Smuggling Grace

It’s still August, and I want to continue doing some storytelling throughout the month. As I think about that, I find myself pondering this… Sometimes, the small stories of our day carry a great deal of meaning. I’m learning to trust these and and more.

And by that, I mean that small, storied moments can carry us through when we’re looking for direction. They can give us sustenance when we’re experiencing a time of stress. Part of the trust involves expecting their arrival, even if you can’t predict which stories will show up.

Yesterday morning, I was finishing up my preparation for leading worship. All summer, I’ve been filling in at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor (this opportunity has been such a gift) as their pastor and my good friend is experiencing a well-deserved Sabbatical. Just before leaving the house, an idea popped into my mind, and I decided to follow it. On my way out the door, I put some paper and colored pencils in a bag.

I had prepared a sermon based on this beautiful text from Paul,

“But we were gentle among you, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply do we care for you that we were determined to share with you, not only the gospel of God, but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us.”
– 1 Thessalonians 2:7-8

We left some space during that sermon to voice aloud the names of people who have become very dear to us. People who have formed us… People whom we’ve participated in forming… as we’re all forming each other all the time.

But after voicing these names aloud, we had a time where we wrote down these names and placed them on the communion table. We made that table very messy with names! People turned the pages down, but you can see how many names were written, and with colored pencils strewn about too.

This is a small story that carries a lot of meaning.

–Renee Roederer  I’ll be writing about small stories all week!

I’ve been thinking a great deal about stories and have decided to tell some here during the month of August. It’s easy for us to recall stories that are especially hilarious or meaningful, but sometimes, the small stories sustain us in special ways.

Like last Saturday.

I was at the Ann Arbor Farmers Market, when I saw a student I know, working at one of the booths.

“Wanna paint me?” I heard.

“Okay!” I responded with some enthusiasm.

This student had a lot of face paint and wanted me to create whatever I’d like. I said, “I’m not a very good painter.”

“That’s okay,” the student responded. “You can make whatever you want. It’s just about connection and bonding.”

That was a sweet thing to say and a great way to frame it. So I painted, and we connected and bonded.

This is the joy of small stories.

–Renee Roederer

I was once in a band where no one played any instruments.

And I find this to be equal parts hilarious, precious, and ridiculous. Above all, I find this to be so middle school.

Well, to be exact, so junior high.

I didn’t go to a middle school. In the quirky-named town of Floyds Knobs, Indiana, our elementary schools went through 6th grade. This placed 7th and 8th graders together in the junior high, which was located in the same building as the high school, but separated enough so that we youngins wouldn’t be too bullied, intimidated, or enamored by our older counterparts.

We lived there in limbo between younger childhood and older adolescence. Just dorky and free. Just awkward and full of ridiculous dreams. Like starting a band when no one played any instruments.

We did this in all seriousness by the way. That’s what makes it equal parts hilarious, precious, and ridiculous. D and H, two of my closest friends, and I joined together in the hopes of starting a band, writing our own music, and really becoming great.

Are you ready for our band name?

Because it’s also pretty ridiculous.

Our band’s name was just one, single word….

Wretch.

Yes. We were Wretch — not a cover band, mind you, but a band that wrote its own stuff. And true, none of us knew how to play any instruments… But we would! We would learn! In fact, we even chose assignments. D would play drums, H would play rhythm guitar, and I would play the bass. H and I would split the vocals.

We were so earnest about this.

Oh, also, none of us had money to buy these instruments… But we would! We would find a way!

Instead, for six months to a year — I don’t remember the timing, exactly — Wretch wrote song lyrics. That is something we actually did do. In the evenings, the three of us would write them individually in our own respective houses, then hand them to each other in class or while passing each other in the hallways.

And none of these songs had actual melodies. We would wait to write those when we could play the instruments. I mean, first things first, right?

But why not go ahead and write down lyrical masterpieces? Why not pen a prolific number of songs as potent and powerful as Renee’s own creations, such as the goofy, nonsense song entitled, “Cumulus Cloud” or the remarkably emo classic entitled, “Freak”? (I still have these along with many others. They’re in a folder in storage. I’m not telling you where.)

I suppose at some point, this absurd dream of ours just faded. Only a mere couple of years later, we could laugh hard about our go-nowhere, no-music, barely-teenage, only-song-lyrics band.

But for a while, that dream was alive.

And forever and always, that dream will whisper our name.

Wretch.

–Renee Roederer

What sorts of things do little kids brag about on the elementary school playground?

“I can jump off of this swing!”

“If I race you to that pole, I bet I’ll win!”

“My Mom gave me stickers!”

“I have Lunchables in my lunchbox today!” (Those were so cool in my elementary years).

But me? Well…

“I’m Abraham Lincoln’s 8th cousin!”

Yeah, that was different. And also a bit over-specific. But it’s true. I am. I actually am Abraham Lincoln’s 8th cousin.

This was a point of pride among the Fosters. It came mostly from my Grandfather Jim Foster, who was Abe’s 6th cousin (Ooh! Even closer!) Papaw Jim was an orphan (there’s a very sad story there) and I think this knowledge served as a source of satisfaction that he came from someone as great as a President. I actually had no idea about my ethnicity or family tree until I did 23andMe this year. If any of my relatives knew about these, they never shared them with me. But Abe? Oh yeah, we’ve got that one, single family tree branch that goes straight to him. I also trust that it’s legit.

So standing on the playground in 1st grade, I thought I would assert my special belonging as well.

“I’m Abraham Lincoln’s 8th cousin.”

But no one would let me inhabit this truth about myself or let me have this satisfaction. Oh, 1st graders and their pre-operational thinking! (See Piaget) They could only say the exact same sentence to me over and over. And they believed what they were saying!

“Nuh uh, cause you’d be dead.”

But you all… I’m right here.

I just kept thinking, “I don’t think you all know how cousins or time work.” I didn’t say this, of course. I was just a little sad that they didn’t believe me. And that I didn’t get my own, specific-to-me bragging rights.

Well, earlier this week, the gloatiest President of all time tweeted (because, of course he did…) that his approval ratings among Republicans are higher than any President in history, including “honest Abe.” Of course, there were no approval polls during the lifetime of Abraham Lincoln.

But most of all, I’m pleased to tell you that when an informal Jimmy Kimmel poll asked people, “Who’s the better President? Lincoln or Trump?” our playground Bragger in Chief was trounced. And by whom?

MY 8TH COUSIN, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Hooyeah.

With fervent bragging,
–Renee Roederer

 

This is one of my favorite questions to ask people:

What is something you learned incorrectly as a child but only realized well into your adulthood?

This is a fantastic question! It leads to stories that are very dear and often, quite hilarious. Some people talk about words they mispronounced for decades, only revealed, of course, when they blurted them aloud in a group setting. Others talk about illogical beliefs they internalized as kids which emerged unexpectedly in their minds years later (or were also voiced aloud!) These come as a total surprise because people hadn’t even thought about the topic, let alone questioned their young belief, until that very moment.

This American Life has an entire episode of stories like these. My favorite involves a moment when a college student approached other college students at a campus party and asked the question, “So… are unicorns just really rare, or did they go entirely extinct?”

Hysterical. Totally embarrassing. But also so dear. I love it!

With all of this in mind, I will now admit that I have an embarrassment of riches of stories like these from my own life. And lucky for you, I am enough of an extroverted, like-to-tease-myself, like-to-share-stories-with-others human to put one of them into writing right here.

My favorite personal story of this kind involves the nine year window when I didn’t believe in reindeer.

Yes, you heard that correctly.

Now I hope this doesn’t come as a total surprise or crush anyone’s dreams, but when I was eight years old, I learned the sad truth that Santa wasn’t real. (Are you okay? I hope so). In the moment of this revelation, I was pretty of devastated. I was also deeply concerned that I wouldn’t get presents anymore.

So in the midst of my sadness, I resigned myself to reality. So much so, in fact, that I just kind of… over-steered. I just assumed… that… reindeer weren’t real either.

I mean, come on. They fly! Flying reindeer? No way.

At least there was some sort of evidence of Santa’s existence. Gifts showed up annually, so there was something tangible to associate with him. Plus, I saw him in all the malls!

But once I knew the sad truth, how could I possibly believe in flying, antlered caribou? Reindeer quickly went the way of the unicorn. (Ahem… not extinct. Non-existent).

That is, until… I was 17 years old. That is, until… I was flipping through the channels and saw a nature documentary on my television set.

A British accented, David Attenbourough wannabe voiced commentary as creatures walked around in the snow, plunging their faces into the frigid stuff, attempting to nibble on frozen grasses. “The reindeer are in the tundra,” the David Attenbourough wannabe said in all his formal tones.

And I started laughing. Laughing! “The reindeer! In the tundra! Yeah…”

But then, my laughing stopped abruptly, and my mouth gaped open. As I sat alone in the living room of my childhood home, in my last year before legal adulthood, a recognition completely washed over me. It dawned on me — at age 17 — that reindeer are REAL.

I had indeed over-steered. The reindeer had been in the tundra this whole time.

This whole time.

–Renee Roederer

I heard a short podcast episode this week that I’d like to pass onto you.

It’s just 11 minutes along. While listening, I think I was beaming most of the time. Without reducing either into a simple box or definition, this episode really uplifts the great gifts of young adulthood and the relational practice of eldering.

It’s a short interview with Krista Tippett from On Being. On Being has started a segment called “Living the Questions” where listeners ask questions of Krista, and she gives her own thoughts and perspectives. This episode starts with this question:

“Where do we allow space for young people to access and articulate their sense of power and purpose, their vulnerability and their courage?”

Good question.

Krista Tippett begins by talking about her own childhood, teenage years, and young adulthood. She then mentions some of the particular forms of wisdom that come with various stages of life. She believes we can share these very intentionally in cross-generational relationships.

I want to lift just a couple of quotes:

“. . . if I think back to myself at those ages, of being a teenager and of being a young adult, is at the same time that, in some ways you know you still have everything to learn and everything to experience, and you can feel so frustrated by what you don’t yet know and haven’t yet done and don’t yet know if you can — you have this sense of urgency. I really think of this as the wisdom of young adulthood and of the teenage years, you have this sense of urgency about what is possible. You have this real curiosity about the big, soaring questions, and what it’s all about, and what your life might all be about. You can see the world whole, and you want to make that real. And I think that that urgency of a person at this stage of life is a real gift to the world.”

and

“That’s one of the things that flows into my passion, these days, about eldering and about cross-generational relationship, because that urgency is fierce, but it’s also fragile. And I really think it needs to be accompanied to stay alive, to stay confident in itself. But also, when you are bringing that particular gift to the world, it hurts. That urgency hurts. It’s painful, in kind of an exquisite way, to be able to see the world whole, to long for so much, for so much to be possible. So, to have people in your life who can honor that and accompany it, and not give you a reality check — that’s not what we want from our elders, although we may sometimes want counsel — but actually just embody — I do feel like this is also true of parenting. When your kids are in these aching places of just being human, one of the things that feels natural is to want to be in it with them, to feel their pain. Your child, your teenager is awake all night, you’re awake all night. And it’s not that I am really good at disconnecting, but at some point I understood that what a parent or an elder can offer a younger person is to embody, just physically embody the fact that there is life beyond this moment, that there is calm and groundedness to be found, that one aspires one day to bring together and integrate, also, with the fierceness and passion you have and longings you have and to embody that reality — to temper that really valuable impatience of youth with a lived experience that patience also has its place. Not that the two cancel each other out, but that they can walk together.”

I love all of this. I have also found it to be true.

As I think about the upcoming academic year in Ann Arbor, I am all-in for this kind of vision. That’s not entirely new, of course; for a long while, this is what has most called me most over time. But there are moments when we feel as though we are readying to practice it more deeply, more intentionally.

I’m all about that. And beaming.

Have a listen.

–Renee Roederer

As I shared recently, I’ve started doing improv with a local group. (It’s so much fun!)

This week, we played an improv game where a person tells a real life story…

Then the group initiates three scenes, loosely inspired by that story…

The first person then tells another real life story, loosely inspired by those scenes…

Then three more scenes….

Then one final, real life story…

Then three more scenes.

That’s the cycle. When we played the game, I got to be the storyteller. I told three, true stories — three funny moments that have happened over the years with others. Some of these stories are the kinds that invite people to respond, “You couldn’t make that up!” I loved delivering these stories in the moment.

I’ve played a similar role in the group multiple times now, telling stories just like this. This time, after the entire improv night was over, one of the participants said to me:

“How do you have so many stories? How did all these things happen to you?”

In response to these questions, I just beamed. This was a wonderful surprise because these are the exact questions people used to ask my very formative, surrogate father David. “How do you have so many stories? How did all these things happen to you?”

Here I was, hearing the exact same questions asked of me.

Sometimes, life rhymes a bit. And I just reveled in that connection.

—Renee Roederer

My friend sent me this surprise gift in the mail last weekend. As you all likely know, I really love Fred Rogers, and I look forward to reading this book. I was so grateful to receive it.

Alongside that, I also found myself pondering the gift of being cared for… the surprise of receiving… Just wonderful. That is a really incredible gift and something I never want to take lightly.

We never know how simply thinking of a person, then letting them know, impacts their day or fuller direction.

I really believe this to be true:

Moments of care and connection — even small ones — can be so transformative. These gifts of care and connection help us endure in times of stress and struggle. And they help us thrive in times of energy. I don’t think we should ever underestimate them!

So when people pop into our minds, maybe with gratitude, or maybe as we remember a need they’re facing, let’s reach out. Let’s say we’re thinking of them. Let’s add the affirmation we noticed. Let’s help people feel seen in times of loss or challenge.

This really changes things.

–Renee Roederer

Last night, I performed a comedy set at Pointless Brewery and Theatre. If you’d like to watch, there’s a video right here.

It’s silly!

Image Description: A busy street intersection with crosswalks, street lights, buildings, and pedestrians.

I find Frederick Buechner to be an especially quotable author. He just has so many good things to say, and over the years, I’ve passed on a lot of his words to people. In particular, I’ve shared this quote with a lot of college students who are doing vocational discernment:

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

This is a statement that is helpful to college students and young adults who are pondering vocation and calling. But also, whatever our age, we’re continually discerning these things all the time. Perhaps this framing is particularly important in this moment we’re living, this consideration of where deep gladness and deep need meet.

The needs and injustices around us are enormous, and we may be grappling with seeing them in new ways, or even for the first time. Immigration… Hunger… Police brutality… Voter suppression… Environmental devastation… Late-stage capitalism… Racism… Sexism… Transphobia… And now, COVID-19…

This is a good time to ask questions like,

What is my best skill, gift, or calling?
How am I using that for a sense of the common good?
How might I do that?

We need everyone using their best skills, gifts, and callings in the direction of these large, systemic challenges.

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Where might that intersection be for you?
What could it look like in practice?
Is there anything we need to clear out of the way to actually do it?

–Renee Roederer

This quote from Frederick Buechner comes originally from his book Wishful Thinking.