Synchronizing
how it feels releasing Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal into the world
Synchronizing is a word I first learned in the pool.
One night after my weekly swim class, a group of teenage girls took over the water. Soft music playing through the speaker, their matching suits and caps instantly caught my attention. I watched them with wonder. Every movement was coordinated and choreographed. If one raised her arms they all did. If one went under the surface they all did. If one flipped they all did. If one changed direction they all did.
It wasn’t simply what they were doing, but the way they did it all in unison, with such ease and grace, that fascinated me.
A coach explained to me they were a synchronized swimming team practicing for an upcoming event. “How do they do that?” I asked. “How can they hold their breath so long and stay together?”
“Practice,” she said. “Lots of practice.”
Being synchronized takes more than practice. It requires intention and persistence. It is both an individual and collective process. We have to know our own rhythms and patterns as well as those of others in the pool in order to be aligned.
This time next week my second book of poetry Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal will be released in the world. Releasing these poems, like writing them, feels like synchronizing. The fifth and final section of the book is called Synchronizing, giving name to this process, even before I fully understood it was happening.
Last weekend, recognizing I needed to get away from my computer before the book launch, I planned a short trip. With sunny skies and warmer temperatures in the forecast I headed north, close to where my curious faith began on the shores of Lake Huron. I visited several places that have been significant on my journey. The beach, the harbor, the drug store, the church, the lighthouse. It felt like a pilgrimage. Each stop offering room and inviting space for prayer and reflection. There were memories of joy and sadness. Tears of gratitude and grief. There was an overwhelming sense that I wasn’t alone. That everything leading up to this season in my life had meaning beyond my awareness.
But perhaps the most important moment of the trip happened before it really began.
On the way north, I dropped by to see my Grandma (read more about her here). She is in the process of moving and had some items she wanted to give me. In addition to some art work, I left with a bag holding an old Scrabble game, a book of nursery rhymes, and what I thought were greeting cards I’d sent her over the years.
When I arrived at the hotel, while getting my suitcase from the trunk, I saw the bag had tipped over and an envelope had fallen out. It was addressed to my grandma and grandpa. The return information had my name and the address of my great-grandparent’s cottage on the lake. Inquisitively, I picked it up. It was postmarked June 1995.
That was the summer I spent at the cottage with my great-grandparents before my senior year of high school. An experience that shaped not only who I am, but also what I believe about god, creation, neighbor, and self.
The two hand-written pages of the letter read like a stream of consciousness. An account of my daily activities more than my feelings. An affirmation of details I’d come to doubt or forget with the passing of time. Suddenly, teenage me and 40-something year old me felt in sync rather than in conflict. In conversation not in disagreement. Like friends not strangers.
I sat on a bench near the water, first simply holding, and then reading and re-reading that letter. Amazed that one grandmother had kept a note I sent decades earlier while staying with another. And was giving it to me now. While these grandmothers knew each other, they were not connected. They represented two distinct branches of my family tree. Their religion, like their lived experience very different. My relationship with each of them unique. That letter brought them together in ways I never imagined or thought I’d ever need. But I did need it.
Much has changed since I watched those water dancers in the pool. Today, the sport is called artistic swimming, rather than synchronized. Synchronizing is definitely an art form, one that requires breath and creates beauty. Bringing together all the pieces and poems of our lives as part of being healed and made whole. Honoring the beliefs we’ve inherited while naming the harm they’ve caused. Guiding us to a faith that is far more curious than certain.
How do you understand synchronizing?
When is that last time you experienced it?
How did it feel?
Tenderly, Rebecca
Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal: Composing a Curious Faith
Releasing into the world on March 10, 2026.
Pre-orders made for signed copies before this Friday, March 6th come with bonus gifts. Click here to purchase those copies at the 10CAMELS.com.
If you’ve already pre-ordered get ready, those packages are in the mail now.
Can you believe that in high school I was part of a synchronized swim team? Now I don’t even like to get my face wet in the pool.
“Being healed and made whole”, even in small ways, is when things truly come together. Thanks for your storytelling.