Smuggling Grace

It’s okay to need help — from professionals, from each other.

I’ve been saying this a lot, but it may be a reminder we need: We are living a time of collective trauma. And some of us have also experienced previous, additional traumas, recent or long ago. There is no doubt that this time of pandemic is stirring up challenges for our minds, emotions, and bodies.

We can be gentle with ourselves.
We can seek help.

Here are two images from The Real Depression Project. I posted these recently on Facebook and Instagram, and folks shared that they found them to be helpful.

This one says,

Why People with Depression Become Numb:

-To protect themselves (from constant negative emotions)
-They become desensitized from their own suffering
-Drained from fighting a war in their head 24/7

-Depression makes you less engaged (and reactive) in the present moment
-Depression puts a forcefield between the person and pleasure

This is why you can’t just “snap out of it.”

In what seems like two days ago, I stood in the backyard and thought, “It will be time for the hosta plants soon.” They weren’t there yet.

It really does seem like that happened two days ago! But then again, coronavirus time is Jeremy Bearimy.  Maybe it was last weekend. But it certainly wasn’t a long time ago.

Then, yesterday evening, I looked out side, and what? There they are. They had sprung up, all together, and quickly.

It’s a reminder that sometimes… growth happens quickly. Yes, most of the time, it happens slowly with lots of twists and turns, but sometimes — maybe out of necessity? — it comes quickly. We can welcome it when it does.

—Renee Roederer

Image description: Two hands come cupped together to make the shape of a heart. Sunlight is shining through.

One of my best friends has a nightly ritual with both of her daughters. They are five and three, both completely precious. Every night, after reading to them, my friend says these final words before they go to sleep:

“Who loves you?”

Then both girls go through this litany of naming who loves them (sometimes with help) — parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends. Sometimes the stuffed animals get named too.

I think this is a very dear practice. It’s wonderful that these girls rehearse love right at the end of the day before they fall into sleep.

Perhaps we’ve never taken a moment to go through a list of people in our minds like this, but maybe that would actually be a good idea today. We never outgrow the need for this kind of awareness, a calling to mind of those who love us.

So I’ll ask us all the same question today:

Who loves you?

–Renee Roederer

Enjoy.

I especially appreciate the playground sheep. Take it all baaaaaaack. 🙂

A Sunday Reflection:

I have no need to sugarcoat this time we are living right now… This is a time of deep grief.

During this time of pandemic, separation from one another, and huge forms of disruption, we’re living a time of grief, and that grief cries out to be acknowledged. Sometimes, it literally cries out… We cry it out. We might close a door to a room or get in the bathtub and weep in catharsis. Have you had a moment like that? I have.

Or we might have moments of experiencing the Grief Ninjas. That’s what a friend of mine calls them. We’re just going about our business, doing something run-of-the-mill or routine, and boom. Something reminds us of a person or opportunity we’ve lost, and the Grief Ninjas suddenly do a surprise attack. We’re suddenly and surprisingly in tears.

Or we might have moments of feeling nothing. We feel so much internally that we are flooded with emotion, and our bodies have learned to cope with this by numbing. We feel nothing, even when we’d like to feel something — anything. This is called dissociation. It’s the freeze pathway of the trauma response — fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. And though it might seem like it would be nice to feel nothing during a crisis, it’s actually really painful. It’s disorienting. And as Brene Brown says, “You can’t selectively numb feelings.” We begin to feel detached from our good, pleasant, and meaningful emotions too.

So with all of this, I have no need to sugarcoat this time we’re living. There’s no need to assign silver linings to it. If we need to name that this is painful, we can. We can allow ourselves to feel whatever we need to feel.

So I want to name this before I say anything else. In a moment, I’m going to bring a question to us — to all of us, and myself, included. This question is not a “But.” It’s an “And.”

“Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?” That’s the question.

That’s an And. We might even say it’s a “Yes-And.”

“Yes-And” is a fundamental premise of improv. Have you ever seen a group of people do improv games or improv comedy? Or have you ever tried it? You don’t have to be utterly brilliant, an accomplished actor, or remarkably funny to do improv. You just have to “Yes-And.” Someone presents a scenario or character to you. It emerges from the moment. And having entered this scene, you say “yes” to it. You accept it. And — there’s that word “And” — you add to it. You add yourself, or another aspect of the scenario, or you move the storyline forward.

We are in a time of grief. Yes. No doubt.

And…

And? What would you say? What might you add?

So back to my question: Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?

Without sugarcoating things, or assigning silver linings, can we allow ourselves to be surprised that goodness often comes right alongside all the pain and that it accompanies us too? Can we be surprised by all the forms of goodness that emerge alongside all of that valid grief and pain?

I’m touched by people applauding hospital workers from their high rise apartments every time a shift ends and a new one begins. I hope you’ve had the occasion to see some videos like that.

I’m touched by neighbors checking in on each other.

I’m touched by the person who sent me coloring sheets in the mail, allowing me to color yesterday while watching “I, Tonya.” Maybe that’s a weird combo. But you know? It was fun.

I’m touched that over the last six weeks, I’ve had the occasion to introduce people to each other on Zoom, and now, they are checking in on each other. Some of them haven’t even met in person.

I’m touched that my former college students check on me all the time. My life is totally blessed by them. I mean it. It is abundance to me. Among all the other things, I love that some of them watch tv with me. We sync up shows and chat in real time.

I’m touched that people are using their brilliance to take care of people in their community — just by being themselves. I see so many of you utilizing the talents and skills that come so naturally to you that they might forget they’re a remarkable talent or skill. They’re just that natural to you. And they are remarkable. You’re remarkable. And you’re providing for community from yourselves. I love seeing this.

In all of these, and in so many other moments, I feel the surprise of goodness. And I hope you feel alive when you are surprised by them too.

About five years ago, I started a blog that I titled “Smuggling Grace.” I hoped to find moments where grace, love, and sacred possibility just sort of snuck into our world, maybe even during times of challenge, trauma, or pain. I love to seek out these moments and write them in story form. On my blog, I notice that I write about a lot of topics and in a lot of genres, but I think that’s my primary one — finding some grace to smuggle in, not that it needs a storyteller as much as it needs to be experienced. We all have moments like this, when grace is smuggled to us. We don’t expect it, and sometimes, it’s remarkably surprising. Then we get to smuggle that same energy toward others. We smuggle it forward. We can all be Grace Smugglers.

Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?

I hope so. It doesn’t negate the grief. But it accompanies us.

And who knows? In these days, maybe we can be surprises ourselves, participating in goodness and sharing it — smuggling it — to others.

Peace to you.
Grace to you.
Surprise
to you,
toward you,
from you.

Surprise.

–Renee Roederer

Last Thursday, on behalf of the Presbytery of Detroit, I had the pleasure of hosting a webinar with Ben Johnston-Krase. He is the co-planter of Farm Church, a congregation in Durham, North Carolina. Farm Church is a church that meets on a farm and leverages the resources of that farm to address food insecurity.

During this webinar, Ben talked about what it means to take risks faithfully in a world that is changing rapidly. What values are we putting at the center of our risk-taking?

Ben’s presentation was tremendous and insightful, so I thought I would share it! If you have trouble accessing it below, you can also click here.

Image Description: A brown box with a red ribbon wrapped and tied around it.

— I know a person who facilitated guided meditations over Zoom for free every day this week. She did this for loved ones and people totally new to her. Then she passed along the recordings. They were so lovely and helpful.

— I know a person who has been sewing masks up a storm. She realized she can make these quickly, and she’s passing them along to loved ones and people unknown to her.

— I know a person who offered to teach improv games over Zoom to a support group of people that typically meets over the phone. Many participants have never seen each other’s faces, and his offer allowed them to do this for the first time while playing together in fun and meaningful ways.

— I know a person who ran a virtual Boston Marathon in his Michigan hometown. He wanted to turn the term ‘social distancing’ on its head and encourage people to run or walk any distance on April 20 while giving to social causes. He raised approximately $6,000 to support people experiencing homelessness in Flint.

I love when people give uniquely from themselves, using their best gifts and skills and turning them toward others. We can all do this.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: In blue writing, the image says “Zoom,” and in gray writing beneath, it says “Joining a Meeting.”

Over the last couple of days, I’ve been feeling isolation fatigue.

I don’t just mean that I’m tired of being alone, though I definitely am. I mean I’m literally tired. I feel fatigued in the isolation.

This is a very typical response to this very atypical time we’re experiencing. So far, I’ve mostly avoided this by staying positive and connected to others. But the fatigue has caught up with me over the last couple of days.

This is a common experience too. And if you’re feeling it as well, I want to share some information which might affirm and confirm your experiences. Here are two helpful articles I read this week:

Here’s why you’re so exhausted, despite doing less during the coronavirus pandemic — and how to feel better

The reason Zoom calls drain your energy

I admit I laughed while linking this second one because I’m going to join a Zoom call in 45 minutes — one of a few today. Thankfully, this next one will involve my mentor doing some teaching with the Presbytery of Detroit. And that will genuinely energize me.

I welcome that energy. Here goes!

—Renee Roederer

Yesterday, at the invitation of a loved one, I joined a Zoom call with a community and experienced something very new to me. This community studies and practices Kabbalah, the Jewish tradition of mystical interpretation of the Bible.

Right now, this community is practicing the counting of the omer. Week by week, they explore the principles and energies from the Tree of Life, shown on the image above, and they ask themselves, what can we learn from combining these energies? They are…

Keter/Crown
Chochmah/Wisdom
Chesed/Kindness
Netzach/Eternity
Malkhut/Kingdom
Yesod/Foundation
Tiferet/Beauty
Hod/Splendor
Gevurah/Judgment (or Severity, more about that in a moment)
Binah/Understanding*

This week, the community is exploring Gevurah. In this image, that’s translated as ‘judgment.’ Last night, we used the word, ‘severity.’ Each day, in the counting of the omer, this community explores permutations by combining Gevurah with one of the other energies. Guvurah and Crown, Wisdom, Kindness, Eternity, Kingdom, Foundation, Splendor, and Understanding. What does severity mean when viewed through the lens or energy of these others?

Last night, we considered Gevurah and Yesod — severity and foundation.

How might Gevurah become a foundation?

Our teacher shared that Gevurah is not about punishment. But it is about a firm sense of saying No. When Gevurah is a needed foundation in our lives, we do things like set hard boundaries in our relationships: It’s not okay to be treated wrongfully. Gevurah as a foundation also may look like a commitment to justice. We practice severity — that is, strength — toward injustice.

I appreciated this time very much, and now, it has me thinking about the combination of energies more generally as well. Yesterday afternoon, the Interfaith Round Table gathered leaders together from 12 different faith traditions (also over Zoom, of course). We discussed how our communities are doing during this time of crisis. We shared the gifts and challenges we’re discovering in responding to this time. This was certainly a combining of energies as we shared unique forms of wisdom, struggle, and gratitude. We felt the benefit of being together.

Then, later in the day, I shared with a few people that I was feeling bummed — not overwhelmingly or devastatingly so, but persistently and mildly so. I felt that throughout much of the day. But I ended my day with a phone conversation with one of the people closest to me. During this time, I found myself so grateful for her, even while feeling bummed, and I thought about the strength of this connection in relationship over time. I felt that even while we’re all separated. This experience was a combination — and transformation — of energies.

I’m going to keep thinking about this: What energies do I need to combine?

–Renee Roederer 

*I used slightly different transliterations of Hebrew here rather than listing them exactly as they are in the image. This local community spells (or rather, transliterates) a few of these energies differently than what’s in the image.

Image Description: My bouquet of yellow flowers. Daffodils are in the background of the image.

Lately, when I’ve been gathered in groups for reflection and discussion (over Zoom and the like) I’ve asked these questions:

What is a little grief you have? 
– And –
What is a little joy you have?

As we experience this pandemic and time of economic uncertainty, we are definitely acquainted with the big griefs we carry. We are concerned for the losses we know, for our loved ones, and for our own health. We grieve disruptions and the ways our lives are different than they were just a couple months ago.

But do we make space to name the little griefs? The ones we probably wouldn’t name, because stacked up against the larger ones, they seem a bit more insignificant?

I’d like to say that they’re not insignificant. They matter to us also and are worth grieving. They might also serve as symbols for the larger griefs we’re carrying too.

Likewise, do we make space to name the little joys? The ones we probably wouldn’t name because they’re typically more mundane than others we might have shared in the past? Yet we find even more gratitude for them now?

These are not insignificant either. They matter to us and are worth sharing with others. They might also serve as symbols of encouragement and hope alongside all we’re carrying too.

When I’ve asked these questions in groups, I’ve also given a particular answer a number of times. One of my little (but not insignificant ) griefs is this: I always keep yellow alstroemeria flowers on my table. I also keep some in my writing room. They are lovely, and they brighten up the space. They also last such a long time in a vase — typically three weeks. For this reason, they’ve come to take on meaningful symbolism to me. And when they begin to wilt and the flowers begin to fall, I typically go to Trader Joe’s and buy more. I’ve had a long streak of having these flowers on my table. Sure, they aren’t nearly as important to me as all the other things we’re carrying collectively, but I’ve been sad to lose their presence. You can disinfect your groceries, but you can’t disinfect your flowers.

I shared this with some people while back, and…

This sharing has led to a little but not at all insignificant joy. I feel big gratitude about it.

Yesterday, I received a package on my doorstep (some of you all know I love surprises, including tiny gestures) and this one felt amazingly huge. A friend had some permanent, yellow flowers made for me. And the petals are made from hymnals. So they have all these lovely words.

And they came in a bouquet! This meant so much to me. Big joy. Lovely connection. So very thoughtful.

I am so eager to put these on my table. And now I’ll remember big connection in the little grief. Thank you, good friend.

—Renee Roederer