Smuggling Grace

Tiny Horses. Enjoy.

During the final weeks of April, I always make a point to bike to a house not far from mine. “This is the daffodiliest house,” I often say. It’s true. During this time of year, every part of the yard is filled with daffodils. It’s beautiful.

My daily bike rides frequently take me past this house. The yard is still filled with plants and flowers, but now, in June, they are a different variety. It’s not as though the homeowner uprooted the old plants to make room for new ones. Everything in this yard is perennial. There isn’t room for all of them to bloom at once, but bit by bit, they all get their time. And each will also return.

Our communities are like that, too. We can share leadership, take turns, celebrate each other, and make room for everyone to grow.

— 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

Last Saturday, my Mom had a blast. She attended the 33rd Metro Detroit Stroll for Epilepsy™ at the Detroit Zoo, hosted by the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. She took great pleasure in snapping photos of teams that were present — some in purple shirts and others in full costume. And then, of course, she asked someone to snap a photo of her with the Stormtroopers that were there. They had the ability to make a blast, too, but of a different sort.

This gathering is so special. Through this event (and afterward), the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan seeks to raise $198,000. Every dollar funds our mission and vision and ensures that no one faces epilepsy alone.

With this in mind, I’d like to share an excerpt from the book I’m currently writing. Beheld: A Spirituality of Kinship focuses on themes of connection, solidarity, and choice-of-one-another in community, and Part 1 concludes with a story from the Stroll.

And as I prepare to share that, I also want to offer an invitation: As you know, there is a great deal of economic turmoil right now, and along with it, uncertainty about how nonprofits will be impacted. We are in a strong position currently and just as committed as ever to this mission. But for all of these reasons, we could really use your help.

Would you like to get us over the finish line of that $198,000? Would you like to donate?

Beheld: A Spirituality of Kinship — The completion of Part 1

When we are embraced by choice, we are invited into a way of life. We become empowered to choose one another more freely and fully. Our intentions, actions, and commitments — our sacred acts of choosing — become spiritual practices. In these ways, we help to dismantle the barriers between us, whether cultural or self-imposed.

I am privileged to belong to a community that grounds me continually in these commitments. I lived with epilepsy in childhood, and today I serve as a staff member at the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. In this role, I’m honored to accompany people living with epilepsy, along with their family members and friends.

I have witnessed heartache as people navigate life changes and loss. I have watched people come alive in advocacy. I have listened as individuals voice their personal stories with vulnerability and bravery, and I have marveled at their resilience. I have celebrated with community members as they shed stigma and internalized ableism and step into strength, belonging, and empowerment. It is a gift to be invited into these relationships, and it is an honor to be shaped by them.

One in twenty-six people will be diagnosed with epilepsy at some point in their lifetime, making it more common than many realize.[1] Yet because of long histories of misunderstanding and suspicion, people with epilepsy have often been marginalized. While medicine and public awareness have advanced immensely and continue to improve, our collective history, both in this country and around the world, includes devastating chapters of institutionalization, forced sterilization, exclusion from schools and community spaces, and laws that once restricted marriage and employment. Our community has made vital strides in securing legal rights. And yet, the echoes of that history still linger, contributing to misunderstanding and discrimination today.

For all these reasons, a powerful shift occurs every time people with epilepsy move from isolation into shared kinship. Within our Epilepsy Foundation network, we joyfully proclaim a collective vision that no one faces epilepsy alone. I’ve had the great privilege of witnessing the transformation that unfolds when people feel supported and are then empowered to extend their own care to the wider community.

The Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan serves the entire geographical region of Michigan, and many of our community members cannot drive due to their epilepsy. For both reasons, we often provide programming and support groups virtually, so people can participate over distance.

But geographical distance does not deter people from developing deep bonds of kinship. Often, despite never meeting physically in person, community members connect for years over Zoom meetings and connectional phone calls. I remember two women who met in a virtual support group and then began watching movies in sync while talking over the phone. I recall a couple of community members who developed a friendship across distance and then traveled to each other to go grocery shopping together with their remaining SNAP benefits. A virtual friendship turned into a real-life visit when one woman asked her husband to drive her across several counties so she could help her friend fix an appliance. Weekly, in addition to bonding over epilepsy, one of our support groups – this one, all women – also connects through their love of the Detroit Tigers. These friendships are strong, even without shared, physical space. Then, when there are occasions to meet in person, it can feel like coming home to someone you’ve never met face to face.

Each year, we hold the Metro Detroit Stroll for Epilepsy™ at the Detroit Zoo, and approximately 2,000 people gather to honor and celebrate the epilepsy community. This event is our largest fundraiser, making it possible to offer nearly all our programming at no cost. But beyond the fundraising efforts, this event feels like a family reunion. There is a palpable sense that each person is among “my people.” Individuals from all walks of life come together, representing a wide range of stories, identities, and zip codes, but there is a shared sense of kinship and celebration. An individual or family can arrive at this event and feel in their bones, perhaps for the first time, that epilepsy does not have to be a marker of isolation, discrimination, or hopelessness. It can become the gathering center for a community of dignity, worth, and pride.

And so, I close with a memory from the Stroll that embodies this kinship.

I stood behind a table, ready to welcome participants and share the spread of flyers highlighting the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan’s programs and services. From my vantage point, I had a lovely view.

In front of me, I saw many people visiting booths, enjoying snacks, and greeting one another. Many were wearing purple, the color of epilepsy awareness. Some were decked out in creative costumes or wore identical t-shirts designed to celebrate their Stroll teams. Children were plastered with face paint, and the DJ played music with a beat. Costumed characters were mingling with the crowd — some swishing light sabers in Star Wars costumes, and others dancing joyfully as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It was quite a scene.

But within a crowd, there are always people with names, and there are relationships that have history. Amid the bustle, I spotted two people I know very well. They weren’t side by side, but unbeknownst to them, they were in the same vicinity. They had never shared the same physical space before. Week after week, they participated in the same virtual support group, not even by video — but by phone. Most of our support groups migrated to Zoom during the Covid-19 pandemic, but that original support group used a conference call line. And they liked it that way.

So I moved from behind my table, and gesturing them together, I called out with joy,

“Steven! This is Allison!”[2]
 
I watched Steven practically run to Allison. He scooped her into an embrace, and they had a long hug of recognition. For about 40 seconds, they just held each other in gratitude for their friendship. Behind that hug were stories of resilience from moments when they feared they wouldn’t make it through. But they did, and in that hug, they knew it. One friend towering tall; another friend, petite, using a wheelchair. Epilepsy was no longer a dividing wall, a reality of barriers, or an occasion to shrink in fear.

Knit together in a community shaped by countless acts of choosing — saying yes, beholding, marveling — they had practiced solidarity with one another in times of joy and sorrow. They embodied what kinship looks like in action. And in their embrace, they bring us home to that very question:

Won’t you choose that which is choosing you?

---

[1] Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. “Epilepsy in Adults and Access to Care—United States, 2010.” Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report 61, no. 45 (November 16, 2012): 909–913. https://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/pdf/wk/mm6145.pdf.

[2] I have changed both their names and am sharing this story with their permission.

I was walking into a grocery store when I spotted a car in the parking lot. It had a bumper sticker that read,

The world is a better place with you in it.

That made me smile, and I wanted to pass that along, especially if you could use the reminder. Just so you know, it’s a very true truth.

— Renee Roederer

I have a daily rhythm with one of my favorite people. We’ve been doing this informally for a long time, but recently, we’ve given it a name: WDT—Weird Daily Tidbit. We enjoy making each other’s day a little more quirky, and by “weird,” I mean innocuously strange in a fun way.

Like last week, when she sent me a photo of an avocado she had just sliced. When she cut it open, the pit inside was surprisingly pointy. That’s all — just a weird photo of a weird avocado.

On another day, she asked, “Is ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ in a major or minor key?” It’s obviously in a major key, but the way she asked made me stop and think about it. In return, I sent her a WDT — a recording of me singing it in a minor key.

—
My Mom stayed with me last week, and now that she’s back home, we caught up the next day on a few tidbits of daily life. I shared something about my yard, something I probably wouldn’t have mentioned if she hadn’t visited. We also ended up talking about what she had for dinner on the way home and what I was planning for lunch today.

Just daily tidbits. Not necessarily weird — just everyday, mundane details we share because we’re part of each other’s lives.

Whether it’s weird or just routine, isn’t it lovely to have people with whom we can share the little things of daily life?

— Renee Roederer

— Photos by Renee Roederer

Last night, a friend asked this question on social media:

If Jesus walked this Earth today, do you think he would be jumping in the vans with ICE to assist in what they’re doing?

I appreciated so many of the responses that followed, including some from Christians. But some who profess to follow Jesus clutched their pearls with a lot of exclamation points attached in their comments. Some were beside themselves, because clearly we have to respond precisely in this way. But it’s the law, they say. If you break the law, you get punished, they say.

My friend’s question holds up a mirror, and I am saddened that anyone might answer, “Yes, this is what Jesus would be doing.”

Here are some more questions:

Aren’t Christ’s teachings about grace and freedom?

Do we actually have laws that require men to wear masks, carry no badges, and tear parents away from their toddlers, driving them away in unmarked cars to prisons where they may or may not get food or medications? Are we required to do that by law?

Didn’t Jesus say that what we do “to the least of them” we do “to him”?

Why would anyone have have less rights or worth merely because they exist in a specific geographical space?

Were you willing to vote for a person who has 34 felonies and was indicted on far, far worse — an actual insurrection — but didn’t go to trial because people were willing to make him President? Do those laws matter, or is that only for people with brown skin existing on one side of a line we made up?

— Renee Roederer

This is a very special post about my Mom, who is staying with me currently and working all week to plant me a garden. I’m very touched by this.

First, some context: If you know me personally, or if you follow me with any regularity, you know I am interested in many things, and I keep all of these disciplined rhythms to make sure they are a part of my days. In addition to my job, which I love, I always have all of these personalized projects going on (blog writing, book writing, language learning, nature photography, bike riding, etc.) Every one of these gives me joy.

But do you know what I have very little time for — or frankly skills for, beyond the very basics?

Keeping up with my yard.

This summer so far, it has been weed-a’ganza, and I pull them… sometimes. And I do hire people to mow.

But my Mom flew up here solo (first time on a plane by the way!) and has spent so many hours gifting me with this garden. Pulling weeds, laying landscape fabric, planting, and placing mulch. She’ll lay the last touches of mulch tomorrow, but I could no longer hold off on taking photos (the part I’m good at) of lilies, butterfly bushes, and daisies.

I love them, and I’m very touched by her loving labor in these directions. I’m also grateful she gave me permission to brag on her.

— Renee Roederer