Smuggling Grace

“Mom — Grandma! Look!”

This is the phrase I heard so many times while I was recently in Kroger. A young girl — maybe 8 or so — kept requesting her Grandma’s attention. She kept accidentally calling her Mom but then correcting herself.

“Mom — Grandma! Look!”

Then Grandma would look, and she did so with affection every single time. And that’s when the little girl would break into song. I wonder what sort of personal connection they had to this song. It was known to just about everyone in the store, but it seemed to have particular meaning to them.

“Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!”

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl opens the ice freezer. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” They laugh.

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl picks up a grocery bag and starts marching. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” Grandma sings too.

“Mom – Grandma! Look!” The girl turns around in place. “Oh, when the saints! Go marching in! Oh, when the saints go marching in!” People are watching them interact, but the girl mostly just notices her Grandma.

Over and over again, she is expressing a need to be seen, and Grandma is seeing with affection. This is such a profound, human need.

Certainly, we don’t all shout “Lookit!” and break into song in the grocery store, but that being said, I don’t think we ever outgrow this need to see and be seen. It is a joy to recognize the moments when we are held in a loved one’s vision, and it is a joy to see loved ones with the same kind of affection and connection.

I don’t typically do New Year’s Resolutions, and yet, I find myself resolving to this: I want to have a year with vision and connection. I don’t want to see past people. Instead, I want to joyfully see people — in their discoveries, in their element, in their vulnerability (when invited), and in their own joys. And I want to be seen in these ways too.

A year of seeing and being seen.

“Lookit!”

– Renee Roederer

 

 

This sermon was preached at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan and is based on Luke 2:22-40.

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had finished everything required by the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.

–Renee Roederer

We carry time within us.

Sometimes, a simple smell, sound, or sight can transport us to another time –
a time long ago,
but a time we still carry within ourselves.

Somehow, the present moment can bring the past right into focus. In the midst of this, we feel connections to previous moments and people who were a part of them. We even experience this in our bodies. The past makes itself known in our feelings and physical sensations.

All of this is true
in our very best memories and connections,
in our relationship to grief and loss, and
in our experiences of trauma.

Time travels so easily because we carry time within us. This is part of being human.

But we are not solely passive agents in the midst of this. We can make some choices about how we bring time to ourselves. We can build connections between moments, and these connections can give us ahas of insight. We can make space to feel our emotions. We can honor people who have died. We can allow time to speak to us and make new meaning for the present.

And

We can be a Mediator. We can facilitate communication between past and present — toward healing, toward insight, toward laughter, toward joy.

When the past brings meaningful memories and connections, we can invite these to speak directly to anything we especially need right now.

And when eras of challenge or pain suddenly snap into focus, we can mediate
the best of our current experiences,
the best of our wisdom, and
the best of our nurture
straight toward the version of ourselves that lived in another time.

Then speaks to Now,
Now speaks to Then,
Older and younger versions of ourselves are in communion.

We are in relationship with ourselves, connected to a myriad of people and moments.

And from that awareness, the mediation of time doesn’t have to be heavy or deeply serious. It can also be playful. It can certainly be life-giving.

So. . . shall we try it a bit?

–Renee Roederer

 

We internalize voices of people —
people near, people far,
people recent, people long past,
people who affirmed, people who criticized.

Sometimes, we carry these voices around for a long time.

Who is telling you about you recently? In your own mind, whose voices are chiming up? If we could see a pie chart, what percentage of time and space do those voices take up in our thinking? In our processing? In our feelings? In our beliefs about what is possible?

This may be something to consider, because I know that in many cases, we privilege the most critical voices, at times, even the ones who were completely wrong in their criticisms.

Maybe we need to turn this completely in the opposite direction. How can we privilege the voices of those who gave affirmation? Those who challenged us because they believed in us? Those who opened up our perspectives on the world? Those who helped us find a calling larger than ourselves? Those who loved us no matter what? Those who created space for us to be ourselves – including opportunities to try things and fail, and get back up again?

Though we are each one person, we are made of these many parts. As we negotiate these, in a real sense, we are in relationship with ourselves. So how do we integrate the best voices into our own internal voice?

It’s good to give these more airtime.

– Renee Roederer

When you’re an astronomy family, as we are (my partner is an astronomer), you move around a lot, at least in the first eight to ten years. If astronomers are studying to stay in academia, they typically do a Ph.D., then two post-doctoral positions before moving on to a more permanent placement. Ian finished all of these a while back, but as is typical, we followed that moving trajectory. We’ve lived in three states together.

Eight years ago, we were transitioning out of Austin, Texas toward what was next, and for a brief window, we had two completely different possibilities before us. There were two offers to two positions in two different states. During that time, I remember having an intriguing thought:

There is probably some core part of myself that will be the same no matter if we choose State 1 or State 2. But once we’ve finished that experience, and it’s time to leave, other parts of me will probably be different depending on whether we’ve chosen State 1 or State 2. The people we meet and the experiences we’ll have will somehow make us more particular. State 1 Renee and State 2 Renee will be somewhat different from one another.

Of course, we weren’t going to move to both places, so I could never know this for sure. But it was an interesting thought exercise because deep down, I think that’s true. There are core parts of ourselves that ring true to who we are matter where we go. But throughout our lives, we become much of who we are in and through our relationships. The people we know particularize us in a sense — not making us less who we are, but making us more of who we are.

We come to know ourselves in relationships, and the experiences we have in those relationships shape the trajectory of our lives. How we choose vocations, partners, friends. . . How we develop a life philosophy. . . How we build families. . . How we root ourselves in a sense of place.  Relationships particularize us, making our lives more specifically what they become. In this process, we become more uniquely ourselves.

– Renee Roederer

[The Old Woman Who Lived in a Show, image from Artisan Landscape]

“What if you think of it this way?” she said.

Sometimes, we can shift a situation simply by reframing it.

Years ago, a friend of mine was feeling sad, frustrated, and angry. Then, as we sometimes do, she began to turn those feelings inward, feeling sad, frustrated, and angry with herself for having such feelings in the first place. In the midst of that, she had a conversation with someone pretty wise. That person said,

“Imagine you’re a grandmother, and you have so very many grandchildren. In fact, you have more grandchildren than you can count, and maybe they’re running around all over the place. It probably feels pretty disorienting. Frustrated though you are, you’re a loving grandmother, so rather than lashing out at all these grandchildren, you approach them one at a time, and you try to figure out why each one is acting up. These grandchildren are your feelings. Maybe they have some things to tell you. What if you approach them one by one and ask them they need?

“Maybe you say, ‘Honey, you can’t run around like this, and you can’t hit your sister feeling over the head. But come here. Can you tell me why you’re frustrated? Can you tell me why you’re feeling so sad? I’m listening to you.’

“Then listen to yourself. Really listen. Mirror back what you hear. ‘Oh, I hear that you’re scared. Yeah, that can feel scary.’ Then say, ‘I’m here.’ And give these grandchildren what they need — love, reassurance, and confidence that you’re going to be present and that you’ll protect them.”

This was a wise reframing.

Sometimes, we especially need to remember that we are in relationship with ourselves. Entering that recognition more deeply, we can have important insights and grow. None of us is uniform or monolithic. We have parts, and sometimes, some parts of ourselves need to be heard by other parts. We can have internal dialogue. No need for shame spirals. We can hear ourselves with loving intention.

So if it’s helpful, I offer this reframing: You too can be that grandmother.

–Renee Roederer

The Guesthouse

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Jellaludin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks

Fred Rogers closed every episode of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood with the same statement:

You make each day a special day. You know how, by just your being you. There’s only one person in this whole world like you.

He said this daily with emphasis and intention. Occasionally, he said it with playfulness. He always meant it, and young children across the United States internalized this message inside themselves. They came to believe it. Very likely, many came to memorize it, and in anticipation, they said it along with him, either aloud or inside their own minds.

You make each day a special day. You know how, by just your being you. There’s only one person in this whole world like you.

This was a litany of sorts. A daily recitation.

We might also call it liturgy.

Liturgy literally means, “Work of the people” — sacred words voiced, shared, and enacted. Perhaps in these days, we need to voice, share, and enact the convictions behind this daily statement.

You make each day a special day. You know how, by just your being you. There’s only one person in this whole world like you.

And maybe part of our work as a people is to internalize these words inside ourselves as well.

After all, I notice one intriguing word in this daily liturgy. It’s the word your. Fred Rogers could have easily said, “You make each day special. You know how, by just being you.” But instead, he added the word your. “You know how, by just your being you.” His phrasing is actually a bit more clunky than it has to be.

But it’s also important. We are invited to know our specialness, worth, and value as ours. We are encouraged to be in relationship with ourselves — “being you” — knowing that even in our days of doubt, we are worth loving. We can live in conversation with this reality, recognizing when we are living in alignment with its values and when we have temporarily acted outside of them. We can always return.

And this isn’t ego, a way of setting ourselves against others or above others. It is a reality we live in relationship with others. So we hear and speak it again in relationship:

You make each day a special day. You know how, by just your being you. There’s only one person in this whole world like you.

And we come to make it ours.

–Renee Roederer

Of all the narratives in the Bible, I find myself frequently returning to a story that is only three verses long:

But standing by the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.  When Jesus saw his mother, and the disciple whom he loved standing near, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home. (John 19:25-27)

Many years ago, I heard this passage during a Good Friday service, and for some reason in that particular moment, this vignette from the cross completely convicted and invigorated me. It is a reminder that the words of scripture can always become more than mere words on a page. Read in community, they can take on life in very particular ways – we might even say Incarnational ways, as they become infused with meaning.

That’s what happened to me that night. In that moment, I encountered this story of Jesus giving his Disciple and his Mother in Kinship to one another, and suddenly, I began to recall all the people to whom I had been given. Over and over again, this had been true. Particular people with names and faces. . . particular experiences and stories. . . particular affections and expressions of belonging. . . particular ways of building relational language and naming the beauty of our connections.

Over and over again. . .

And since that night, this has continued to happen over and over again. . .

This is sheer gift. We are given to one another — not in a possessive sense, but in giftedness itself. At times, this might come as a surprise. Like the original story, these connections can be born in times of suffering, In such moments, we add comfort and commitment to one another. At other times, they can be born of joy. We discover we have connections deeper than we previously imagined.

And we can marvel about this.

In fact, that’s what happens in this narrative. Jesus gives his Disciple and his Mother toward commitment, but he also gives them toward marveling.

Idou.
That’s the word.

Behold.

See each other and marvel.

Idou.
That’s the Greek word of the original text.

Idou.
Behold!
See
with
depth, and
meaning, and
wonderment.

Behold, you belong to one another.
Mother and Son,
You and Me,
All of Us.

We too have been given to one another for this kind of commitment and this kind of wonder.

Idou.

What if we take some moments, in person or even in our imagination, to allow ourselves to see this giftedness once more, entering an invitation anew to behold and see one another — truly, in the giftedness that is present, real, and alive?

Idou.
Marvel.

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to check out the other pieces too:

Kinship: Open Wide the Circle
Kinship: The Myriad of Entry Points
Kinship: “We share the same soul”
Kinship: Our Language for Family is Too Limited

 

My cousin Cody is one of my very best friends. Recently, he told a work colleague that he and I end up texting or calling each other almost every day, and this person was authentically surprised that two cousins would be so close.

Then last week, in a conversation with someone, I accidentally called Cody my brother. I admit it kind of surprised me. It’s not like I mixed him up with another brother. I’m an only child and have never had siblings. Perhaps unconsciously within me, there was a desire to use a word that would more adequately signal the reality of how close we are. ‘Cousin’ is factual, but in that moment, it wouldn’t have signaled that. Cody very much feels like the brother I never had.

But in addition to these particular moments, Cody and I have had a lot of conversations lately about the ways that family language can be limiting. Specifically, in addition to our families of birth, how do we come to talk about people who have become family to us? What language do we use to adequately express those relationships? ‘Friend’ may be factual, but so often, it falls short completely. How do we talk about these beloved people in ways that aren’t confusing or limiting, while adequately signalling how these relationships function in our lives?

As an example, how do we talk about the myriad of ways we build our families? Cody and I were recently talking about parenting and family formation, and he said to me, “So there’s birth, there’s adoption, and there’s. . . what you do. What do you call that, Renee?”

“EXACTLY!” is all I could exclaim. What is it that I do. . .? Or more accurately, what is it that I have experienced and continue to co-create alongside others? What do I call that? For instance, over the last decade, I have come into relationship with about twenty young adults with whom I have made lifetime commitments. We have become family to one another. These relationships haven’t displaced our families of birth, but they have richly added to them. How do we talk about this when the language of connection often falls short? How do we all talk about the variety of pathways toward family formation, when our culture tends to create some sort of hierarchy of who gets to be ‘real family,’ and who doesn’t?

The limitation of language can lead to real challenges too. I can tell you this first-hand: Alongside my family of birth, for whom I give thanks, I have additionally had parents who aren’t literally my parents, siblings who aren’t literally my siblings, and children who aren’t literally my children. And when these relationships have had needs — specifically, when I have needed to signal to the broader community that these relationships have needs, or that I have needs in connection to theirs — the limitation of language has become a serious challenge. For instance, what happens when these kinds of loved ones go through a crisis? Or a serious illness? What happens when one of these loved ones dies?

Often, an unconscious cultural hierarchy comes into play. People don’t always naturally respond in ways that are adequate to the connection. Somehow, words like “Mom,” “Dad,” “Brother,” “Sister,” “Son,” and “Daughter” serve to mark significance publicly, and people know what to do with these. But when language falls short for other kinds of familial relationships, people downplay their significance, usually unintentionally.

I have experienced this, including 9 years ago, when I lost a parent-who-wasn’t-literally-my-parent to cancer. There was a lot of work involved in helping people to understand my grief. Sometimes, I just wanted to be able to voice a familial marker. That’s all it would have taken to help people understand.

So all of this is to say. . . I think we need deeper and richer language for family. For Kinship. It’s less about specific terms and more about expanding our language to make space for what’s real in our lives. I long for a language rich enough to adequately describe my Family-of-Choice — a language that is particular enough and a language that is expansive and inclusive enough.

I don’t know how to do this exactly, but I find myself wanting to do some serious writing about Kinship in these ways. I’m certainly not alone in these experiences. And if lots of us have these experiences, why not have a better language to match them?

–Renee Roederer

This post is a part of a series this week. Feel free to check out the other pieces as well:

Kinship: Open Wide the Circle
Kinship: The Myriad of Entry Points
Kinship: “We share one soul”

Jia and Zuri say they are twins. In fact, they tell everyone. They are four years old and go to the same preschool. They are remarkably close and sometimes assert their unique relationship by choosing to wear matching clothes.

Jia is white, and Zuri is black.

When folks ask them what makes people twins, the girls say, “Similarities.” They talk about how they are more than just sisters — certainly more than best friends. Their birthdays are close together, and they are the same height. They like the same things.

Recently, at a birthday party, another child told them they can’t be twins because of their different skin colors. Jia began to cry, but then, she responded with this statement: “We’re twins because we share the same soul.”

This is so beautiful.

It may also feel precarious. It is easy to wonder how society might deny these girls their connection, and worse, over time, treat them differently based on race.

But they demonstrate a deep connection that sustains them. They assert a vision for that connection with familial language. Why do we insist that things must be literally true, when they are in fact truer than true?

This is Kinship.

These two share one soul. I wonder what we could learn from them.

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to check out the other pieces as well:

Kinship: Open Wide the Circle
Kinship: The Myriad of Entry Points
Kinship: Our Language for Family is Too Limited