Author: gracesmuggler

This week, I want to consider what it means to experience and cultivate a sense of continued connection with people who have died. With this in mind, I invite us into a place of imagination and wondering. How might we ponder our connections with those who have gone before us — those who have loved us into being?

What is that sacred in-between? That space right before death where powerful things seem to happen?

The truth is, I don’t know.

Is it a new reality coming into being? Is it simply (but still, amazingly!) the human brain giving a euphoric experience at the end of life? Is it a liminality between what has been and what will be? Is it an expansion of time — either in reality, or perhaps, in a beautiful illusion during a near-death state?

I don’t know. All I know is that I find it to be comforting.

I mean this: Sometimes, when people near death, they rally quite unexpectedly and receive a burst of strength that seems unexpected. Some appear to experience joy. Or in a last bit of consciousness in their bodies, some experience the presence of people who have died before them.

Before she died two weeks ago, my grandmother Ruby was unconscious and on a ventilator. After the ventilator was removed, she died pretty quickly. But right at the end, she suddenly opened up her eyes, looked up and smiled, and a couple tears dripped down her cheek.

I don’t know what that is, but I find that to be comforting.

More dramatic, when my husband’s grandfather, Bill Knox, died a little more than a year ago, the family marveled at what he experienced. The night before he died, everyone was aware that the end was nearing. But for a few hours, he was suddenly and unexpectedly conscious and aware. He sat up, and for hours, he was in this in-between state. One moment, he would be fully engaged in conversation with one of his daughters sitting next to him, and the next moment, he would announce to everyone that he could see a person from his earlier life — someone who had died decades before. He would say some words aloud to them too. Then, he’d come back to conversation with his family, fully engaged. It seemed that everyone was present to him at once. This in-between state lasted for hours and was a very special, mysterious thing.

I don’t know what that is, but I find that to be comforting.

This week on this blog, I am writing with imagination about our continued connections with those who have died. In doing so, I never aim put a silver lining on loss in any way. I know these kinds of things can be hard to celebrate when loss is recent and grief is acute.

But at the same time, perhaps these kinds of moments can give some solace too. Recognizing this is all a mystery, perhaps we can be comforted by a sense of wonder.

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to read the other pieces also:

“Someday, You’ll Be the Love of My Life”
The Fullness of Time?
“See You at the Table”

This week, I want to consider what it means to experience and cultivate a sense of continued connection with people who have died. With this in mind, I invite us into a place of imagination and wondering. How might we ponder our connections with those who have gone before us — those who have loved us into being?

What if. . .

. . . those who have died before us aren’t off somewhere waiting for us?

Before moving forward with that question, I want to voice a big assumption today and recognize that it is an assumption. I choose to believe there is a something — not necessarily one concrete somewhere, but some kind of real reality — that we enter after death. Of course, I have no idea what does or doesn’t happen after death, but I am making a big assumption of what I hope: That this isn’t all there is.

So if you’d like, feel free to enter this imaginatively with me. . .

Sometimes, when loved ones transition, we find ourselves wondering if they are meeting with those who have gone before them. I think this is a beautiful reality to ponder. Recently, my grandmother Ruby Foster died, and we found ourselves thinking of her entering a reunion with her husband, Jim Foster, and her son, my father, Kim Foster. I hope that is true. I choose to imagine that with joy and gratitude.

But sometimes, in the process, we still think in terms of separation, like, “She’s with them now. But now, she’s missing us.”

But,

What if. . .

. . . those who have died before us aren’t off somewhere waiting for us?

What if we’re with them?

What if in entering that next reality, they have entered some kind of fullness of time? Sometimes, people say that God exists outside of time with no beginning or end. (By the way, I have no idea how to wrap my mind around what that means or doesn’t mean). But what if in death, we enter the life of God more fully? Or the life of time more fully? Not that we become God or timeless, but that we enter the life of God or the reality of time more fully?

Where I’m really going here is this:

When our loved ones die, what if they’re not only reunited with those who died before them, but everyone, including us?

What if, from their perspective, we’re right there with them? They take a last breath, and then, we’re in the reality on the other side also.

Obviously, I have no earthly (or beyond earthly) idea if any of this is true. But I think it’s beautiful. So I choose to imagine this when I think about those I have lost. I like to think that from their perspective, I’m right there with them. That we all are.

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to check out the other pieces too:

“Someday, You’ll Be the Love of My Life”
That Sacred In-between
“See You at the Table”

This week, I want to consider what it means to experience and cultivate a sense of continued connection with people who have died. With this in mind, I invite us into a place of imagination and wondering. How might we ponder our connections with those who have gone before us — those who have loved us into being?

Nine years ago, I had a powerful, imaginative experience after one of my closest loved ones died. We lost him on January 11, 2009. Four months later, in April, I sat in my church office in Austin, Texas and had an energizing, imaginative sense of connection while practicing meditation.

Back in those days, I used to meditate about 45 minutes every day. Perhaps I should get back to this because it did me so much good. A meditation coach taught me how to do it — or rather, various ways to do it — and I made this a part of my daily rhythm.

But on this day in April 2009, I decided to practice meditation a bit differently than I had done before. I decided I was going to have a conversation with David, this beloved one we had lost. Perhaps there were things I might need to say to him. So without planning my words in advance, I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and entered that time of meditation.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried meditation before, but sometimes, you can get to this very deep place where it feels like you’re dreaming, but you’re fully awake. In fact, you’re especially aware. You’re not hallucinating or anything like that (thank goodness) but allowing your imagination to do whatever it wants to do while you observe and participate. Thoughts, memories, and images often bubble up to the surface.

I entered that kind of depth of meditation, but rather than experiencing a variety of thoughts, memories, and images, I sat there and had a conversation with David in my mind. First, it was remarkable to discover how deeply I had internalized him within myself. It wasn’t as though I would say something, then think, “Hmm. . . what would David say to that?” then tell that thing to myself. No, in this very imaginative moment, I could participate in a give-and-take conversation, like I might, perhaps, if I were dreaming.

Second, I should say this was a “conversation.” I’m not in any way saying that I channeled David in that moment. That being said, of course, I think our connections are very active and alive even after we’ve lost someone, so I’d say the presence of the connection was real, even if I was not channeling him in himself.

All of this, in and of itself, was a profoundly meaningful experience to me. But today, I offer it as prelude to share what David “said” to me in that moment. It turned into this beautiful, imaginative thought that I’ve continued to carry with me when I think about death, and perhaps, what it might be like for us after we experience death.

On that day in April, David said to me:

“When you die, it’s as though every single person who has ever lived becomes the absolute love of your life.  All people — each one, every one. Every single person becomes the absolute love of your life.”

When I finished this meditation, I loved this idea. And I thought, what if that’s true? Or something like it? Wouldn’t that be beautiful? To feel connected to everyone so deeply that it’s as if every single person has been and is the absolute love of your life? What would that be like?

I have no idea — obviously — what does or doesn’t happen after death, but I like to ponder this. I hope it’s as good as this.

And to think this way. . . Well, that has implications for how we live now.

Because right after having this experience in meditation, I began to take a walk around the University of Texas campus. I saw a myriad of students. Many of them were in their own world, walking along with earbuds in, listening to music or thinking their own thoughts. And as I passed them, I kept saying in my mind, “Someday, you’ll be the love of my life. . . Someday, you’ll be the love of my life. . . Someday, you’ll be the love of my life.” I never said that aloud because that would be remarkably weird! But I enjoyed thinking it.

I hope something like this is true.

And if it is, how incredibly special is it that some people are the loves of our life right now? It’s like we get a head start.

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to check out the other pieces too:

The Fullness of Time?
That Sacred In-between
“See You at the Table”

This sermon was preached at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan and is based on Psalm 139.

–Renee Roederer

I love this photo of a darling 2nd grader. She’s Ruby Mae Foster, my Grandmother, when she was just 8 years old.

My Grandmother died last week. We called her Memaw, one of the silliest sounding Grandma names in the lexicon of Grandma names — though of course, it was not said with silliness but affection. Thankfully, she lived a long, full life. She was partnered with Jim Foster, my Grandfather (Papaw) for many years, though sadly, he died much sooner. She had two children, four grandchildren, and recently met her twin, great-grandchildren who were just born. She also has a great-grandchild on the way, my cousin’s first child.

That same cousin posted this photo on Facebook last week, and I loved seeing Ruby has an 8 year old. I’ve never seen a photo of her this young. And I was instantly reminded of this:

Our lives begin before our lives.

I would not, and I could not exist as the person I am, had this 8 year old also not lived. In part, I come from her. And there is a whole period of her life, a whole historical period, to which I am connected (1933-1982) simply because she lived it before I was born. My life is inextricably linked to these things.

And this is true all the time — yes, in relatives with whom we share DNA, but also, so many others. A whole myriad of humans shape us and continue to shape us.

Our lives always begin before our lives.

I like to wonder sometimes. . .

Who shaped the people who shaped me,
Who mentored the people who mentored me,
Who gave me life in some way before my life ever started, and
How do these people show up in my living?
Perhaps in deeper ways than I am even aware?

Our lives begin before our lives.

And the lives of others are beginning in ours. We’ll meet some of them, but many, we’ll never know about. Individually and collectively, our lives are shaping the particularities that will shape others. It’s not totally deterministic – a good thing, after all, as some particularities are hard. But this is deeply connective. Deeply creative. I think this is a mysterious, marvelous thing.

–Renee Roederer

I’ll be away much of the week to be present at Ruby’s visitation and funeral, so this will be my only post for the week. But when I return, I’ll be right back at it! The best to all of you.

 

 

V.S. Ramachandran designed an experiment that was utterly brilliant in its creativity and its simplicity. Most importantly, it worked. For the long haul, it worked.

Ramachandran is a neuroscientist who is famous for a variety of discoveries about the human brain. In particular, his work has helped reveal the incredible qualities of its plasticity and malleability. Decades ago, he designed an experiment to alleviate phantom limb pain by using two simple mirrors.

Phantom limb pain is a kind of curious thing in and of itself. Documented in medical literature for more than 500 years, many physicians had written about the odd and challenging phenomenon some patients had after losing limbs. For years, even decades, these patients continued to feel a painful sensation in the limb that was missing. Some felt as though their lost arm or leg was held permanently in an awkward or painful position. They remarked that they wished to move it back into a more typical, comfortable position. Of course, that was impossible.

In a flash of curiosity, V.S. Ramachandran created a mirror box. He placed two mirrors together at a right angle and invited amputees to step inside the box. Suddenly, those who, say, lost their right arm, could see their left arm projected on the right side of their body. Inside the mirror box, it appeared that they had both arms. Then, they could “move” their missing limb into a better position by simply moving their remaining limb. And shockingly, this led to actual relief of the phantom pain! For many people, this was a permanent shift.

I love this experiment. I love that it worked. And if you’ll allow me, perhaps we can also enter this as a bit of a life analogy also:

There are times when we face one another too, and our human brains also have mirror neurons. When we see the emotions of the person standing in front of us, the neurons in our own brains begin to fire and sync with the other person. Isn’t that an incredible thing? (By the way, V.S. Ramachandran has done work on this too.)

We face one another.
At times,
we recognize each other and smile,
we demonstrate need to one another,
we marvel in the presence of one another,
and at times,
we present pain:
broken and insecure attachment,
grief and longing,
fear and anxiety.

In all of these, in ourselves and in others, we can choose the intention to see one another well. Certainly, with our vision, we can’t save anyone into wellness. But by choosing to mirror back what is true — love, belonging, acceptance, openness, our own humanity and vulnerability — we can create conditions that allow us to see each other and see ourselves with more clarity.

We can see each other with more truth, more safety, and more healing. This too is brilliant in its creativity and in its simplicity.

–Renee Roederer

 

Here’s something I love about New Year’s celebrations: The timing is completely arbitrary, but the collective energy is vital. When we view something — in this case, a shift in time — with collective vision, we see things differently, even if just for a bit.

Now, of course, in a calendar sense, the timing of a new year isn’t completely arbitrary. Obviously, we know the date when a year ends, and we know the date when a new one begins. But there is only one reason January 1 is the first day of the year: We’ve collectively agreed upon that marker.

My partner is an astronomer, and a couple of years ago, I asked him a question I had never really thought about before. “Is there any reason that our calendar year starts on January 1? I mean, isn’t that date rather arbitrary?” It turns out that’s true. Our 365 day year is based on the earth’s revolution around the sun, but astronomically speaking, the year could technically start at any point on that revolution journey.

I think about this every year when we cross over from December 31 to January 1. I don’t find the arbitrary nature of the shift to be deflating. I actually find it to be heartening. As people agree upon a collective marker to honor change, the collective energy results in actual change.

Sure, New Year’s resolutions don’t always result in permanent shifts in our individual lives. That may be true, but collective vision does actually change things. Around the world, we have playful rituals to honor New Year’s Eve and the shift from one year to the next. The customs vary, but this arbitrary date does manage to connect the world. And for a particular period, we are connected to one another in better hopes. That certainly changes things.

We need each other,
We need to be connected,
We need to refresh our hopes.

In many cases, some challenges from our previous year remain firmly intact, but as we cross over a completely arbitrary marker, we somehow manage to reevaluate our relationship to those very challenges. We hope for new visions, and we resolve to work toward them.

Yes,
We need each other,
We need to be connected,
We need to refresh our hopes.

I love the gift of this annual, collective reset.

–Renee Roederer

 

“Mom — Grandma! Look!”

This is the phrase I heard so many times while I was recently in Kroger. A young girl — maybe 8 or so — kept requesting her Grandma’s attention. She kept accidentally calling her Mom but then correcting herself.

“Mom — Grandma! Look!”

Then Grandma would look, and she did so with affection every single time. And that’s when the little girl would break into song. I wonder what sort of personal connection they had to this song. It was known to just about everyone in the store, but it seemed to have particular meaning to them.

“Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!”

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl opens the ice freezer. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” They laugh.

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl picks up a grocery bag and starts marching. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” Grandma sings too.

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl turns around in place. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” People are watching them interact, but the girl mostly just notices her Grandma.

Over and over again, she is expressing a need to be seen, and Grandma is seeing with affection. This is such a profound, human need.

Certainly, we don’t all shout “Lookit!” and break into song in the grocery store, but that being said, I don’t think we ever outgrow this need to see and be seen. It is a joy to recognize the moments when we are held in a loved one’s vision, and it is a joy to see loved ones with the same kind of affection and connection.

I don’t typically do New Year’s Resolutions, and yet, I find myself resolving to this: I want to have a year with vision and connection. I don’t want to see past people. Instead, I want to joyfully see people — in their discoveries, in their element, in their vulnerability (when invited), and in their own joys. And I want to be seen in these ways too.

A year of seeing and being seen.

“Lookit!”

– Renee Roederer

 

 

This sermon was preached at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan and is based on Luke 2:22-40.

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had finished everything required by the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.

–Renee Roederer

We carry time within us.

Sometimes, a simple smell, sound, or sight can transport us to another time –
a time long ago,
but a time we still carry within ourselves.

Somehow, the present moment can bring the past right into focus. In the midst of this, we feel connections to previous moments and people who were a part of them. We even experience this in our bodies. The past makes itself known in our feelings and physical sensations.

All of this is true
in our very best memories and connections,
in our relationship to grief and loss, and
in our experiences of trauma.

Time travels so easily because we carry time within us. This is part of being human.

But we are not solely passive agents in the midst of this. We can make some choices about how we bring time to ourselves. We can build connections between moments, and these connections can give us ahas of insight. We can make space to feel our emotions. We can honor people who have died. We can allow time to speak to us and make new meaning for the present.

And

We can be a Mediator. We can facilitate communication between past and present — toward healing, toward insight, toward laughter, toward joy.

When the past brings meaningful memories and connections, we can invite these to speak directly to anything we especially need right now.

And when eras of challenge or pain suddenly snap into focus, we can mediate
the best of our current experiences,
the best of our wisdom, and
the best of our nurture
straight toward the version of ourselves that lived in another time.

Then speaks to Now,
Now speaks to Then,
Older and younger versions of ourselves are in communion.

We are in relationship with ourselves, connected to a myriad of people and moments.

And from that awareness, the mediation of time doesn’t have to be heavy or deeply serious. It can also be playful. It can certainly be life-giving.

So. . . shall we try it a bit?

–Renee Roederer