Seven years ago, I met N.J. Phillips when we both showed up at a dinner in Ann Arbor and ended up at the same table. I had no idea that I was about to be introduced to such a tremendous person or the ways it would change the trajectory of my vocation.
As we sat at that dinner, she mentioned having epilepsy in childhood and I said, “Me too!” I had hardly ever met anyone else with epilepsy, and I had never met anyone who had so many commonalities and particularities that aligned with my own story and experiences.
She invited me to the Metro Detroit Stroll for the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. Immediately, I had a community around that experience that I had never had before. I had no idea that one year later I would make an entire career change and join the team there.
In N.J. I found kinship and a treasured friend.
And… speaking of treasure… Over the weekend, we joined seven other people in dressing up as pirates for a murder mystery dinner.
That dinner seven years ago in Ann Arbor led to friendship, commonality that I needed, a community, a career shift, and general scalliwaggery.
It’s the week after the 2024 Election, and a lot of people are hurting. I would say that the vast majority of people in this country have some anxiety right now, ranging from mild to debilitating.
Here are some thoughts:
— If all you can do right now is sleep, rest, take medications, eat, and shower as best you can, that’s actually really big, and it’s okay for this to be enough.
— I think generally, it’s good to acknowledge big fears and honor how they feel, but also try as best we can to live in the day we’re in, both in its gifts and its challenges. A lot of the things we most fear haven’t happened yet. Some have, but others haven’t. Some might, and we can be proactive. But they also might not. And we have some very real ways of shaping those outcomes, even if we don’t control everything that happens.
— My biggest advice is to get involved in community. And I mean this in more than one way. Way number 1: If you are able to do it, get in the presence of other human beings, especially those we love. This calms our nervous systems, and we all deserve to feel that. We can cry, or just be, or have fun with abandon. We may need any or all of these. Way number 2: Find a community (you might already have one) where you can get involved in actions that care for others and meet people’s tangible needs. It might be a knitting club, a running group, a house of worship, a nonprofit organization, an activism organizing collective, a neighborhood circle, a friend-circle, or a political organization. Find one of these that is providing community care for group members and working actively to build positive change for people beyond the group itself. Be all-in in one of these communities or multiple of these communities. Don’t let anyone tell you that this isn’t valid, or “not the right kind of activism” (caveat, unless it’s actually hurting people) or “not enough” or “not worthy work.” It is. You have particular circles and gifts that are not replicable by all people. We need everyone’s uniqueness in building a better world — everyone’s best abilities and commitments, and everyone’s access to particular relationships with specific needs.
— You matter. You matter. You matter.
— Your neighbors matter. Your neighbors matter. Your neighbors matter.
— The communities of people you hear on the news are people who have names. Remember them. And allow yourselves to imagine that some of them may be remembering you (even if they don’t know your names).
— Think of people who have believed in you and your communities: the elders who sheltered you, chose you, mirrored you, and told you you’re the cat’s pajamas. (Maybe they didn’t say that exactly, but you are). All the things they saw in you have been and are real. Make them proud.
— You are loved, loveable, and capable of loving.
— If you find yourself thinking that none of it matters, or that your best work is just being washed away, grieve in ways you need to grieve, or get angry, but know this: Caring for one another in our communities is never fruitless. It wasn’t then; it isn’t now.
A colorful array of vines and leaves on a building.
Thank you.
So many people have reached out to me over the last couple of days, just as I have reached out to many people. Beautiful exchanges have been shared. I’ve heard,
“How’s your heart?”
“I just want you to know I’m here.”
“Love you, miss you, please don’t forget to care for yourself as I see you caring for others.”
“Make sure you’re getting enough sleep. Protect your brain!”
“When [___] happened, I thought of you.”
“Love you.” (This one, I’ve heard repeatedly.)
Every bit of this has meant so much to me. Threats are not even, and we must remember those most impacted. Most often, that is not me. Yet sorrows and love are carried collectively.
Here’s what has meant so much to me:
First of all, the abundance of community care has been on display so beautifully in many directions over the last few days. I hope this is finding its way to you too. If not, please let this particular post be one tiny piece of it. [3… 2… 1… mmmh!]
Personally, I’ve been in a place of profound gratitude to hear from so many people, and so meaningfully. I’m not necessarily surprised, but I’m definitely touched. I can easily think of a number chapters in my life that stretched out long when I was placed in a caregiving role without the ability to have much of that care flow back. When I was younger… during COVID… (oh so much during COVID)… when I’ve had to be a “professional” and couldn’t easily be considered part the community myself. (By the way, I believe in behaving professionally, i.e. ethically, but with only a few exceptions, I don’t think people are often served best with that kind of distance.)
Anyway, none of that is true in this moment. None of it. It’s just care in all directions, and I have felt it so deeply. Good to be in it with you.
I have so many wise, loving, and beautiful friends. On social media, which can be known for doomscrolling, misinformation, and the banal memeification of complex existence, these friends can lament faithfully, and then express true hope and perspective centered in loving neighbors and whole communities — all without any denialism or putting any heads in the sand.
What I’m saying is that when I scroll through my feeds today, I see so many brilliant ways of making meaning and casting vision, right at the precise moment people are exhausted, alert, and scared.
And I just think that takes great gifts of resilience and fortitude. I love you so much.
I am trying not to panic, but I, too, am so scared right now.
We’re not wrong for feeling vulnerable. We’re not wrong that the most vulnerable among us are made remarkably more vulnerable.
And in grief, I am missing people tonight who I wish I could call and talk to about this.
I am not prepared to lose even the nominal amount of justice and order we have in a country that is already frequently unjust to vulnerable people. I don’t think I am prepared for that level of grief and chaos. I am scared of where we’re going. I’m scared of how much people are willing to give over.
All of that is true.
And
I will also say this:
So much is uncertain, but what I will not lose is loving my community. What I will not lose is loving you.
I would like to share this sermon once more, both to encourage us on Election Day, and to honor Amy Weston Roth, who died a few weeks ago. I may write more about her in the coming weeks. Her “Yes” to me invited me into a community that loved me deeply, and that has shaped just about every other community I have found myself within. With gratitude — Renee.
This morning, I’d like to re-share a post that I first published here in 2016. This was something that Ben Johnston-Krase wrote as a guest blogger right before that election 8 years ago (hard to believe we’re here again). But here’s my prediction: Though I recognize I could be wrong, I think Kamala Harris is going win the election. I am going to be grateful. I am going to celebrate her historic Presidency. I am going to cheer her on in many things. I am also going to push and protest on some of her policies, actions, and inactions. I believe we should do this, no matter who is in office, based on our values.
I am thinking about this piece again because I know that we are living in this uncertainty. I want to ask, who are we going to be no matter what? What are we going to do, no matter the election’s result?
Here’s that piece from 2016:
Ben Johnston-Krase.
My 10-year-old daughter asked me the other day, “Dad, what will we do if Trump wins?” I’m sure she had overheard me telling some friends that if Donald Trump became president, we’d move to Guam. “Guam?” she probably thought. “Where’s Guam?” No doubt the thought of relocating to some remote island, wherever it was, loomed large in her mind as she calculated distance from friends, school, family…
She looked anxious, and so I responded, “Well, honey,” I said, “If Trump wins, we’ll stay right here and we’ll keep working hard to, you know, further our values.”
Further our values? Ok. At least that didn’t involve moving to Guam. And so, somewhat satisfied I guess, my daughter moved on with her day. But she left me wondering, what will I do if Trump wins? For sure I’ll need a better explanation for my kids. But really, what will I do?
So here it is. If Trump wins, I will…
Spend at least 48 hours with the pain. One time I dropped an axe on my shoeless foot, which was bad enough, but a nanosecond later the axe’s handle bounced into my groin. I yelped and went down to the floor like a 175-pound slab of twitching meat, crying out in pain and wishing for unconsciousness. It’ll be like that. For at least 48 hours. First I will feel the pain.
Next I will call to check on friends and neighbors. This is what you do after a disaster, isn’t it? Make sure everyone’s ok? This will be a good time to share casseroles.
I will briefly check real estate listings in Guam. I’m just being honest.
I will arm myself with sources that will focus my attention away from worthless regrets and hapless escapist fantasies—sources that kick my butt, remind me who I am, and who I feel called to be. These include things like Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” Wendell Berry’s poem, “The Mad Farmer, Flying the Flag of Rough Branch, Secedes from the Union,” and a bunch of prophets from the Hebrew Scriptures. I’ll listen to songs like Frank Turner’s “Journey of the Magi” and Ingrid Michaelson’s “Blood Brothers.” I’ll immerse myself in poets and prophets that have called the world toward goodness and grace.
I will get my ass to work. I’ll double down on everything good and wonderful and beautiful I’ve ever been taught. I’ll listen more and I’ll sharpen my sensitivity to injustice. I’ll seek out relationships with those with whom I disagree. I’ll paint signs with my children and show up at more protests. I’ll teach them again and again that justice, liberty, and equality are worth fighting for and I’ll show them what that fight looks like. I’ll learn more names on my street. I’ll write more music, create more art, and cheer on those who are doing the same.
If Donald Trump wins, I will strive to more vividly shape my life in opposition to smallmindedness, fear, and violence. I will find others who are doing the same and together we will not simply work to elect someone else in four years; rather we will look to address the conditions in our culture that have paved the way for a Trump to become anything more than a sad reminder of what happens to us when we succumb to our worse instincts.
In short, if Donald Trump wins, I will grieve and then I will stand and fight for the world as I hope it can be. I suppose this is what I meant when I told my daughter that we’d “stay right here and keep working hard to, you know, further our values.”
In light of everything I’ve just said, maybe the best question for me is the one Mary Oliver asks at the end of her poem, “The Summer Day.”
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
No matter who wins nationally or on the state level tomorrow, there’s work to be done and I only have but one wild and precious life to live. God help me to live it well. Otherwise I might as well be in Guam.
Smuggling Grace 