Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

Michelle

Church Doesn’t Always Have to Happen in a Church

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I skipped church last Sunday. I wasn’t sick or out of town, and I didn’t have a scheduling conflict. I simply decided not to go. Instead, while the kids slept in, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, slid on my running shoes and slipped out the front door. I jogged down the bike path with the sun warm on the back of my neck and the sound of birdsong in my ears.

Fifteen years ago, when I started attending church regularly again after a two-decade hiatus from both religion and faith, I couldn’t get enough of it. I sprang out of bed every Sunday morning, eager to immerse myself in the worship experience. I drank in every part of the service, from the scripture readings and the sermon to the hymns and the communal prayers, like I was drinking a tall glass of cold water on a scorching August day. I loved the anticipation I felt almost every time I opened my Bible or walked through the church doors. The weekly ritual of liturgy and community became the rich soil in which my faith grew and flourished.

More recently, though, I admitted to my husband that attending church has come to feel less imperative. While I’m always glad I went, and I am especially grateful for my church community, which nudges me out of my comfortable places to connect with people whom I might not ordinarily cross paths, the truth is, the spiritual practice of weekly worship doesn’t enliven me like it once did.

In some ways this feels like a loss. I miss the freshness of my new faith. I miss the energy that zinged through my heart, mind and soul on Sunday mornings. I miss feeling invigorated and inspired after nearly every church service, eager to do my small part in furthering God’s kingdom on Earth.

At the same time, though, I am aware that both my experience of church and my faith itself, while mellower and a little less sparkly, have also matured into something deeper and wider.

My understanding of church and God is less contained. There is an openness and an expansiveness to my faith that feels right in this season of my life. And I know this faith that is both more grounded and more expansive has its roots in all those years of weekly church. Those 15 years of Sundays are the foundation upon which my faith of today continues to change and grow.

Last Sunday morning as I ran along the bike trail, I prayed for friends facing health challenges, for loved ones traveling overseas and for people I know who are grieving, lost and lonely.

I inhaled the scent of freshly mowed grass and noticed the orange flash of an Oriole swooping overhead.

I smiled and huffed a breathless “good morning!” to the runners, dog walkers and cyclists traveling in the opposite direction.

I gave thanks for the cool breeze on my face and for a body that can run (albeit less quickly than it used to).

Last Sunday morning I didn’t sing hymns or pray aloud in unison with others. There was no bread and no wine, no scripture read, no sermon preached. I didn’t wear heels or mascara or sit in a pew. But there was communion, peace, prayers and the presence of God.

Last Sunday morning, out running on the trail, I was at church.

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This essay was originally published in the Lincoln Journal Star on June 8, 2019.

Anxious? Yeah, Me Too. {5 tips to help alleviate anxiety}

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The afternoon unfurled ahead of me as quiet and uncluttered as a deserted country lane. Settling into the sofa, I opened a novel to the first page, eager to immerse myself in rest and relaxation.

Two minutes later, however, I realized I’d read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Distracted, I picked up my smartphone, scrolled through Facebook, then turned back to the book in my lap, only to repeat the same cycle five minutes later.

My body hummed with restless energy, and my brain clanged like a pinball machine.

I was, in a word, anxious.

…Some of you know I have struggled with anxiety and depression off and on for basically forever. That’s why I was really glad when Living Lutheran magazine recently asked me to write an article about anxiety. I’ve learned a lot from my own journey, and I am glad to be able to share what I’ve learned with others. You can read the article over HERE. 

How to Live a Satisfying and Reverent Life

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I recently came across an intriguing quote from the second century Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, who asked, “You see how few things you have to do to live a satisfying and reverent life?”

The question got me thinking about what things I would consider necessary for such a life. And so, before I could overthink my answer, I grabbed a pen and jotted a list into my journal:

Spend time in nature.
Move my body.
Enjoy good food.
Read.
Do good work.
Love my people.
Pet my dog.

It’s a remarkably short and pedestrian list, which perhaps means I’m the most boring person in existence. Or, maybe it means I don’t need to do much at all to live a satisfying and reverent life.

Turns out, my criteria for living a satisfying and reverent life don’t include fame or notice, worldly success, accolades or achievement. I need not travel to exotic locales or rub shoulders with influential people. I don’t have to climb ladders, set goals or check boxes. I don’t need an impressive job title, good connections, a big salary, a fancy house or name-brand shoes.

Truthfully, everything I need for a life of satisfaction and reverence is already right here in abundance — within my own self, in my own backyard, in my own community:

Fresh air. Nourishing food. Meaningful work. Beauty. Connection. Curiosity. Love.

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A few days ago Brad and I were sitting on the back patio with our son Noah, who will be a high school senior next fall. We were having a conversation about jobs and vocations, and Noah had asked my husband and me if we thought it would be possible to afford to live in a tiny house on an annual salary of around $35,000. “It might be possible,” Brad answered, “depending on what part of the country you were living in and what other expenses you had.”

“Good,” Noah declared. “That means I might be able to work part-time, or at least less than full-time, so I’ll have more time to do what I want to do.”

“What do you mean, work part-time?” I replied, aghast. “What kind of ambition is that? Your father and I certainly aren’t going to pay to send you to college so you can work part-time!”

Here’s the irony: I responded to Noah without considering the fact that I have two college degrees and have worked part-time for the last 18 years.

I also made these remarks forgetting that just a few days earlier, the criteria I’d listed for living a full life looked a lot like what Noah was imagining.

Turns out, it’s one thing to pen a quaint list into my journal. It’s another thing entirely to consider what non-traditional choices might look like in the life of my own kid. In responding to my son’s musings about what he might like his adult life to look like, I had automatically defaulted to both society’s and my own long-held definition of “success.”

Whether part-time work and a tiny house will actually be realistic options for Noah someday isn’t really the heart of the matter here. The heart of the matter, I’m beginning to understand, is that the definition of a satisfying and reverent life won’t necessarily look the same for everyone, nor will it necessarily mirror our culture’s ever-increasing “be more, do more, earn more, have more” expectations.

A few days after that back patio conversation, I thought again about the emperor’s question as I lay in the hammock, watching the clouds wisp across a sapphire sky, listening to a singsonging trio of goldfinches as they came and went at the feeder. The hammock rocked like a cradle in the spring breeze. I could feel the sun-warmed fabric beneath my bare legs. Above my head, seed pods dangled from the branches of the river birch tree like tassels on a Chinese lantern.

Do you see how few things you have to do to live a satisfying and reverent life?

I think I do. I think maybe, on the cusp of my 49th year, I am finally beginning to see.

When Your What’s Next Is What’s Right Now

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“So what’s next then?” he asked me, arms crossed, standing at the threshold of the conference room where I set up my laptop, notebook and file folders twice a week. I’d just told my boss about my recent decision to leave book publishing, and his question did not come as a surprise.

It was my answer that surprised him.

“This,” I said to my boss, nodding to my laptop and my file folders on the conference room table. “What I’m doing right now is what’s next.”

I could see surprise in his raised eyebrows and hear it in the pause that yawned open in the small room. He laughed a little, not quite sure how to respond to my vague, unambitious answer, and I changed the subject so as not to prolong the awkwardness.

But my answer to my boss’s question was the truth. My “what’s next” is what’s right now.

The truth is, our culture demands that we have our “what’s next” all figured out. We are expected to follow a logical trajectory in our professional and personal lives. We are expected to have a one-year plan, a five-year plan, a ten-year plan. We are expected to have goals – to be ready with an acceptable answer when we’re asked “what’s next?”

It’s the American way, right? We strive. We have ambition. We have our “what’s next” lined up, and it typically follows an upward trajectory.

For most of my life this is exactly how I’ve operated. I had the plan, the strategy, the vision. I plotted my trajectory, methodically ticked through the necessary milestones to reach my goal. I’ve always lived with my heart, mind and soul set on the future – one foot in what’s next, and what’s next after that.

These days, though, I’m finding what I most desire is to live with both feet firmly planted in right now. I am craving small and ordinary. I am craving valuable but not necessarily publicly visible work. I am craving face-to-face connection, intimacy, smaller circles.

Admitting I don’t have my next thing worked out – that in fact, my right now is what’s next – is the antithesis of societal and cultural expectations, especially when it comes to one’s professional life. And yet, it feels right. I feel incredible freedom and contentment in doing good but largely invisible work for The Salvation Army, in stepping back from the relentless push toward platform- and brand-building, in living more intentionally in the mundane but surprisingly satisfying facets of my life.

I write fundraising copy for my part-time job. I refill the Oriole feeder with grape jelly. I shuttle one kid to tennis lessons, the other to a study session. I walk the dog and empty the dishwasher. I follow my son across a wide-open space as he takes photographs for a class project. I sit on the back patio with my husband as the evening breeze blows through the white pines and the cardinals call to one another from the honey locust trees. A painted lady butterfly lands on the lilac, and the baby squirrels skitter up the river birch.

Maybe a big “what’s next” will reveal itself in time. Or maybe not. Maybe, as Susanna Wesley once said, some of us are called “to be content to fill a small space if God be glorified.” For my right now, that feels exactly right.

A Legacy of Generosity: In Memory of Rachel Held Evans

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Bestselling author and speaker Rachel Held Evans died on May 4 after a short illness. She was only 37. I didn’t know Rachel well; I never met her in person. Nonetheless, she had a profound impact on my life, not only because she helped change the trajectory of my writing career, but also because as a questioner and a spiritual wrestler, Rachel was a kindred spirit. Though our spiritual journeys were very different, her story touched me deeply and resonated with me as someone who has struggled with doubt – a topic she wrote about in two of her books (Searching for Sunday and Faith Unraveled) as well as on her blog.

I wrote this essay the day after Rachel died. It ran this past weekend in my local newspaper, but I wanted to share it with you here, too.

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Bestselling author and speaker Rachel Held Evans died unexpectedly a little more than a week ago. She was 37 years old — a wife, a mother to two young children, an influencer, an advocate and a generous supporter and encourager of many, myself included.

I first connected with Rachel in 2011, shortly after I’d started blogging. I don’t recall exactly how our paths crossed online, but at some point, after we had exchanged a few emails, I summoned the courage to ask if she would be willing to read a couple chapters of my memoir manuscript. Despite her own full schedule of speaking and writing, Rachel didn’t hesitate to say yes to my request. A few weeks after I emailed her the rough draft of my book, she asked if she could send it to her literary agent.

This was no small gesture. By that point I had been pitching literary agents for two years and had had zero success. I’d already received nearly a dozen rejections, including one from Rachel’s agent. It seemed every door on the path to publishing had closed. Until, that is, a woman I’d never met in person offered to help.

Rachel’s agent eventually signed me as a client. Seven years and four published books later, I have Rachel Held Evans to thank. Without her generous offer to use her influence and connections to benefit me, a virtual stranger, I truly believe I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to publish a single word.

In the days following Rachel’s death, my social media feeds were filled with a near-constant stream of similar testimonials, a telling memorial of her generosity and kindness. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one Rachel had helped along the way.

Countless authors shared stories of how Rachel had encouraged them, used her influence to give their careers a much-needed boost and championed their work. Others shared how Rachel’s own writing had shaped their faith and renewed their hope in God. Still others testified how Rachel had used her platform to advocate for the marginalized, particularly members of the LGBTQ community, people of color and women in the church.

Rachel Held Evans stewarded her influence well, but the truth is (and I learned this from her), regardless of whether we are famous or not, or whether we have a substantial platform or not, each of us has the opportunity to do the same. We may not have the reach to impact thousands like Rachel did, but we can offer encouragement, extend kindness, love extravagantly, champion others and give generously in our own small ways and within our own individual spheres of influence, just as she did in hers.

Maybe this looks like writing a letter of recommendation for the high school student who aspires to attend college, or providing a stellar reference for the friend in the midst of a job search.

Maybe this looks like advocating for a marginalized person in your community or validating someone who feels unseen.

Maybe this looks like emailing your boss to praise a colleague’s efforts that otherwise would have gone unnoticed or offering a word of encouragement to a struggling neighbor.

No matter how small our sphere, there is always someone we can lift up.

I didn’t know Rachel Held Evans well, but I am grateful for her, not only because her generosity made a difference in my own career, but also because she left a beautiful and powerful legacy, reminding me that I can and should use my own bit of influence to benefit others. I want to be more like Rachel: an “influencer” in the very best sense of the word.

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Rachel leaves behind her husband Dan and two children under age three. If you would like to support her family, you can make a donation in her memory here.