Smuggling Grace

To all who celebrate, Merry Christmas. I appreciate you. whatever you’re doing today, and however you’re spending your time, please know that you are valued.

Last night, I attended Christmas Eve services, and we sang these words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

I was thinking about how in the story of Christmas, apart from the shepherds who hear about this birth in their fields, hardly anyone knows about any of this. This birth is silent to most, unknown. People don’t know that this has taken place. How silently, how silently…

And whether this story is a part of your traditions or not, and whether you find yourself drawn to religious texts and stories or not, there is something beautiful in this message.

A birth has happened and in the most unlikely of places. This child will eventually become a person who speaks and works for liberation, transformation, and love, and as of yet, hardly anyone knows this goodness is coming. He’s not on their radar. This movement-to-come is not on their radar.

Could it be that there is goodness taking place in our own day? People, experiences, connections, communities, and synchronicities having their beginning now, which will one day lead to liberation, transformation, and love? And maybe we don’t even yet know about it?

— Renee Roederer

When was the last time you let yourself pause? Not to plan the next move or gather your thoughts, but to be with yourself and what’s around you?

The world often equates action with worth, but a pause—an honest, intentional pause—can be the most powerful thing we do. It’s where clarity lives, where intuition speaks, and where the noise fades. Maybe today, you can find your pause and listen to what it has to say.

— Renee Roederer

I made the smiley face on the left outside the grocery store. After leaving the store, I realized that I forgot something I wanted, so I went back. Then I was greeted by two snowy smiley faces.

— Renee Roederer

— Photos by Renee Roederer

We don’t like tension. It’s uncomfortable, unsettling, and we want it resolved, preferably quickly. But some of the most important moments in our lives happen in the tension: the space between the question and the answer, the decision and its consequences, the pain and the healing. What if holding tension, rather than rushing to solve it, is actually a crucial act? What if it’s in that in-between space where transformation happens?

— Renee Roederer

Have you ever stopped to consider how heavy “should” can feel?
“I should be further along.”
“I should have handled that differently.”
“I should know what to do.”

“Should” rarely invites kindness. It demands, it judges, it measures.

Stop shoulding all over yourself.

— Renee Roederer

There’s a moment before healing begins when all you can do is name the thing. Not fix it, not dress it up—just name it.

Sometimes, that’s the hardest part. Because when we name the grief, the loss, or the fear, we make it real. But we also take away its shadowy power. We begin to see it for what it is, and in that seeing, we create room for something new.

Whatever you’re facing, I hope you have the courage to name it. That’s where healing begins.

— Renee Roederer

Once a month, I have the privilege of leading a spiritual service called Parables. Parables is a space designed especially for, with, and by people who have disabilities or are neurodivergent, and everyone is welcome. Each time we gather, there is a persistent reminder that we belong, and not because of what we do, but simply because of who we are.

Recently during the service, one of our community members brought a gift wrapped neatly in red paper with a bow. He placed it next to the nativity scene and said he’d think through the service about who he wanted to give it to. His grandparents had prepared it for him so he could share it with a friend.

When the time felt right, he made his choice. He handed it to me.

After the service, I unwrapped the gift to find a bejeweled butterfly clip for my hair. Very sweet.

Moments like these with all their small acts of care and connection remind me of what Parables offers each time we gather. It’s a space where belonging is on display and deeply felt.

A bejeweled butterfly clip. A reminder that I belong.

— Renee Roederer

As we near the end of this calendar year, I find myself returning to the guiding question I set for 2024:

How expansive can a sense of home be?

I’ve explored this question in terms of place, but I’ve especially turned it toward people. Throughout 2024, I visited loved ones frequently, and I allowed certain places and certain people to stretch and deepen my internal sense of home. That experience of home is now both wider and richer.

But as this year comes to a close, I find a new question emerging:

Can home be… a time?

With this question, we might imagine ourselves in a past era when we felt especially at home or recall a chapter of our lives when we felt most fully ourselves. Those directions make sense for this question.

But I’m wondering about something else:
Can home be a time when certain narratives have shifted—when they are no longer active, no longer tripping us up, no longer showing up in our thoughts, our bodies, or our actions?

Are we more at home when these narratives are firmly in the past?

“I’m not wanted.”
“I’m not capable.”
“That’s impossible.”
“That’s foolish.”
“My needs don’t matter.”
“My needs can’t be spoken.”
“I still feel guilty.”
“I still feel ashamed.”

And more…

Certainly, these thoughts might bubble up from time to time. But if we can move into a new era, one where old childhood messages or operating narratives from relational trauma or conflict no longer dominate, do we feel more at home in ourselves?

Can home be a time when these narratives are no longer active?

— Renee Roederer