Smuggling Grace

I recently read a story about John Lewis in Rev. MaryAnn McKibben Dana’s The Blue Room newsletter, and it’s been sitting with me ever since. I’m grateful to her for sharing it.

When John Lewis was a small child in rural Alabama, his world was surrounded by pine trees, cotton fields, and community. His family lived among other sharecroppers, most of them relatives. Every very adult was an aunt or uncle, and every child was some kind of cousin. One Saturday, about fifteen of those cousins were playing in his Aunt Seneva’s yard when the air began to shift, heavy with the threat of a coming storm.

Lewis wrote:

“The sky began clouding over, the wind started picking up, lightning flashed far off in the distance, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about playing anymore. I was terrified.

Lightning terrified me, and so did thunder. Aunt Seneva was the only adult around that day, and as the sky blackened and the wind grew stronger, she herded us all inside…

The wind was howling now, and the house was starting to shake… Now the house was beginning to sway… The corner of the room started lifting up.

That was when Aunt Seneva told us to clasp hands. Line up and hold hands, she said, and we did as we were told. Then she had us walk as a group toward the corner of the room that was rising…

And so it went, back and forth, fifteen children walking with the wind, holding that trembling house down with the weight of our small bodies.”

What an image — and what a truth to carry.

We can hold each other steady when the world begins to shake. We all know that feeling when things begin to lift right off their foundation.

And yet, this story reminds us of what’s possible when we move together. Even in times of chaos or fear, we can organize, reach for one another, and steady what matters most. That’s how we keep standing — by holding on, and by holding each other down in the best possible way.

—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.

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 woke up in a foul mood. Nothing was wrong, really. I had just started the morning by rehearsing an old story in my head, one of those familiar narratives that likes to resurface now and then. You probably know the kind: mostly untrue, not especially helpful, yet stubborn enough to shape the mood of the day anyway.

Thankfully, the day turned itself around. Later, I met up with one of my favorite people, a dear person who moved to another state years ago and was back in town for a visit. She had just gotten off a bus and was walking toward the coffee shop where we planned to meet. At the very same time, I was leaving my driveway, windows down, on a warm October afternoon. It was fun to think of ourselves in real time on our way toward one another. For some reason, that simple thought lifted me.

That’s a feeling I want to hold onto — We’re on our way toward one another — and maybe make it into a narrative of its own.

There is so much division. There is so much separation. There is so much contempt. There is so much loss. I don’t want to deny these realities, of course, but I do want to anticipate something different — something in process, something connectional.

Maybe that’s what I mean by anticipating one another: keeping a kind of readiness for goodness, for kinship, for what might grow between us if we stay open to it.

—Renee Roederer

–Photos by Renee Roederer

Baby Tapirs are extraordinarily cute.

All people in this world have needs that are particular to themselves.
Every person.

And

All people and all communities have unique and particular strengths to share.
Every person, every community.

I’m not sure if we can ever truly run from need, because human need is one of the most honest and real things about us all. But we definitely try. There may be a number of reasons for this. Among them, we’ve internalized lot of cultural narratives about individualism, self-sufficiency, and the belief that we must produce and earn love and belonging. (Psst, those are myths. Dangerous myths).

But those cultural narratives take form in our thoughts and feelings…

“I’m a burden.”

“I’m too much.”

“I don’t want to over-ask.”

“I don’t want to trouble.”

“They’re going to get tired of me.”

“I can’t voice this.”

Soon we’re speaking narratives about ourselves, and we run from our need and from one another. But again,

All people in this world have needs that are particular to themselves.
Every person.

And

All people and all communities have unique and particular strengths to share.
Every person, every community.

There is no shame in any of this. We can embrace these parts of ourselves. We can share these parts of ourselves. We can love these parts of ourselves.

Need away, friends.

—Renee Roederer

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.)

Do any memories and any questions come to mind?

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

Mysteries, Yes
By Mary Oliver

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?

—Renee Roederer

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.

—Renee Roederer