Smuggling Grace

Last week, I happened to be out when I realized I needed a plastic fork. I had some leftover food that I wanted to eat, and since I didn’t have easy access to kitchens, I decided I needed to make a plan.

I noticed a coffee shop across the street. I thought I would wander in there, find something small to purchase, and additionally ask for a fork.

That’s what I did. I wandered inside, picked up a package of mini, chocolate-dipped sponge cakes, and I stood in the line. When it was my turn, the barista began to ring me up. That’s when I asked, “Oh, also, could I have a fork?”

“Yeah,” she said. She turned around, picked one up, and handed it to me. Suddenly, she realized I probably wasn’t going to eat this little snack with this little piece of cutlery. She realized I had come specifically for the fork.

“Oh, you know, you don’t have to buy this to have the fork. You can just have it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

I mean, for a moment, I thought about how good mini, chocolate-dipped sponge cakes are. I also thought about how I didn’t really need them in the moment. I just thought about needing the fork.

And here she was, just giving it to me. Such a simple thing.

How often do we assume that interactions have to be transactional in some way?

Of course, sometimes baristas and managers think this themselves.

But sometimes, folks can just give away a fork. And sometimes, with gratitude, we can receive it. And that’s enough.

–Renee Roederer

When we pulled into the driveway late last night, we had a laugh. “There they are! The dandelions!” we exclaimed while snickering. “It’s tradition!”

I resisted bursting into a certain song from Fiddler on the Roof, though I thought about it. Somehow, four years in a row, we’ve managed to be out of town the first week of May. And always — always — when we return home, we have an embarrassing amount of dandelions growing in our front yard. A couple of times in this four year period, we’ve returned home the second week of May, and then. . . Hooboy. I’ve always wondered if the lack of lawn care during our absence might have embarrassed our neighbors.

I’m not sure, but along with the absurd amount of dandelions, when we manage to come home at this time of year, we also see leaves for the first time! They’re just sprouting. And not only that: We are seeing the tulips in our backyard and the white blooms of bradford pear trees down the street. I’m sure there is more to discover throughout our town too (and on this 78 degree day. Yes!)

I’ll tell you, I’ve never appreciated spring to the degree I do now, and that is certainly linked to living in a space that favors a long, winter climate. Some of it is simply enjoying the warmer temperatures. But I love spring because you can see an obvious, visual expression of life claiming the space.

It’s a parable that writes itself.

And we need life to claim all kind of spaces — the anxiety, the grief, the hopelessness, the overwork, the boredom, the less-than-ness (internalized or wrongly proclaimed by others). We need this.

Dr. Michael Jinkins will soon retire as the President of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, but before he served there, he was Academic Dean of Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, where I studied. He was a great mentor and friend to me during those years. He used to say,

“You can’t really believe in resurrection.” He may have meant a couple of different things by this expression, but mostly, I think he was saying, while resurrection is something hoped for, it is hardly ever foreseen. In other words, resurrection is experienced and proclaimed more than believed. It’s hard to envision it beforehand; when life claims the space, it’s almost always a surprise.

Resurrection is hard to anticipate, especially in its specific forms. But when it comes, we experience it and proclaim it with a sense of wonder.

I hope we always have the wonder.

–Renee Roederer

Everything catalyzes everything.

Everything affects everything.

This, of course, is so obvious that it’s hardly worth being the topic of a blog post. But perhaps it’s obvious to the point that we could think about it more often. Maybe with some intention, we might feel greater hope too. Because….

What we do matters.

Now surely, some actions have bigger impacts than others. And when we move in directions we regret, we can always change course. After all, everything catalyzes everything, and our course correction shifts the whole. Even the recognition that we need a course correction had a catalyst. Something woke us up to that. And now the shift will have impacts too, creating space for new possibilities.

So back to this:

What we do matters.

We can trust that what we do – how we spend our time, how we speak, how we relate, how we create, how we care – it all matters.

Because it always initiates a sequence of effects, often well beyond what we might have imagined.

–Renee Roederer

I am afraid of a harmless thing.
It looks like it could creep,
or bounce,
or pounce,
or charge awkwardly with its considerable appendages.

But it does none of these.
It stays in place all day long,
content to rest in a single crevice,
or reside in clumps of countless others.

It wishes me no harm;
likewise, I wish it no hurt.
Unlike curious schoolchildren at recess,
I will not examine it,
or smash it,
or dash it,
or remove any of its legs.

But –
I will stand irrationally in fear.
I will freeze in the presence of a childhood phobia.
No matter the logic:
“It can’t bite you,”
“It can’t poison you,”
“It can’t jump on you,”
I will cringe with revulsion and anxiety.
I am afraid of a harmless thing.

It makes me wonder. . .

When
the word can’t enters our thinking, or
the word won’t enters our hoping, or
the word don’t enters our dreaming,
perhaps we fear something harmless too?

–Renee Roederer

Photo Credit: Mehran Moghtadai/Arad/Wikipedia

Have you ever felt loved in limitation?

I’m not talking about failure, though we certainly need love and grace when it comes to that.

I mean, limitation. I mean, receiving love precisely in the place that feels challenging. Accepted fully as you are. Cared for in the unique particularity of your being, including what may be difficult.

That’s when vulnerability and connection become very sacred. That’s when they become very transformative.

–Renee Roederer

Today’s post might involve an overly-specific reference unknown to you. But an invitation to learn the Buffyverse! You won’t regret it.

Yesterday, I wrote this short piece about how I regularly have the occasion to marvel at my former students. I’ve known some of them as long as 11 whole years, and they have become experts in so many areas of study and life. I wrote,

In a variety of contexts, over the last 11 years, I have been privileged to build community with and among college students. And among all the gifts of that, this is one of my very favorite aspects:

I have watched people grow from being teenagers to becoming legit experts concerning so many things.

In a combination of academic study, vocational work, and life experience, these folks I know are now experts in so many different areas. I learn a lot from them. Regularly, I bring my own curiosity questions to them. Occasionally, I facilitate information between them: “Oh, I know someone who would know that. I’ll ask!”

I love this.

I do love it!

In response to this piece, one of the people I’ve known the longest asked me yesterday, “What would you say you’re an expert in?”

I pondered that and said things like,

Kinship,
Community formation,
Development of people,
Development of relationships,
Coaching,
Care.

Then, later in the conversation, knowing she would get the reference, I said, “Basically, I’m a Watcher.”

She said, “YES! OMG, you so are.”

And I laughed. I loved her big reaction to this.

Because honestly, I think I kind of am. Demons and vampires aside (though are they?) what I do on a daily basis happens to look a whole heck of a lot like Rupert Giles — Watcher to Buffy Summers and the whole “Scooby Gang” in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

And you all,
This. Is. The. Best. Calling.

–Renee Roederer, The Watcher

 

In a variety of contexts, over the last 11 years, I have been privileged to build community with and among college students. And among all the gifts of that, this is one of my very favorite aspects:

I have watched people grow from being teenagers to becoming legit experts concerning so many things.

In a combination of academic study, vocational work, and life experience, these folks I know are now experts in so many different areas. I learn a lot from them. Regularly, I bring my own curiosity questions to them. Occasionally, I facilitate information between them: “Oh, I know some who would know that. I’ll ask!”

I love this.

–Renee Roederer

A joyful story:

My Kindergarten teacher has been on my mind this week. I haven’t talked to her in decades. But today, I found myself feeling gratitude for her and the role she played for me the year I was in her class.

Over the weekend, on a whim, I wondered, how would I go about finding her? I couldn’t even remember exactly how to spell her last name, and I wasn’t sure if she still lived in the area where I grew up.

So I sent a message to someone who was in that class with me. That friend said she thought her name had changed. That turned out to be true, but an hour later, my friend had found her on Facebook.

So I dared to send her a friend request. Will she remember me? She returned the request, but still, I thought, better to assume not.

I sent her a message, said who I was, and told her what year I was in her Kindergarten class. I thanked her for being such a wonderful teacher and such an important support for me that year. Then I realized via her Facebook that it’s HER BIRTHDAY. (How perfect!)

She responded right away. I was surprised and so touched that she totally remembered me, told me she’s wondered about me all these years, then immediately told me a bunch of things she loved about me as a kid. Specific stories I don’t even remember.

What a gift in both directions.

We have a lot to catch up on. And we will!

So here’s what I’ve been thinking:

If there’s someone who keeps popping in your mind, or a connection you suddenly find yourself desiring to make, there might really be something to it. A calling, even.

Definitely a joy.

–Renee Roederer

Have you ever left a City Council meeting, walked toward an elevator, read a sign that said “Staff Only,” pushed the button anyway, walked inside, watched the doors close, traveled down, then realized you’re completely stuck, then Tweeted your way out of it?

I have.

Move over, POTUS. I too can use Twitter for purposes for which it was never designed.

Yes, this really happened to me! Yes, it was embarrassing. And it has turned into a good story. (If you know me, surprise. I like that part).

Last month in Ann Arbor, I attended a very important City Council meeting. Despite some frustrating moments and comments, overall, the meeting moved in the direction we desired. This was certainly good news.

When that portion was over, I decided to leave. The meeting was still in session, and the City Council members had moved onto other business. So I decided to take the elevator down and walk back to my car. Now. . . which way did I come into the chambers. . .?

Here is a unique factoid about me: It’s mostly endearing, but on rare occasions, it can get in my way. That is, if I have things on my mind — especially if I’m anxious, but also, simply, if I’m pondering possibilities, as I was when I entered this City Council meeting — I don’t adequately pay attention to my surroundings.

In other words, when it was time to leave, I didn’t remember how I had come into the chambers. But never fear, here is an elevator! I remember coming up on an elevator!

It says, “Staff Only Elevator.”

“Surely, that means only during work hours,” I fatefully assume. “I mean, I came up on an elevator.”

I push the button, step inside, and choose the first floor.

I go down, and the doors swing open just as they should. But. . . I immediately recognize this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. Hmm. . . I suppose this was the wrong elevator after all. . . So I push the button, requesting that the doors open so I can head back upstairs and try a different way.

The doors indeed open.

I step inside.

The doors close.

And NOTHING.

That is, NOTHING HAPPENS. Because the doors are now irrevocably shut on the first floor, and no buttons are working. “Oh my goodness,” I realize, “This requires a badge.”

This just in: I have no badge.

I am the doof who stepped into a “Staff Only Elevator.”

I keep trying to push floor buttons to no avail. I see the red, EMERGENCY ONLY button, and with utter embarrassment, I begin to ponder what will happen if I push that. Will there be an alarm? Will I disrupt the City Council meeting that is still underway? Will emergency vehicles come? Will tomorrow’s MLive article talk about this very important vote, then mention that the rest of the business was cut short when a firetruck arrived to save a person who took the wrong elevator?

I imagine people saying to me compassionately, “Oh, you must not have seen the sign that said ‘Staff only.'” And I ponder the truth, wondering if I would ever dare to say it aloud:

“Well, actually, I did see it, but due to my very poor spacial reasoning skills, I didn’t adequately remember the direction from which I entered the chamber. I only remembered coming up on an elevator, and here was an elevator, so. . .”

All of this felt mortifying to me.

But!

That’s when I remembered Twitter.

You see, friends, this very foolish error aside, I have a strong skill. I am an outside-the-box thinker! I remember, there is an entire community of people that uses a Twitter hashtag to hash out City Council meetings. #A2CityCouncil will be my saving day!

So I dare to craft an embarrassing, necessary tweet. I say,

“Okay, so this is hella embarrassing because I took an elevator that was for employees only, and now I’m on the first floor with an elevator door that won’t open. Can someone go push the elevator button on floor two so it sends me back up? #A2council”

And yes, to my further embarrassment, but even more to the necessity, people start retweeting this foolishness. And it works. The community makes a plan to collectively save me from my error (and just a little less dramatically than an emergency button) . In fact, a particular human was chosen by the community-at-large to push that button and send me back to the land of the living.

He was on his way when. . . oh, my goodness, I hear someone! An employee (you know, actual staff) was cleaning and talking on her phone. I started pounding on the elevator doors in an attempt to be just loud enough without scaring her. And that worked too.

She pushes the button to open the door, and as soon as I tell her what happened, she laughs and laughs.

I tweet again that I am free.

I walk out of that place, quite aware that I will never take a “Staff Only Elevator” again. And I tell you this tale, so that you will never follow in my not-able-to-go-anywhere footsteps.

We have a City Council meeting tonight. And God bless it it all, I’m  going to pay attention to my entry point.

–Renee Roederer

Hello, Dear Friends,

I want to take a moment to thank you personally for following my writing on Smuggling Grace. Each week, I enjoy connecting with you here. I greatly appreciate the ways you add yourselves and initiate conversations within these pieces. Thank you so much.

Twice per year, I like to invite people to give a gift to support this work. Donations large and small allow me to keep writing free of charge, and that support also contributes toward the larger vision of what I am doing in Southeast Michigan as well.

If these pieces have been meaningful to you, and you are able to give, would you like to contribute? No gift is too small, and every bit is appreciated!

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Your presence is also a gift. Many thanks to you all!
Renee Roederer