Smuggling Grace

[Public Domain image]

I want to begin this post with four powerful quotes:

Borrowing language from Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest and wisdom teacher, writes frequently about what it means to give up our ego and ‘false self’ to live as our ‘True Self.’ In the midst of writing about that, Richard Rohr says,

1) “You (and every other created thing) begin with your unique divine DNA, an inner destiny as it were, an absolute core that knows the truth about you, a true believer tucked away in the cellar of your being, an imago Dei that begs to be allowed, to be fulfilled, and to show itself.” — Daily Meditations, July 31, 2016

Author Paul Coelho says,

2) “Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything, maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were really meant to be in the first place.” 

The story of the Chasidic Master Zusya of Hanapoli is told in the Talmud:

3) “Once, the Hasidic Rabbi Zusya came to his followers with tears in his eyes. They asked him:

‘Zusya, what’s the matter?’

And he told them about his vision: ‘I learned of the question that the angels will one day ask me about my life.’

The followers were puzzled.

‘Zusya, you are pious. You are scholarly and humble. You have helped so many of us. What question about your life could be so terrifying that you would be frightened to answer it?’

Zusya replied, ‘ I have learned that the angels will not ask me, ‘Why weren’t you at Joshua, leading your people into the promised land?’

Zusya sighed, ‘They will say to me, ‘Zusya, why weren’t you Zusya?’”

And author Marianne Williamson writes,

4) “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.”

How do these quotes connect with you? Do they speak to certain parts of you? Particular roles, archetypes, and identities that lie at the root of who you are? Aspects you want to connect with more deeply? The True Self? The parts of ourselves that “beg to be allowed, to be fulfilled, and show themselves?”

I hope so.

This week I did some reflection about “unbecoming,” as author Paul Coelho writes above. There are times I have tried to place myself in roles that don’t exactly fit me. For instance, my internal framework and concept of what “a community organizer is” has been too narrow to include what my actual strengths are or make space for own my limitations and needs. And… it’s pretty hard to do something well if your framework for that role or task does not include space for your best skills or the necessary grace, accommodation, and adaptation to embrace your own particular-to-yourself needs.

I need to expand my framework and concept for what “a community organizer is.” But as I reflected on that this week, I realized I also need to think about my own particularity. My gifts, my strengths, the at-the-core-of-myself callings. My deep-down, truest parts. The kinds of things that reveal themselves through those quotes above.

True Self stuff.
Deep Yes stuff.

So I sat down and asked myself, “What are the roles, archetypes, or identities that are central to me being… me?”

And I wrote down five.

And simply naming them felt utterly invigorating. I don’t know if it was like the Captain Planet of myself coming together or what (a 1990s joke! You should watch this goofy intro!) but this felt powerful. I felt a huge amount of energy and a physical settling into myself.

And literally none of these roles, archetypes, or identities were new thoughts or sudden discoveries. I just loved naming them together. I loved choosing them again. These are the kinds of things I can keep realigning myself with when I get off track (and I do) … returning to again… my actual list… because each of these and all of these are deeply rooted in a calling beyond myself alone… these are the spaces within myself by which I make space for others.

So — you knew this was coming right? — I’m going to invite you to do the same. Ponder this question, and write them down if it’s helpful:

What are the roles, archetypes, and identities that are central to you being… you?

–Renee Roederer

 

[My laptop plays Grace and Frankie]

Here are some questions I’ve been reflecting on lately:

Why do people increasingly call non-trauma things ‘trauma’? Like, in a joking way? How did it become acceptable to use the words ‘trauma’ and ‘PTSD’ as jokes? What moved us in this direction? And most of all, what is the impact of using language in these ways?

You may ask yourself, what do you mean, Renee? Who uses these words as jokes?

I actually hear this a lot. I hear it several times a month, and it always sends me down a trail of reflection. You might hear it too once you think about it. This has become an increasingly normalized thing to do.

Here are some things I’ve heard lately:

— “I almost slipped on the ice back there. It was so traumatic!”

— “The trauma of not having coffee today!”

I wrote about these kinds of comments and the larger questions above in an Instagram story just two days ago. The very next day, I was watching Grace and Frankie on Netflix (new season!) and there it was again.

The four adult children of a blended family are standing around, trying to figure out how they’re going to tell their mothers that they think they need to move back into an assisted living apartment complex. They decide to draw straws to determine who will have the conversation.

That’s when Coyote, one of the sons, says, “I still kind of have PTSD. This is how we decided who was going to tell Mom that Paul Newman died.”

Bud, his brother, says, “Yeah, she hit you pretty hard.”

Coyote adds, “Not as hard as she’s going to hit the person who tells her she has to move back to Walden Villas.”

I know people do not intend to be hurtful when they say things like these, but consider how minimizing of trauma this is… Sometimes, these comments are made in presence of actual trauma survivors. (Surprise! We blend in!)

I mean, travel down this rabbit hole of reflection with me… How did this, and why did this become increasingly common language? For instance, imagine inserting a different word. Go ahead. Really imagine that. A synonym of some kind.

Would we use that word for our almost-ice-slipping and not-coffee-having, etc.?

No, we wouldn’t.

And experiences of trauma, post-trauma, and being traumatized involve physical symptoms. Sometimes, these can be debilitating. Imagine inserting some big, physical challenge as a symptom.

Would we say that’s what our almost-ice-slipping and not-coffee-having was like?

No, we wouldn’t say that.

How did it become okay, unquestioned, or funny to call them “trauma”?

So often, trauma survivors have to worry about being believed,
about

…the events of trauma themselves

and

…physical and emotional needs, which may look invisible but be pronounced.

When we trivialize what trauma is, we make these things harder. That’s probably not intended, but it has a big impact. To demonstrate this, let’s travel back to that scene on Grace and Frankie.

Coyote says, “I still kind of have PTSD” as hyperbole in an attempt to express how angry his Mom is going to be. Sure, this is a joke, but… it would be insensitive to say we have Cancer, AIDS, and Diabetes “about things,” right?

We would never say that.
How has PTSD so often become a hyperbole joke?

This has a real impact. My point is, if culturally, trauma and PTSD are used frequently as nods toward exaggeration — “Geez, Mom was so upset about Paul Newman that it gave me PTSD!”And if this happens often…

… is it that much of a stretch that folks will begin to treat trauma survivors and people with PTSD like they’re exaggerating? Their symptoms? Their needs for accommodation?

If everything is “trauma…”

… “is your trauma really that bad? Or that serious?”

This is what’s at stake with minimization.

And if PTSD is an exaggerated word meaning “the pinnacle of something terrible” — This is how angry Mom is going to be, etc — and this usage becomes commonplace in every day language…

… is a person with actual PTSD “just really extra” and someone to be avoided? Maybe overdramatic? Maybe even dangerous? I mean… do we really want them on our workforce? Can they adopt a child? Can they serve on our committee?

And in order to do these things without negative consequences to themselves, do trauma survivors and people with PTSD need to hide this part of their lives from you? Their stories? Their needs for accommodation?

This is what’s at stake with exaggeration.

Minimization of trauma and exaggeration of the ‘badness’ of PTSD are both at stake when these jokes are made in everyday language. If you hear someone do this, please find a time to say something. If it’s hard to do that in the moment, then perhaps later. Permission to send this post along.

—Renee Roederer

Over the last day, I’ve been reflecting on a quote from Angela Davis:

“In a racist society, it is not enough to be non-racist — we must be anti-racist.”

I am reflecting on this quote because Zhaabadiis Bedoske, an Indigenous person who I follow and respect, lifted it up after the racist harassment of elder Nathan Phillips in Washington D.C. Bedoske shared that many people expressed outrage at what happened, but often through the lens of, “Who raises their kids this way?” with the implication of, “Good thing I’m raising my kids differently. Good thing we’re not racist like these families, or this school, or this church etc.”

Racism is pervasive, but it is in some ways taboo, even as it is expressed systemically and very overtly. And white people (I’m among them) often spend a lot of time trying to prove to ourselves and others that we are non-racist — not like “those people.”

But at the very same time, we may be doing very little to challenge, disrupt, and change this reality. We paste quotes of MLK over our social-media sites on a day like today, but then become uncomfortable, radio silent, or actively resistant when people challenge, protest, and disrupt the systems of white supremacy — both within and beyond the legacy of MLK.

Do we know the larger oppressive, systemic issues that were raised during the Indigenous Peoples March? Or how barriers and racist policies are placed in our local areas against the rights and resources of Indigenous people?

I don’t know those details. Should I learn them? Yes. And work alongside others who are planning liberation? Yes.

“In a racist society, it is not enough to be non-racist — we must be anti-racist.” – Angela Y. Davis

–Renee Roederer

[Photo Credit: Carson Smith. Hans Honschar is an artist who leaves encouraging chalk messages for people to discover throughout the neighborhoods of New York City.]

“How do we live and work as people who are connected to our whole selves?”

This was the very excellent question someone asked me this week.

Of course, none of us has a full, definitive answer to a question as large and expansive as that one, but it’s the kind of question that can sit with us for a while. Maybe it’s the kind of question that asks good questions of us:

What is wholeness? Who are we called to be, and how do we partner our deep-seated callings with the callings of others? How do we embrace our vulnerabilities? How do we give voice to our vulnerabilities and allow them to provide leadership as strengths? How do we give and receive care in relationship and community? How do we cultivate space for healing and wholeness — for ourselves? alongside others? How do we lead with our unique gifts? How do we open ourselves to a sense of the whole within our life and work, even if we have only a glimmer of understanding that we are connected to a vision and sense of mutuality much larger than ourselves alone?

When this expansive question at the top came up (which has now offered a cascade of questions) the two of us were talking about vocation and calling and what it’s like to bring our fullest, particular selves to our living and our work. This was a meaningful conversation that has stayed with me throughout the week.

Today, as I ponder this conversation and these questions, I’d like to place the writings of two authors side by side.

Richard Rohr talks about vocation and calling as the Deep Yes:

“The doctrine of haecceity is saying that we come to universal meaning deeply and rightly through the unique and ordinary, not the other way around, which is the great danger of all the ideologies (overarching and universal explanations) that have plagued our world in the last century. Everything in the universe is a holon and a fractal, where the part replicates the whole. Go deep in any one place and we will meet all places where the divine image is present.”

-And-

“In the moments of insecurity and crisis, ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’ don’t really help; they just increase the shame, guilt, pressure, and likelihood of backsliding. It’s the deep ‘yeses’ that carry you through. Focusing on something you absolutely believe in, that you’re committed to, will help you wait it out.”*

MaryAnn McKibben Dana has written a great deal about the concept of Yes-And in improv, applying that vision to our daily living. She recently published a book entitled, God, Improv, and the Art of Living. She also has a blog, and last week, she wrote a piece called, The Joy of Yes-And. I recommend reading all of it. She talks about embracing our limitations and making choices about what is most important to us:

“But too often, our culture looks at people who take a step back in terms of what is lost. Maybe Ohashi will not end up at the Olympics as a result of her choice… [See the piece for this story.] But it’s clear from her performance how much has been gained.

“Sure, sometimes Yes-And is a process of sheer addition, and making it work imperfectly and beautifully. But other times – maybe more often – it’s about subtraction. Clarification. Deepening.”

What does it mean to practice a Deep Yes-And?

There are many ways to answer that question, of course, but I think it leads us back to this question:

“How do we live and work as people who are connected to our whole selves?”

We make the main calling the main calling, whatever that may be for us. We choose it deeply, even as it is most readily choosing us.

But we don’t have this all figured out. How could we? It’s all in process, and we never arrive fully. We just keep adding our yes to the Deep Yes that beckons us, little by little, moment by moment.

Deep Yes-And…

Deep Yes-And…

Deep Yes And…

–Renee Roederer

*The two paragraphs from Richard Rohr above come from his daily meditations. I recommend subscribing.

I’m still learning, indeed. And I need to take responsibility when I make mistakes. I made a big one yesterday when I wrote a piece called, Some Thoughts on Ableist Language.

I said some statements that were too broad in their generalizations which led to erasing communities and individuals that prefer identity-first language to person-first language. This is particularly true of the autism community.

Let me get a little more specific:

I started out by saying, “No one is *an* ‘ic'” and then listed a number of words like… an anorexic, a bulimic, an autistic, an arthritic, an asthmatic, a diabetic, an epileptic, a schizophrenic, etc.

It is true that many people in these communities bristle at that kind of language, but “No one is”? What if someone chooses that language?

But here’s where I made my biggest mistake:

I had originally posted these thoughts on Twitter the night before. I had made a tweet that followed this list, which said,

“It’s possible that someone might use this language as a self-descriptor, but it doesn’t mean everyone would want to be named/described in that way. It’s always good to use person-first language.”

Later, when searching for an image to place in the post here, my searching led me to the realization that many people in the autism community reject person-first language and prefer identity-first language.

In other words, many prefer “autistic person” to “person with autism.” The first frames autism as an identity, and the second frames autism as a condition.

So when I placed the language from that tweet in this post, I added,

“Some may also reject the adjective version too. They/she/he is _________(ic). Though some embrace the adjective version as an identity. That’s important to lift up. Others do not, however, and prefer to talk about these as conditions that they have.”

But see what I did there?

I added this, yes, but I had already said, “It’s always good to use person first language.” ‘Always’ is a strong, generalizing word. My second statement about identity language sounds like an afterthought and indicates that person-first language is normative.

Yesterday, an autistic person shared with me that this is ableist and that the autism community “overwhelmingly prefers identity-first language.”

I had used generalizations in ableist ways which erased communities and individuals. I am not in a position to speak for those communities, and I should not erase them with broad words like “always.”

I apologize for this and take responsibility.

And I’ll keep learning.

–Renee Roederer

Some thoughts on language and ableism:

People are not *an* ‘ic.’ I’ve been called one of these. (I bristle at it.) At times, I’ve caught myself using a couple of these.

But no one is

an anorexic

a bulimic

an autistic

an arthritic

an asthmatic

a diabetic

an epileptic

a schizophrenic

etc.

It’s possible that someone might use this language as a self-descriptor, but it doesn’t mean everyone would want to be named/described in that way. It’s always good to use person-first language.

No need to say they/she/he is a/an __________(ic). For some, this is reductive and offensive.

Some may also reject the adjective version too. They/she/he is _________(ic). Though some embrace the adjective version as an identity. That’s important to lift up. Others do not, however, and prefer to talk about these as conditions that they have.

They/she/he has __________.

Also, spastic and manic are medical terms. When applied to people or things outside of that context, this is ableist language too. These are not personality traits or feelings of able-bodied people. (Saw this happen yesterday!) No one is ‘spastic’ or ‘manic’ about such-and-such.

There’s lots more to learn. But today, lifting these up.

–Renee Roederer

[Important Edit: I made a big mistake in this piece which is itself ableist, particularly in the way I said, “It’s always good to use person-first language.” I have learned that people in the autistic community overwhelmingly prefer identity-first language to person-first language. My generalization erased communities and individuals that prefer to use identity-first language. More about that in a follow-up piece called, My Piece About Ableist Language Was Ableist.]

I heard this happen:

In the midst of boarding a plane, I overheard the row of people behind me striking up a conversation. They were talking a bit loudly, but initially, it was kind of refreshing to hear them make so many connections to each other. They were each strangers to one another and were introducing themselves and finding some commonalities. At one point, the man sitting in the window seat said, “Now I don’t want to get too controversial, but there’s a lot of ignorance out there these days.” They were talking loudly enough that it was kind of hard to tune out their conversation, but I didn’t hear what he was referring to or why he made the statement.

It’s just kind of interesting because…

Once the flight took off, the woman in the middle seat asked that man in the window seat, “So are you a Jesus freak?”

“Oh yeah, I’m a Jesus freak!”

I wondered where this was going to go. I never heard the man in the aisle seat speak again. Maybe he wasn’t a “Jesus freak.”

At first, they talked about Christian music and bands that they liked, but quickly after asking this question, the woman in the middle seat said, “Once, I was in the airport, and this man wearing a turban approached me! This was right after 9/11, so I was really scared, you know?”

Keep in mind, they are talking really loudly. Do they consider that this might be hurtful or offensive to someone?

“I had a Jesus shirt on. He came straight up to me, and he asked, ‘Are you a Christian?’ And I was like, ‘Oh Lord, help me. What is this?’ I was really scared. Then I said yes, and he said, ‘I really love Christians!'” Then they started laughing.

Then they started talking about immigration. Lord, help me.

“Now I don’t want to get political,” he said, “but we need to do something at the southern border.”

“That’s right,” she chimed in.

“I have no problem with people coming here, if they do it the right way.” He gave an example of somebody coming here in what he determined to be the right way.

This is a pretty common statement from people, but I wondered, do they have any idea how hard it is to come into this country “the right way?” Do they know, or do they care, that this administration is refusing to renew the visas of people who are already here legally and entered the country that way? Do they know that it’s a completely legal process, and more importantly, a human right, to present at the border and seek asylum? Are they willing to consider or have empathy for the violence and poverty people are fleeing? Are they willing to consider the history that the United States has helped destabilize the nations they’ve left, creating some of the very dynamics that have plunged their lives into violence and poverty? Are they willing to have any sense of commonality and connection with immigrants, or is their identity as “Jesus freaks,” less overarching than their determination of who is a citizen (and deserving of it) and who is not? For them, where does the ultimate commonality lie?

All of these questions were swirling around in my mind as they continued to talk, and I admit I was getting angry at the “Jesus freaks” who had no qualms talking loudly with fear and anger about people with brown skin.

“I paid thousands of dollars in taxes last year,” he said, “And that should be going to pay for my Dad with a disability. But it goes to them. They don’t pay any taxes, but my taxes go to them.”

No, his taxes don’t go there. Undocumented immigrants are completely ineligible for government social services, by policy and because they don’t have a social security number. And what’s more, if they are employed, unless they’re being paid under the table, they’re all paying taxes. Undocumented immigrants paid hundreds of billions in taxes, no small number, in 2018. See here and here.

“Yes, it’s just so wrong,” she said, “They are just stealing. Stealing everywhere all the time.”

And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore, not only because their information was wrong, and not only because they were talking loudly without any concern that their words might hit home or hurt someone else (though definitely that) but also because the “Jesus freaks” were completely willing to stereotype and accuse people different than themselves this whole flight so far.

I turned my head in their direction and said loudly (a bit more exasperated than I intended to sound, though I indeed was) “Immigrants pay taxes too!!!”

They said nothing. Then they said nothing for the rest of the flight. In fact, they soon fell asleep.

I didn’t regret saying that, which was only one tiny piece of a response. But I didn’t feel good about any of this either. The whole thing just felt so yucky.

But I’ve been reflecting about it ever since.

–Renee Roederer

This piece is connected to another as well:

When We’re Entirely Too Comfortable with the Existence I’d Poverty (Part 2)

I saw this happen:

Last week, I was walking down a busy street, and along one of the city blocks, a number of people without shelter stood or slept against the wall of a building. In this location, they were also positioned underneath an awning which kept them dry from the rain. Some of the people had created makeshift shelters with cardboard and tarps.

I had already seen this city block of people when I walked by a couple of hours before. This time, as I made my return, I noticed a person driving a vehicle which was cleaning the sidewalk. My assumption is that this happens at regularly scheduled times.

I might not have noticed this, except that the driver was trying to clean the section of the sidewalk that runs up against the wall, right where people were standing or sleeping. I couldn’t avoid noticing this because one of the people standing began to scream at a woman who was sleeping.

“WAKE THE ?!&* UP!!!” he yelled loudly.

She remained in her cardboard and tarp structure, still asleep.

I don’t know what eventually happened. I stood somewhat nearby for a just a bit, and I think that the driver of the vehicle gave up. That’s when I let myself imagine… how might people respond to hearing this story?

Might we say, “Well, that man nearby shouldn’t have been yelling at her like that. But she also can’t just stay right there. What are we supposed to do? Not have the street cleaned?”

Sure, it’s important to have clean streets. Not saying I would want the opposite, including for the woman who is sleeping there. But I found myself wondering if we would emphasize the situation about an uncleaned street — “We couldn’t possibly have this situation” — above any reaction to the fact that a woman (and many others) are living on the street. How can we possibly have that situation?

This made me wonder how often I assume and normalize the presence of poverty and homelessness as if this is just a natural part of the landscape, forgetting that this is devastating and does not have to be the case. I know I do this too often.

How can we possibly continue to have this situation?

–Renee Roederer

Today is the 10th anniversary of the loss of David, one of the most significant people in my life. Over the last few years, I have shared some stories about him on this blog, like here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. (He’s a great person to spend time with, so you won’t regret re-reading any of those! And if it’s helpful to any of you, there are lots of reflections here from me about grief, loss, and an experience of continued love).

Over the last couple of weeks, there have been some days, and one in particular, where I felt great sadness as this larger date approached. Though this made complete sense (after all, I was reflecting very purposefully) the strength of the feeling took me by surprise a bit as well. But today, the 10th anniversary of the day he died, I’m not feeling particularly sad. I’m feeling grateful. I’m feeling connection. I find myself reflecting upon the impact of our relationship in the ten years that have followed this loss.

As I approached this anniversary, the date that hit me hardest this year was December 29. It’s a date I always mark in addition to this one. It’s the date of our last conversation together, one that was so lovely, and one that has sustained me for ten years now. These last words are on my mind and heart again as I begin this day, this time, not with sadness, but with gratitude. So I want to share them with you:

David had been in treatment for a rare, aggressive form of prostate cancer for nearly two years when he went into the hospital with pneumonia on December 29, 2008. Though we lived in Texas at that time, Ian and I happened to be in Southern Indiana on that date, where we both grew up and where David lived also. Sadly, this was also the date of Ian’s grandmother’s funeral. After finishing the funeral, we received a phone call that David had been admitted into the hospital. We were told that he needed treatment for pneumonia, but that after two weeks or so, he’d recover fully thanks to some heavy-duty medicine.

So Ian and I went over to the hospital. This was our last day in town; the next day, we would get in our trusty car and drive 22 hours all the way back to Texas. Unexpectedly, this was also the last day that David would be fully lucid. I’m so grateful we were able to be there.

When we arrived, he was still in the ER without a longer-term room, so we were told we could only have a few minutes with him and just two people at a time. Two people stepped out so that Ian and I could have that bit of time.

When we walked into the ER where he was lying in bed, David greeted us and then first made a funny, crude joke that I won’t even repeat here. His sense of humor was certainly intact! While I’m sure he wasn’t happy that he needed to be in the hospital, I think he was relatively hopeful and fully himself.

Then he began to take care of us. He asked about the funeral and took interest in how Ian’s family was doing. He also wanted to make sure we’d be okay for that long drive the next day. This was the bulk of our conversation in that makeshift hospital room.

But since we knew we couldn’t stay long, we also began to say goodbye. While I stood in that room, I assumed we’d make our drive back to Texas and that I’d talk to him the next day on the phone. But in that moment, we shared our last words together. This was such a sweet moment, and for years, I’ve felt grateful for it.

As we were ending our time together, I said,  “Do you know how much I love you?”

“How much do you love me?” he asked in reply.

“I love you so much that I am going spend the rest of my life loving you by loving everyone I encounter.” I said this playfully but also sincerely, genuinely more sweet than sappy. And at that, he just kind of gathered me to himself and kissed me on the forehead.

We stepped out of the room and said goodbye to the others who were there, and once I walked out of the hospital, something in my gut told me very clearly that I had just talked to David for the last time.

I was right. While in the hospital with a weakened immune system, David developed an infection from sepsis. He was not often lucid, but he pushed on for many days until he died on January 11, ten years ago today.

As I experience this anniversary today, and I as I consider those playful but sincerely loving words we shared, I can’t help but think about all the love that has come into my life over the last decade. Or to put it another way, and with language I remember David using once in a sermon (he was a Presbyterian minister), I think about all the Loves who have come into my life over the last decade. “God’s extravagances,” he called such Loves.

People come to mind. People with names. The kinds of people with whom I am now in life-long relationships. Whole communities come to mind too, people and places to whom I belong. These are God’s extravagances to me.

They’re also connected to him.

I’ve done a lot of reflection over these ten years, and I always come to this: The best way I’ve known to honor David Nelson Roth is to incarnate pieces of our relationship into all my relationships. And this happens all the time. This is also how I experience him as present. He shows up all the time.

I tell stories about him and quote him to others here and there. So sometimes, this connection is obvious. But most of the time, his way of living shows up in the ways that the many people behind these relationships — God’s extravagances — keep choosing one another. If I could have one more conversation with him, I know I would speak to him about these many relationships by name, along with what it has been like to choose one another.

I miss David, and I wish he were still here. I waited a long time to have someone like him in my life, and I lost him when I was still pretty young, hoping for many more years with him. But he was such a catalyst in my life and in ways that make his influence so actively present. The course of my life was altered and deeply enriched because he chose me. He chose to make me family.

In response, I chose a pathway — one that is so human, rich, imperfect, messy, and loving — to experience community and build our own family entirely by choice. Because of him, I have chosen and been chosen many times over.

He chose me for a lifetime of choosing. I haven’t loved perfectly — far from it, in fact — but in a very real way, I have truly loved him in my love of others. And I hope that somehow, he knows it.

–Renee Roederer

 

 

 

 

I’ve started reading this wonderful, new biography about Fred Rogers, entitled, The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers by Maxwell King. In particular, I love a story in this book which I’ve never heard before.

Once, an intern who was working on the Mister Rogers Neighborhood television show traveled with Fred Rogers to Boston. A very influential executive at the Boston public television station had invited them to dinner with the rest of his family. The executive arranged for a limousine to pick up Fred and the intern and bring them both to his home. Once the limousine arrived at the house, the driver asked what time he should return to pick them up again. But instead of sending him away until a later time, Fred Rogers just invited him to the dinner! And the wife of the television executive was completely caught off guard and bewildered by this.

Then after the dinner was over, Fred Rogers sat up front with the limo driver and spent time getting to know him. His name was Billy. After connecting so wonderfully, Billy invited Fred and the intern over to his parents’ house. While there, Fred played the piano and people from the neighborhood kept coming over and joining the spontaneous time together. And Fred and Billy stayed in touch. A few years later, Fred learned that Billy was in the hospital and dying, and he made a personal phone call to say goodbye.

Connection, friendship, and kinship can happen at any time. And I suppose if we want to live in a world where they transform us, we have to be willing to do the unexpected and upend the labels and class structures that divide us.

—Renee Roederer

This story is found on page 39 of The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers. It comes from an interview with Elaine Rogers Crozier, Fred Rogers’ sister.