research provides. The podcast connects with a four year old named Caleb who is waiting for a pediatric heart pump implant. This device is currently put on hold because of frozen research funding. Meanwhile, Caleb has to use a VAD, an artificial heart that has to be plugged in throughout the day. Caleb has named his VAD “Taco,” and his pole with blood-thinning medicine “Broccoli.”
Hearing those names reminds me that research is never just numbers on a page. It’s real people, with real dreams, trying to make real progress. And policies like this freeze slow down labs (significant in itself) but they also they ripple outward into healthcare, climate solutions, equity, and opportunity.
I keep wondering: How many Calebs are stalled with Tacos and Broccolis right now? And how can we speak up to make sure research and discovery keep moving forward?
Smuggling Grace 