Smuggling Grace

So I love, love, love this story: He’s 22. She’s 81. Their Friendship is Melting Hearts.

This article from The New York Times tells the story of Spencer Sleyton and Rosalind Guttmann. There is a nearly 60 year age gap between them, but they became friends while playing the game Words with Friends on their phones. Spencer is a rapper and producer from East Harlem; Rosalind lives in Palm Beach, Florida.

The article starts with this really great line. Spencer Sleyton and his friends were sitting around one day naming their best friends. “When it was his turn, he said: ‘My best friend is an 81-year-old white woman who lives in a retirement community in Florida.’”

That was a bit of an exaggeration — maybe not best friends — but they had authentically become quite close. They were assigned to each other via the randomized game player process on Words with Friends, and then they played over 300 games. Throughout these games, they began to use the chat feature to connect, and then they shared wisdom from their lives.

Recently, Spencer Sleyton flew to Palm Beach to meet Rosalind Guttmann for the first time. Such a special experience. Two people who could have easily been strangers now have a special bond.

This is Kinship.

And it’s a reminder that just about any occasion or medium can make this possible. In this case, even a Words with Friends app!

I find myself reflecting on this in my own life and in the lives of people I hold dear. I think about how many simple occasions became entry points to build such life-giving and formative bonds. Many times, I could not have foreseen where they would go.

One common entry point in my relationships seems to be coffee shops.  I think about how many meaningful relationships started with getting coffee somewhere. I can look back on various locations and think about them with names attached. This is where I met _______. Here’s where I met ________. Now, these are the kinds of people I cannot imagine not knowing.

There have been other launching points: Returned emails; sitting next to someone at a meeting, then realizing commonalities; Facebook chats, including with people I’ve not met in person; being introduced via shared friendships; showing up for a Meetup Group event.

It always starts somewhere. It can start just about anywhere.

So what new occasions might open doors for Kinship, maybe even soon? We can look for these. We can cultivate these.

–Renee Roederer

All people in this world have needs that are particular to themselves.
Every person.

And

All people and all communities have unique and particular strengths to share.
Every person, every community.

I’m not sure if we can ever truly run from need, because human need is one of the most honest and real things about us all. But we definitely try. There may be a number of reasons for this. Among them, we’ve internalized lot of cultural narratives about individualism, self-sufficiency, and the belief that we must produce and earn love and belonging. (Psst, those are myths. Dangerous myths).

But those cultural narratives take form in our thoughts and feelings…

“I’m a burden.”

“I’m too much.”

“I don’t want to over-ask.”

“I don’t want to trouble.”

“They’re going to get tired of me.”

“I can’t voice this.”

Soon we’re speaking narratives about ourselves, and we run from our need and from one another. But again,

All people in this world have needs that are particular to themselves.
Every person.

And

All people and all communities have unique and particular strengths to share.
Every person, every community.

There is no shame in any of this. We can embrace these parts of ourselves. We can share these parts of ourselves. We can love these parts of ourselves.

Need away, friends. Welcome to humanity!

— Renee Roederer

— Photos by Renee Roederer

Are there events where you live?

A lovely message at the end.

The other day, I noticed something lovely—a budding hydrangea bloom in my yard. This is the first plant I’ve ever put in the ground myself, and it made me smile.

On one hand, I totally did that. I ordered the plant online, shoveled a spot for it, and placed it into the earth. I considered the amount of sunlight and felt confident it would receive enough rain. There’s real satisfaction in knowing I played a part in making this happen.

But at the same time, I totally didn’t do that. I didn’t make the bloom appear. The growth and blooming happened on its own, something beyond my actions. I just provided the space.

Community is like this too. We can create the conditions—making space for people to connect, for ideas to grow—but the actual growth happens on its own. The transformations we hope for aren’t something we can force or fully direct. We simply make space, and then something deeper takes place.

— Renee Roederer

Once a month, I lead a congregational service called Parables, designed for the whole community but crafted especially for, with, and by people with disabilities and neurodivergence. This past Sunday, we read the story of the Syrophoenician woman from the Gospel of Mark. Frankly, it’s one of the most powerful stories in the Bible, and it always invites me to reflect.

In the story, Jesus has left his familiar surroundings and travels to the region of Tyre, a Gentile area. While he’s there, trying to keep a low profile, a woman whose daughter is suffering approaches him. She’s bold. She asks Jesus to heal her daughter, but his response is remarkably out of character. He tells her, “It’s not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” It’s a shocking thing to hear from Jesus, especially considering how he consistently embraces those on the margins.

But the Syrophoenician woman doesn’t back down. She won’t let herself be defined by those words. Instead, she boldly responds, “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” It’s a snarky, powerful reply. She claims her worth and her daughter’s worth—asserting that they too are a part of this healing and belonging. And this boldness is recognized. “For saying that, you may go,” Jesus says, and tells her that her daughter will be healed.

This story challenges us to think about how we claim our own worth, and the worth of those around us. It invites us to proclaim boldly that healing, dignity, and belonging are ours too, no matter what words or barriers might stand in our way.

Years ago, I attended the “Why Christian?” conference in Durham, North Carolina. One of the preachers, Rev. Gail Song Bantum, delivered a powerful sermon on this very story. After her sermon, we were invited to communion, and she urged us to claim the bread and cup with boldness. When we were handed the bread and told, “This is the body of Christ, given for you,” we were invited to respond, “Yes, it is!”—to assert that this gift, this grace, this belonging was really ours.

This was the spirit we carried into our time at Parables on Sunday. As we shared communion, our servers said, “You are a Child of God,” and each person was invited to respond boldly, “Yes, I am!” It was a simple but profound moment of claiming truth—about ourselves and about each other.

What would it look like for us to claim boldly? To declare that our identities are treasured? To insist that our neighbors, especially those who are often marginalized, belong fully? What possibilities might we see if we assert the truth of who we are, if we stand firm in the knowledge that we are cherished?

Today, I invite you to ponder what you want to claim boldly. Maybe it’s the truth of your worth. Maybe it’s the belief that life has more possibilities than you’ve imagined. Or maybe it’s the sacredness of your neighbor’s identity and the shared call to community.

Whatever it is, claim it. Boldly.

— Renee Roederer

There’s something grounding about the sounds that remind us of home. Recently, I experienced two moments that brought this feeling into focus.

The first was at Michigan Stadium, where I attended a football game between the University of Texas and the University of Michigan. These teams hadn’t faced each other in 20 years, and being there felt special. Our tickets were a generous gift from a friend who shared her season passes. Even though I’m not a big football fan, having lived in both Austin and Ann Arbor, both college towns associated with these universities, the fight songs stir something in me. They connect me to communities that have been significant in my life. Near the end of the game, both bands played their fight songs at the same time. I closed my eyes, and instead of sounding chaotic, it felt like a blend of two places I hold dear.

The second moment happened after a period of frequent travel. I’ve been on the road a lot lately, for both vacation and work. While each trip has been meaningful, I’ve been craving the simple routines of home. A few days ago, just before dusk, I went to the grocery store. As I stepped outside, the familiar sound of crickets filled the air—a hallmark of this time of year where I live. I paused for a moment, paying attention to the sound. My body relaxed, and I felt a deep sense of belonging.

Our bodies respond to these familiar sounds in profound ways. They help us reconnect and find our footing amidst the busyness of life. Taking a moment to truly listen can remind us of where we’ve been and where we are.

— Renee Roederer

— Photos by Renee Roederer