Smuggling Grace

Over the weekend, I had a long drive, and I spent some of that time listening to music I haven’t heard in many years. I’m always amazed by what happens once a song starts. Even if it’s been more than a decade, if that song was part of our lives, the lyrics come rushing back, and we can sing every word.

As someone who used to sing a lot of choral music in different languages, this amazes me every time. Five minutes before a piece begins, I can barely remember anything about it. And then it starts — and suddenly I can sing it word by word, even in languages I don’t actually know. The memory lives somewhere deeper than conscious recall.

Music has a unique way of creating this experience. It bypasses effort. It unlocks something stored in the body.

And it makes me wonder about other things, too.

If we were willing to pause and stay present with our bodies and our senses, what else might we remember? What else might suddenly become present again?

Would we feel connected to people we’ve loved — some who died many years ago, and others we still know and see today? Would we remember what it was like to hear someone say our name in just that particular way? Would the small traits and quirks of people we love come rushing back — things we couldn’t have summoned on purpose?

Or perhaps the remembering would be quieter. A sensation might bring us back to a moment we treasured. Experiencing solitude. Playing as a child. Becoming ourselves without realizing that’s what we were doing.

Music reminds me that so much remains. It’s just waiting for the right kind of attention.

What else might we unlock if we were willing to be present?

—Renee Roederer

While driving in the car, I heard a psychology professor and researcher say a sentence that stopped me short. On the TED Radio Hour, Dr. Jamil Zaki said, “Cynicism is a sort of dark safety.”

He went on to explain:

“When the world is uncertain, we can feel completely exposed — deeply unsafe. So how do you recover a sense of control in a world you fundamentally can’t control? One way is to prejudge it and to prejudge everyone in it. A cynic, by deciding they can’t trust anybody and that people are generally rotten, may not live in a very bright or happy world — but they live in one they understand. They feel as though they can predict the future. They feel as though they understand the people around them, and that gives them some semblance of control over a chaotic life.”

When we believe
that most people can’t be trusted,
that many—if not most—outcomes will disappoint us, or
that not much can truly or meaningfully change,

there is a kind of “certainty” in that.

And navigating uncertainty is hard.

Another psychologist, Dr. Bruce Perry, puts it plainly: “We prefer the certainty of misery to the misery of uncertainty.” [1]

So we stay in familiar, harmful rhythms. We excuse others’ behavior, or our own. We remain where we are, even when we could risk uncertainty and build substantial, life-giving change for ourselves and our communities.

Cynicism may offer dark safety. But it’s also a trap.

—Renee Roederer

[1] Bruce D. Perry and Maia Szalavitz, The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog: And Other Stories from a Child Psychiatrist’s Notebook—What Traumatized Children Can Teach Us about Loss, Love, and Healing (New York: Basic Books, 2006).

–Photos by Renee Roederer

In 2022, I had a chance to perform in a choir alongside the National Arab Orchestra and the renowned Abeer Nehme, whose vocals are absolutely stunning. I highly recommend having a listen to this performance with her.

I know there is so much difficulty unfolding in the world right now. So much that weighs heavy, so much that rightly deserves our attention and care.

But today, I want to share something that’s a little lighter. Something silly. Something that made me smile, and maybe will make you smile too.

Recently, I saw a meme that pointed out how endearingly human it is that when people pass one another on ships or trains, they almost always wave. Big waves. Enthusiastic waves. As if we’ve been waiting our whole lives for this exact moment of mutual acknowledgment.

And honestly, it is pretty cute.

Not long ago, a friend and I were riding e-bikes in a warm climate, enjoying one of those days where your body feels grateful just to be outside. As we cruised along a path, we noticed a small, miniature train coming toward us. It belonged to the city zoo, full of families and kids and people clearly having a day.

So of course, we waved.

And of course, they waved back. Joyfully. Unselfconsciously. The kind of wave that says, Yes, hello fellow humans! Here we all are!

We laughed and kept going, already delighted.

But then, after the train passed, we realized something. The path curved. And the train curved. And unless the laws of physics had suddenly changed, we were going to cross paths again.

When it happened the second time, we just about lost it. There we were again, waving with the same enthusiasm. There were smiles that said, Wait… weren’t they just here?

We kept riding, now with a new thought forming between us.

What if we did this again?

So we sped up a bit. Took a different loop. Timed it just right. And yes, we found them a third time. On purpose.

The looks on people’s faces were priceless. Delight. A collective, unspoken: How are these people here again?

We waved, they waved, and it felt absurd and perfect.

Later, we laughed about it and said, “I guarantee at least five people are going to tell this story when they get home.”

And now, I’m telling you.

Sometimes, humans are cute.

—Renee Roederer

At the end of one of the support groups I lead, we have a small tradition. Everyone brings their hands together and makes the shape of a heart. We do it on Zoom every week, right before we sign off. I don’t even remember how it started, but over time, it’s become part of the rhythm of the group.

Yesterday, we had a new person join us. Toward the end, someone explained it to her gently: “We want this to be a welcoming space, and we hope you’ll come back. We always close like this.” And then I watched seven women, each in her own little Zoom square, lift her hands and cup them together, offering this shared, visual expression of care to one another.

It touched me. Nothing about it is complicated. It’s not scripted or dramatic. It takes just a few seconds. And yet, it communicates so much—you matter, you belong, we’re glad you’re here.

These small, repeated rhythms shape the spaces we’re in. They quietly set a tone. They teach us how to show up for one another. And over time, they change what a group feels like, what it becomes.

A simple gesture can shape a lot.

—Renee Roederer

Last week, a YouTube influencer went viral after visiting daycares run by Somali immigrant communities in Minnesota and claiming that they were committing fraud. In response, the current administration canceled all childcare payments, not only to the facilities under scrutiny (where fraud has not been legally established), but to childcare programs across five states governed by Democrats.

Many people in this country are one missed paycheck away from serious financial hardship, even homelessness. How do you go to work when your children need care and suddenly have nowhere to go?

And how many times in the past year have entire communities lost resources or been subjected to suspicion and blame because of the alleged actions of one individual, one organization, or one system?

This should be obvious, but it also must be said: Collective punishment is wrong.

—Renee Roederer

We are living in unpredictable times. I know that’s an understatement.

I’m writing this on a day that feels relatively routine. In fact, after some time away, today is my first day back in my usual rhythm. But on Saturday morning, I woke to the news of the bombings in Caracas and the capture of Nicolás Maduro, and I’ll admit that I was shocked. That was certainly unpredictable.

And alongside that, every day we see immigrants torn from their families; farmers struggling under tariffs; small businesses wondering whether they can keep their doors open; trans youth fearing the loss of medical care; and people experiencing sticker shock from a simple grocery receipt. Even if we feel comfortable right now, we know these conditions are unstable. That doesn’t mean everything is doomed, or that we can’t continue to add our own advocacy to these very real needs. We can. But we are living with a deep sense of uncertainty, especially in our collective life.

In unpredictable times, perhaps one of the things we need most is predictable care.

That means leaning into community relationships wherever we can. It means reaching out and staying connected with people we love. It involves introducing people to one another and helping networks of care take root.

Years ago, I remember reading a reflection by Hugh Hallowell, the founder of Love Wins Ministries in North Carolina. He shared that the opposite of homelessness isn’t simply being housed. The real opposite of homelessness, he said, is community, because when people are surrounded by vital, sustaining relationships, the chances are much higher that they won’t end up without a place to go.

In this era of unpredictability, it may be time to invest especially in our relationships and to expand them, for ourselves and for others. We need support, care, shared resources, and collective advocacy.

—Renee Roederer

Photos from San Antonio

— Photos by Renee Roederer

I have very dear friends in Caracas. In the early morning hours on Saturday, people had to hide with their children as U.S. bombs fell on their city, and of course, all of Venezuela woke up to the knowledge that their President had been captured and removed by the United States. Whatever anyone may think of Nicolas Maduro as a leader, bombings, a naval blockade, and political upheaval are sure to further destabilize a country with a fragile economy — all while people desire peace.

Even though much has been building to this moment — U.S. bombings of boats in the Caribbean; inconsistent and sometimes nonexistent briefings to Congress; and certainly, dehumanizing rhetoric about the Venezuelan people both within our country and theirs — I was shocked that this happened. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been.

Most of all, I’m concerned for my friends and all the people in Caracas. I hope they can remain steady and be supported in efforts for peace.

—Renee Roederer