Smuggling Grace

— Photos by Renee Roederer

I pulled a whole heckuva lot of weeds, and if I may be honest, I found this to be fun. Perhaps there was something cathartic and soothing about it.

The most satisfying weed to pull was a particularly long and windy kind. It has a system of stems and leaves connected to a shared vine. It’s the kind pictured above, spilling out of the compost bin. This plant — I don’t know its name — wove its way effectively and adeptly around my day lily plants. And most of it was hidden and out of view.

I’d find one piece and begin to pull on it. Then I’d discover much more, a system all connected.

I reflected on the beliefs we carry…

… about ourselves,
… about our relationships,
… about our neighbors,
… about the ways we structure our society,

and this plant seemed to convey a lot.

Sometimes, within ourselves, there are whole, connected systems of beliefs, fears, and emotional triggers that need to be explored and healed. Sometimes, within our communities, there are large, connected systems of harm intended to bolster some and disadvantage others.

We have to start somewhere — pulling, uncovering connections, examining, and uprooting.

–Renee Roederer

Earlier this week, I gave a presentation on behalf of the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. The audience was eager to learn more about epilepsy and discover ways to support our mission. I shared educational information about epilepsy, taught basic seizure recognition and first aid, and introduced them to our vision, programs, and services.

Afterward, I received many touching words of affirmation for our organization—who we are, who we serve, and what we do. And honestly, I do believe our organization is tremendous, especially the community vision that fuels our work. It’s an honor to be a part of it.

But I also found myself reflecting on something else:

People long to hear about good being done in the world.

Day in and day out, we are inundated with difficult news. Yet, people are doing good in the world. There are many communities you know about—and you’re a part of some of them. We long to hear about good care and support. We desire to know that people are taking action, and that it matters. That it changes the realities for those involved. That it changes what kind of world we can live in — what kind of world is possible.

Community care is subversive. It upends the order and rhythm of injustice, transforming it toward belonging. It connects, rather than tears apart. It changes the conditions in which people live. It expands narratives that challenge prevailing attitudes of harm.

So, where do you see this happening? Who can you lift up? What stories can you share?

— Renee Roederer

Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of hearing Dwight L. Wilson give an address titled, “Envisioning a New World.” It was truly inspired. He is a Dad, Grandfather, Quaker, Minister, Educator, Author, Human Rights Activist, and more.

More than once — including in this address — I’ve heard him say,

“Individualism is ‘I Divide-ism.’“

People and systems can spend a great deal of intention, action, and inaction in order to divide us from one another, or even divide others from ourselves.

So what is something we can do, not just generally, but concretely, this very week to practice the opposite?

— Renee Roederer

I’ve picked up a new pastime in the evenings: Mario Kart.

Earlier this year, I visited some of my favorite people, and they introduced me to their new Nintendo Switch. We played a lot of Mario Kart, both adults and kids together. When I got home, I thought, “I want one of these, too!” Now, I can play online with them, even at a distance. I love it.

But this post isn’t really about Mario Kart. One night, when they weren’t available to play, I decided to download a collection of old NES games. These are the same games from the original Nintendo Entertainment System I had as a kid. I played Super Mario Bros. and Zelda (the OG, which I adored). But the game I spent the most time on that night was Super Mario Bros. 3.

Here’s the thing that amazed me: I still have the muscle memory from my 8, 9, and 10-year-old self. I still know exactly where to jump to get that hidden coin or extra life. I can anticipate which Goombas or Koopas will appear around the corner. I know just how to run and jump to hit the corner of the box at the end of the round and get the star.

How do I remember all of this? I couldn’t have recalled it consciously until I started playing again, but it’s truly embedded in my body’s memory. Muscle memory, in full force.

Now, I don’t want to stretch this into some grand metaphor from gaming, but… maybe there are some interesting questions here. Let’s move beyond Nintendo for a moment:

What else remains in our bones? What do we suddenly remember how to do when we’re in the right context? Who taught you these things? What life experiences shaped them? And how can you take what comes naturally to you—what’s been formed in you—and apply it to this moment we’re living together?

— Renee Roederer

I recently heard the Rev. David Prentice-Hyers mention a story that deeply resonated with me, and I wanted to share it here. It’s a story of Jewish peasants in Galilee, standing together to preserve their dignity and faith in the face of oppression.

In 40 CE, Roman Emperor Gaius Caligula ordered the construction of a statue of himself in the Temple of Jerusalem—a direct challenge to Jewish law. To the Jewish peasants, this was not only an attack on their religion; it was an affront to their identity. They didn’t cower in fear or shrink from this challenge. Instead, they expressed their collective resolve.

Faced with the power of the Roman Empire, thousands of Jewish peasants traveled to meet Petronius, the Roman official tasked with carrying out the emperor’s orders. They didn’t bring weapons. They simply stood firm in their convictions, making it clear that they would not allow this statue to be erected. Some even pledged to sacrifice their lives rather than let it happen.

The impact of their collective action was profound. Petronius, moved by the unity and courage of the peasants, delayed the construction and sent a letter to Caligula explaining the situation. Though the emperor’s death soon after spared the Jewish community from the statue’s construction, the peasants’ courage and unity had already made a lasting mark on history.

This story reminds me of the power of collective resolve. When people stand together in shared conviction, they can create change that no individual could achieve alone. The peasants’ actions weren’t just about preventing one statue; they were about honoring their faith, their dignity, and their collective will. In a world often driven by individualism, this story is a powerful reminder of the strength that comes from standing together in defense of what is right.

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Sources
Swarthmore College, “Jewish Peasants Block Construction of Statue of Gaius Caligula in Galilee, 40 CE,” NVD Database, https://nvdatabase.swarthmore.edu/content/jewish-peasants-block-construction-statue-gaius-caligula-galilee-40-ce

— Photos by Renee Roederer

This week, I learned about raku firing in pottery from a university student I know. Afterward, I enjoyed watching this video. Very neato!

This blew my mind, so I have to tell you about it.

I recently listened to an episode of Unexplainable, a podcast by Vox, and it introduced me to a kind of lifeform that is absolutely bonkers. The episode is called “Intraterrestrials,” and the main character is not a person, but a single-celled organism—one that lives deep in the ocean mud.

Not just near the bottom of the ocean. In the mud. Way down. And once it’s there, it doesn’t really move. It just… sits. It doesn’t grow, it barely consumes energy, and—here’s the kicker—it might not reproduce for millions of years. And yet, it’s still alive.

Microbiologist Karen G. Lloyd calls these mud-dwelling microbes intraterrestrials, and scientists have pulled them up from layers of sediment that are a million years old—or even older. If the data holds, the microbes they’re seeing might be the exact same cells that were buried there a million years ago. Not the descendants. The same organisms. Still alive.

Honestly, it sounds like science fiction. But Lloyd says that, strange as it is, the most reasonable explanation is that these microbes went into a kind of biological stasis. They hibernate, like tiny Sleeping Beauties under layers of dust, poop, and plankton bits (glamorous, I know). They survive on an amount of energy so small it shouldn’t be enough. And they wait.

That’s the part that really caught me. They wait. Maybe, Karen G. Lloyd says, they’re waiting for a kind of microbial spring. Maybe tectonic plates shift over millions of years, and eventually, new nutrients are mixed into the sediment—just enough to wake them up and give them the energy to reproduce again.

I don’t know about you, but I kind of love this. A lifeform that says, “I’m going to tuck in here for, oh, a few ice ages or so, and when the time is right, I’ll be ready.”

And it makes me wonder: What else is out there, living so slowly or quietly we just haven’t noticed yet?

Listen to the podcast episode here.

— Renee Roederer