Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, Photo: Renee Roederer
Last summer, I had the pleasure of visiting Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore with one of my very favorite people. This stunning national park is located in the Upper Peninsula, near Munising, Michigan. There are many ways to experience the beauty of these rock formations, but the best views come by boat from Lake Superior.
We were on a sunset cruise, and it was gorgeous. After boarding the boat, we heard an announcement over the loudspeaker:
“Hello, my name is Braden, and I’ll be your captain on our sunset cruise tonight.”
My friend leaned over and whispered, “We’re old enough… to be captained… by a person named Braden.“
The Bradens are coming of age, and it’s a reminder of our own age.
I recently heard a perspective from a Dad of a Trans son that resonated with me. He said that too often, we make Donald Trump the main character of all that is unfolding.
This wasn’t an argument to minimize what’s happening—not at all. But it does highlight the ways we frame what is taking place. We all know how much the news focuses on Donald Trump, and I can’t help but see it constantly in my own life. Even when I’m at work, I glance at the bottom of my laptop screen, and there it is—“The Trump Administration” as a teaser, trying to get me to hover over those words and receive some “Breaking News.” But this Dad, who loves his son deeply and wants to keep Trans youth alive, as should we all, pointed out that it’s an extra wound to make Trump the main character of the harm he’s causing his son. His son should be the main character in his own story, and so should so many others who are deeply impacted by these words and policies.
The harm caused by Trump’s rhetoric, especially to marginalized communities, is undeniable. But by consistently centering him as the protagonist in this story, we diminish the actual people who are suffering. His son, in this case, deserves to be the main character in his own narrative, thriving and living fully.
This is also true when it comes to immigration, detention, and deportation. We need to center the stories of people like Kilmar Abrego Garcia, Mahmoud Khalil, and countless others whose lives have been upended by policies that target them. Just last week, a mother was deported to Honduras with her children, who are U.S. citizens. One of those children, facing stage 4 cancer, was sent away without needed medication. This is cruel and heartbreaking. These are the people who deserve to be the main characters in this story. Their stories—their struggles, their humanity—should be our focus as we tell these stories.
And let’s not forget about past moments, too. People were rightly outraged when then-candidate Trump made fun of a disabled reporter on the campaign trail. But how often did you hear that disabled reporter’s name—if ever? His name is Serge F. Kovaleski.
The media should be lifting up the voices of those who are being harmed as well as those who are working to uphold individuals and communities during times of crisis. These are the main characters of this moment in history. We certainly don’t look away. This isn’t about minimizing harm. But who are we centering? Let’s make space for the people who truly deserve to be the focus. Keep the main characters the main characters.
I was inside an arena during a university commencement ceremony. Since sportsball is also played here, there’s a central jumbotron, which allowed those of us in the “eagle’s nest” (the nosebleed seats, aptly named for the university’s Eagle mascot) to catch close-ups of students walking across the stage to celebrate the completion of their degrees.
More than once, the camera zoomed in on a student with a long, full red beard, not unlike one you might see in a ZZ Top concert. The first time I saw him, I thought, “That’s impressive.” Each time he appeared on screen, he’d make a “rock on!” gesture, and the crowd would cheer. I loved that this became a little routine throughout the ceremony. Then, at one point, he flipped his beard with a dramatic motion, much like someone tossing their hair over their shoulder. The applause grew even louder.
A plant grows in one direction, toward its lightsource. Public domain.
I sat facing the congregation, wearing a stole, listening to the organ prelude. Worship was about to begin.
As I approach my seventh year working in public health within a nonprofit, I can honestly say I love the path I’m on. It’s exactly where I want to be. Though it’s been a long time since I served as a pastor, I still lead pulpit supply frequently, filling in for colleagues when they’re away. I’ve also led several church retreats over the past year. While this is no longer where I spend most of my time, it remains an integral part of my upbringing and my sense of belonging.
As I listened to the organ prelude, my mind wandered to some of the most formative people in my life. They’ve been on my mind as I chart a new course, one added to the others. Though I’ve been writing daily for many years, I’m now working on my first book. I recently finished a chapter reflecting on my upbringing in a Presbyterian church.
Here’s a paragraph from that chapter:
I was raised by a Christian congregation, and that community became a chosen family and home in my life. When I share this, I don’t simply mean that I grew up attending worship services. For me, this was far more than a weekly routine. I was raised intentionally by St. John United Presbyterian Church in New Albany, Indiana. In that congregation, a whole circle of people decided to love me and treat me as if I were their very own daughter. It transformed the direction of my life.
As worship began yesterday, I thought about how there’s no way I’d be sitting here, about to lead this service, if it weren’t for those people. This role I’m in emerged simply and powerfully because I received so much love there.
I was thinking about how plants grow toward the sun. We can see them stretch in that direction. Could it be that we, too, grow in the places where love is shown to us?
Had I been surrounded by a different group of people, might I have developed roles I couldn’t have anticipated? And isn’t that why I also work in public health and nonprofit now? Because love found me there, too?
I enjoyed reflecting on these questions yesterday morning.
So, where is love showing up for you? And how are you growing and stretching toward it?
This week, spring is in full swing where I live. The landscape is becoming green again, and flowers are popping up everywhere. What’s been catching my attention the most, though, are the flowering trees. When I’m walking, driving, or biking around town, I’m often struck by a sudden burst of white, yellow, or pink from trees that weren’t showing any signs of these just days before.
These trees don’t all bloom at once. Over a few weeks, different trees come into bloom, each in their own time. It’s as if each one takes its turn, one after another, showing up in a way that surprises me every time.
A dear friend of mine bought a house last winter, and when she returned from a vacation, she saw something that caught her off guard. A tree in her backyard, which had been nothing but bare branches for months, was suddenly covered in white blossoms. “I didn’t know this tree did that!” she said with delight.
Unless we’re really familiar with identifying trees, if we spend months just looking at bare branches, we’re not likely to know what will happen when spring finally arrives. We can’t always anticipate the way one tree will suddenly burst into bloom, or how another will turn a brilliant shade of pink. It’s all about waiting for the right time.
The trees reveal themselves in their own way. The blooms show us exactly what kind of tree they are.
And maybe people are like this, too. Sometimes, we have to give others the time and space to reveal themselves. It’s easy to assume we know someone based on first impressions or fleeting moments, but sometimes it takes more than that. It takes patience, understanding, and being willing to wait for the right time to see the full picture.
So, as we wait for things to unfold, sometimes, the best things reveal themselves when we give them the time they need.
Two friends sit together and view a lake and mountain. Public domain image. Photo Credit: Roberto Nickson.
I was listening to a friend tell me a number of stories when all the sudden, she switched her language into present tense. I’m going to guess that she wasn’t even aware of this, but it drew me in all the more. I thought, “Oh, she wants me even more alongside her right here,” and through that shift in her language, I was.
I was grateful to be invited.
This experience made me want to pay attention for these kinds of moments — these sudden shifts into present tense, particularly while someone is sharing a story that happened in the past.
This is one of the myriad of ways that we can accompany each other. A story, whether funny, meaningful, tragic, or traumatic, slows down, and in the present tense, our hearer is with us. And in a very real way, this presence and this invitation to witness the story, changes the story. It expands it. It can reframe it or even transform it.
In my life and in my work, I’m going to be listening for this. And in my own telling of stories, I may choose to use it myself.
In the wake of the death of Pope Francis, I recently read about something that deeply moved me, and I felt compelled to share it. Amidst the devastating violence in Gaza, Pope Francis took an extraordinary step—every night, he called the Christian community in Gaza, speaking to them personally and offering his prayers and words of comfort. He advocated consistently for peace and security for all people in Gaza.
These nightly calls were no small act. In the midst of unimaginable hardship, these moments reminded them that they were not forgotten. As George Antone, head of the emergency committee at the Holy Family Church in Gaza, shared, Pope Francis would speak not only to the priest but to everyone in the room, making each person feel known and supported. “He used to tell each one: I am with you, don’t be afraid,” Antone recalled.
This wasn’t just a token gesture—it was a consistent, heartfelt act of solidarity from the Pope, who, despite the distance and the turmoil, made sure that every single person in that community felt seen.
I find it moving to witness how Pope Francis not only prayed for these communities but took consistent, actionable steps to stand with them. His legacy is a testament to what it means to advocate for life—not just for survival, but for the flourishing of all people.
As we remember his work, I am reminded that true care—true advocacy—isn’t a passive gesture. It’s an active, consistent presence. It’s offering not just words, but a commitment to stand with those in need. In a world where many feel overlooked, it’s crucial to recognize the power of advocating for life, for peace, and for a future of self-determination.
Smuggling Grace 