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.
A framed painting at Parables. Four fish are swimming in a river. The red fish is moving in the opposite direction of the orange, green, and white fish. There is a bridge above the fish that reads, “Love is the bridge between you and everything” — Rumi. On the bridge, there are three flags that read, “Understanding,” “Belonging, and “Friendship.” The painting is signed, “J Herman, 2019.”
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.
Michigan stadium. There are fans in the stands wearing burnt orange and maize. The block M for Michigan is on the jumbotron, and near the end zone, there are flags that spell Texas.
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.
This image shows the front of a brick building with the words “Caro Center” displayed prominently on the façade.
A colleague and I are currently driving around the “Thumb” region of Michigan, doing an outreach tour for the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan. During our time, we stopped by the Caro Center in Caro, Michigan. Right now, this place isn’t being used at all, though most recently it was a psychiatric hospital. There are plans now to rebuild it for that type of care once more, but in a caring, up-to-date way.
But this is not how this place originated. In 1914, this location opened as the Farm Colony for Epileptics and later was renamed the Caro State Home for Epileptics. Here, people, including children, lived apart from their families, and in the early days, without any of the forms of treatment we now know. But much worse, in an era when the eugenics movement was underway in the United States, people with epilepsy were forcibly sterilized here under Michigan’s laws, and those laws existed from 1914 through the 1960s.
As we made our stop, we honored these members of our community, pondered their lives, and found ourselves grateful to live in a time when much as changed.
But with this history in our country, taking place not only in Michigan but many places, marginalization and isolation still remains for many people who are living with epilepsy. We work still to make those changes.
Image Description: Trees in a forest with shared roots visible on the surface of the ground. Red, fallen leaves from autumn are interspersed among the roots. Photo, Renee Roederer.
Show your roots — Make known the ones who named you (the truest you) Make known the ones who shaped you (the still becoming you) Live roots made visible.
The love, The care, The nurture, The belonging.
The wholeness, of every community, of every neighbor, of every parent, of every friend, of every guide,
The comic is made up of five panels, featuring simple, playful drawings of trees and forest creatures, with text integrated into the panels. The art style is bright and cheerful, with cartoonish, friendly expressions on the characters.
Panel 1: A group of green pine trees are standing together, smiling with closed eyes. The background is simple with some grass, and the sky is a soft light blue. The text reads, “There are moments that divide your life into ‘before.'”
Panel 2: The same scene now looks drastically different. One of the pine trees is now a small, sad-looking stump with a tiny sprout growing beside it. The surrounding ground is barren with a few logs and pieces of chopped wood. The text says, “and ‘after.'”
Panel 3: A new green tree, with broad leaves and a smiling face, stands tall on the right side of the panel. It appears to have grown from the sprout in the previous panel. The background is sparse with minimal grass and no other trees around. The text states, “No matter how much time passes, things will never be the same.”
Panel 4: On the left side of the panel, a single tear falls from the face of a tree as it gazes at a thought bubble filled with a memory of the “before” scene from Panel 1, showing the group of pine trees. The tree looks sad and contemplative. The sky is slightly grayer. The text reads, “It’s ok to miss the safety of ‘before,’ and to question why something so awful happened…”
Panel 5: In this final, brighter scene, a large, leafy tree with a content smile dominates the frame. It has grown into a fully developed tree with vibrant green foliage. An owl is perched on one of its branches, and a squirrel is smiling, holding an acorn nearby on the ground. A bird is flying in the background. The tree looks peaceful and happy. The text concludes, “but leave room in your heart for the biggest question: What will you do with your ‘after?'”
In the bottom-right corner, there is a small signature: “@introvertdoodles.”
The overall message of the comic revolves around the emotional journey of change and healing after a significant loss or life event, with the theme of growth and transformation.
Smuggling Grace 