Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

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What a Newborn Baby Taught Me about America the Beautiful

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A baby girl named Eileen Aldake was born this week. Like every name, hers has a story. And like almost every story, this one includes painful chapters, as well as chapters brimming with joy and hope.

My husband and I first met Eileen’s parents and siblings a year and a half ago in the Lincoln airport. They looked travel-weary that afternoon, a little bit like deer caught in a blinding headlight.

They’d been on the run, persecuted by ISIS in Iraq. They’d lost friends and loved ones to genocide and left others behind, unsure when, or if, they would see them again. Their community had been fractured into a thousand shards. They’d traveled more than 6,000 miles to arrive in a foreign land as refugees, their belongings packed into six suitcases.

Since that first chaotic day we met the Aldakes in the airport, we’ve gotten to know them, not just as our “sponsored family,” but, as the weeks and months have passed, as people we now call friends. We’ve played soccer in the park, shared watermelon and platters of dolma, colored princess and unicorn pictures, cheered Real Madrid while we sipped sugary chai tea.

We’ve watched as their kids have learned English and settled into their new school. We’ve witnessed Afia juggle the demands of four young children while taking English classes and learning to drive. We’ve observed Azzat manage near full-time work as a translator along with full-time college, steadily making progress toward earning his degree.

I can’t imagine doing even half of what they have accomplished over these last 18 months. They have not only survived in this foreign land they now call home; they have thrived.

A few weeks ago Brad and I sat in the Aldakes’ living room enjoying a plate of homemade kulicha, as we so often do when we visit. We were talking about the baby, due to arrive in late June. When Azzat asked me what my favorite girl’s name was, I told him if we’d had a girl ourselves, Brad and I had planned to name her Eileen, after my maternal grandmother.

Azzat turned to Afia, and they conversed in Kurdish for a few seconds. Then he turned back to Brad and me. “It’s Eileen then,” he announced. “We will name the baby Eileen.”

Brad and I protested. “No, no, no,” we insisted. “We were just making conversation! We should definitely not name your baby!” This was an important decision, we said. Didn’t they want to choose an Iraqi name – maybe a name that had special meaning in their Yezidi culture?

Azzat stood firm. “Eileen,” he said. “She will be called Eileen.”

On Sunday morning of this week, Eileen was born. Azzat texted me from the hospital to get the correct spelling of her name for the birth certificate. On Wednesday of this week we celebrate the Fourth of July, the day each year that Americans remember our nation’s defining principles and values and the rights we cherish so deeply: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

How fitting it is that tiny Eileen Aldake made her way into the world this week, of all weeks.

Eileen Aldake, born to Iraqi Yezidi parents who arrived in this country as refugees seeking asylum, is an American citizen, named after my maternal grandmother, the daughter of Irish immigrants. How apropos that we celebrate both the birth of this precious baby and the country that offers her and her family freedom, security, opportunity and religious liberty.

How often I take those “certain unalienable rights” for granted. The Aldakes, persecuted for their religion and culture, have a much greater appreciation for these rights than I, from my position of privilege, ever will.

Back when I was in elementary school, I was taught that America was a melting pot – a blending of many different peoples and cultures into one entity known as “America.” Turns out, that metaphor wasn’t quite right. We are not a country comprised of an indistinguishable mass of people. America is not a bland blurring of watered-down sameness.

Rather, we are a tapestry, an infinite number of threads – cultures, ethnicities, traditions, music, food, fashion, languages, religions, customs – woven together to create a vibrant, rich, varied, eclectic, beautifully unique America.

America is America because of our defining principles and our “certain unalienable rights,” this is true. But America is also America because of our people. This country has always been and continues to be comprised of immigrants (with the glaring exception, of course, of the indigenous people, who we drove from their own land, and the African-American people, who we brought here enslaved and against their will). Our immigrant heritage is in large part the very reason America is what it is today.

How perfectly fitting, then, that baby Eileen is the daughter of Iraqi immigrants and, at the same time, named for my maternal grandmother, daughter of Irish immigrants who, too, traveled thousands of miles to seek out a better life. How perfectly “American” her name is: Eileen Aldake — two diverse stories, two diverse histories, threads woven together into a uniquely beautiful tapestry. How perfectly fitting that she was born this week, of all weeks, when we celebrate America the beautiful.

My birthday is this Wednesday – the Fourth of July – and I can’t think of a more meaningful birthday gift than the arrival of this sweet baby who bears the name of my Irish-American maternal grandmother. Not only am I deeply touched that our friends named their precious baby Eileen, it’s also a gift this week to celebrate tiny Eileen Aldake and her dear family, who are the embodiment of so much of what makes America truly beautiful.

When You Need a Wake-Up Call to Remember Who You Truly Are

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A few weeks ago, as we were throttling headlong toward the last day of school, I called one morning to have my oldest dismissed from class for an orthodontist’s appointment. I spoke to the school’s receptionist, letting her know that I would pick Noah up at 11:30 and bring him back shortly after lunch.

A couple of hours later my cell phone rang while I was out running. When I saw it was the school, I quickly paused the podcast I’d been listening to and answered the call.

“Hi, Ms. DeRusha,” the school receptionist said. “You called earlier to have Noah dismissed this afternoon, but it seems we don’t have a record of a Noah Johnson at this school. According to our files, Noah finished up middle school two years ago and is now a sophomore at the high school.”

I stood dumbstruck on the running path, my brain frantically trying to catch up to what I was hearing in my ear. Finally the pieces clicked into place. I had called the middle school rather than the high school to dismiss Noah for his orthodontist’s appointment. I’d called to have my son dismissed from a school he hadn’t attended in two years.

The receptionist on the line was quiet as I stammered out an explanation, a response undoubtedly made even more disturbing by the fact that, because she’d caught me mid-run, I was wheezing great, laborious gasps into the phone between sentences.

She gently asked if I needed her to call the high school to have Noah dismissed, an offer I did my best, between gasps, to gracefully decline. I’m sure I sounded like nothing less than an unhinged lunatic.

This, friends, is what distraction looks like. This is what happens when your brain synapses are firing in 146 different directions. This is what happens when you don’t allow yourself time to take a breath, but instead hurtle onward in overdrive, to-do list in hand, myriad balls in the air, bent on accomplishing every last thing.

The truth is, hustle-produce-achieve is my default, and it’s frightfully easy for me to slip mindlessly into that mode. Add a couple of important deadlines and an increased workload to the busy end-of-the-year school schedule, and presto, I’m hustling morning, noon and night.

The problem is, while we might be able to handle 24/7 hustle for a little while – maybe a few weeks, or even a few months – we can’t continue to burn the candle at both ends indefinitely. Because here’s the truth about the hustle-produce-achieve existence: it doesn’t just result in a frazzled mind; in my experience, it also results in a fractured soul.

When we’re deep in hustle-produce-achieve mode, we’re more apt to lose sight of our true self – the person created by and beloved by God. Rather than resting in the knowledge of who we are at the center of our heart, mind and soul, we find ourselves scrambling to define and identify ourselves by what we do.

Honestly, I’ve spent most of my life defining myself by what I’ve produced or achieved. It’s only more recently that I’ve begun to understand that who I truly am is not defined by all the things I do.

On one hand, my phone call to the wrong school was just a silly, albeit mortifying, mistake. On the other hand, though, it was a red flag, a literal wake-up call right there in the middle of the running path —  a reminder to take a breath, dial back the hustle and the need to achieve and perform, and remember who I am – known, seen and, above all, beloved.

How Will You Live Your One Life?

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My husband Brad and I attended a memorial service a few weeks ago for a person we hadn’t known well. Between the two of us, we’d probably engaged in fewer than a dozen ten-minute conversations with Dennis in the several years we were acquainted with him. Yet as Brad observed, he always walked away from even the briefest conversation with Dennis feeling lighter and more positive. It seemed important to honor that, and so, on a Saturday morning in early May we slipped into one of the back pews to pay our respects.

As we waited quietly for the service to begin, I read the obituary printed on the inside of the program. I knew Dennis had been a quarterback for the University of Nebraska Huskers back in the 1960s, but I hadn’t known he’d also been drafted by the NFL. Turns out, he attended the University of Nebraska’s College of Dentistry during the NFL off seasons until he was asked by the dean to make a choice between full time school and football. The obituary noted that Dennis chose dentistry and never looked back.

The eulogy offered us further insights into Dennis’ character. We heard, for example, that he had used his dentistry skills to help the less fortunate, a passion that was kindled during multiple mission trips to Honduras.

We also learned that he was the kind of person who sought out those who were suffering. On Sunday mornings, the pastor noted, Dennis always made a beeline directly to the person he knew was going through a tough time. In the midst of Dennis’ own three-year battle with cancer, for example, he regularly visited a young man in the congregation who was undergoing chemotherapy at the same time.

As I listened to the eulogy for Dennis, I couldn’t help but recall the last line of Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Summer Day,” in which she asks, “So tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

The more I thought about the poem’s question in light of Dennis’ obituary and eulogy, the more I realized Oliver isn’t referring to our professional successes, our awards or our accolades – in other words, the kinds of details that might be listed in an obituary.

With the exception of someone like Oprah, most of us won’t be remembered for our professional achievements. Dennis’ accomplishments as a star college quarterback, as a successful orthodontist with his own practice and even as an NFL football player are important, to be sure, but in the end, those professional accomplishments are mere footnotes in the larger story of his life.

What his colleagues, friends, loved ones, and even acquaintances like Brad and I will remember most about Dennis was who he was as a person.

We will remember his kindness, his gregariousness, his genuine smile.

We will remember his generosity and compassion.

We will remember his solid faith.

We will remember the simple fact that chatting with Dennis, even for just five minutes, always gave us a little more spring in our step.

I think Mary Oliver would agree that Dennis lived his “one wild and precious life” well, not because of the extraordinary things he accomplished, but because of how well he lived the ordinary, largely unseen moments of his one life.

Each of us is allowed the same choice Dennis had. The question is: how will we live our “one wild and precious life,” not just in the extraordinary moments, but in all the ordinary moments in between.

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If this post resonated with you, consider signing up to receive my weekly blog posts in your in-box (or, if you’d prefer, my monthly newsletter, The Back Patio — a casual chat about books, podcasts, and fun, everday life kinds of things). You can sign up over HERE, and as a free gift for subscribing, I’ll also send you my free e-book, 5 Unconventional Spiritual Practices for Your Soul.

3 Reasons to Spend More Time Outside

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Yesterday, after a long day at the computer, I stepped out my back door and plunked into one of the metal patio chairs.

I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and listened to the melodious chatter of two goldfinches, perched in the river birch above my head. I breathed in the sweet scent of magnolia blooms and felt the cement pavers rough and warm under my bare feet. When I opened my eyes, I caught a glimpse of a hummingbird zip past the lilac shrub, its tiny body a flash of jewel tones in the afternoon light.

I sat outdoors just ten short minutes, but by the time I stepped back into the house to prepare dinner, I felt like a new person.

The positive impact of nature on our minds, bodies and souls is not news to Florence Williams. She wrote a whole book about why being in nature, even for just a short while, makes us happier, healthier and more creative.

“Scientists are quantifying nature’s effects not only on mood and well-being, but also on our ability to think – to remember things, to plan, to create, to daydream and to focus – as well as on our social skills,” Williams explains in her book, The Nature Fix.

I don’t know about you, but when it comes to remembering things, I can use all the help I can get. Skimming, scrolling, texting and sound bites comprise the bulk of my communications and entertainment these days, often leaving my brain feeling like a flashing, clanging pinball machine.

…Today I’m over at The Art of Simple, writing about 3 Reasons to Spend More Time Outside. Click here to read the rest of the story over there. 

How to Rekindle Creativity as an Adult

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I’ve been listening to a new-to-me podcast called Slow Home during my morning jogs, and this morning the hosts got me thinking about the importance of creativity – in particular, the act of creating not to produce something, but simply for the enjoyment of the creative process itself.

Toward the end of the episode one of the hosts quoted Albert Einstein, who once said, “Creativity is intelligence having fun,” and for the remainder of my run, I couldn’t stop mulling over the connection between fun, intelligence and creativity. I kind of liked the image of my stodgy, properly behaved brain loosening up, unpinning her hair, so to speak, and having a little party up there.

The truth is, though, creativity for the sake of being creative – “fun creativity” – does not come easily to me. As an Enneagram 3, I tend to be hyper-focused on producing and outcomes. And because my job as a writer is so tightly entwined with my creativity, I often find it hard to separate the two. The more I thought about it as I plodded toward home, the more I realized I don’t know how to be creative without production as the impetus. 

At one point in the episode the hosts suggested that those of us struggling to figure out how to be creative might consider reflecting on the creative endeavors we enjoyed as a kid.

Let me tell you, it nearly stopped me in my tracks to realize that I couldn’t remember doing anything creative in my youth. I colored in coloring books, always making sure to stay within the lines. I played with Barbies, rode my bike and read as much as I could. On a really crazy day, I constructed a blanket fort in the basement and then crawled inside to read with a flashlight.

I was about to give up entirely on the idea that I’d ever enjoyed any creative endeavors as a kid, when suddenly I remembered how much I had loved spending time outdoors.

When I was young my family owned a camper that we parked in a woodsy campground called Sun Valley (I’m not making that up). We essentially lived there all summer long, returning home only occasionally so my dad could mow the lawn (he was a teacher, so he had summers off) and my mother could catch up on laundry and bills.

To this day, the scent of citronella instantly whisks me back to the picnic table under the striped awning, the campfire snapping and popping, whip-poor-wills calling from the birch trees.

During the long, hot afternoons, while my mom read romance novels in her beach chair, Coppertoned legs outstretched, I swam in the  lake with my sister and our friends. We’d breaststroke to the float, hoist ourselves up the metal ladder, and sprawl on the splintered wood, warming our bodies brown in the sun.

Later, when my mother tuned the camper’s tiny black and white television to “The Phil Donahue Show” while she boiled hot dogs on the Coleman stove, I’d head to the stream, which for reasons that even then didn’t entirely make sense, we all called Gilligan’s Island.

There, in the dappled late afternoon light, we’d splash around in our bare feet, hunting for crayfish under slick rocks, plotting how to divert the flow of water with a network of hand-constructed channels and dams, and belting out “Put Another Nickel In” into sticks we pretended were microphones. What we made — our elaborate dams, our songs, the delicate fairy houses of twigs and flower petals — didn’t last. We simply enjoyed creating them in the moment and then left them behind when we were done to be enveloped by the rhythms of nature.

These outdoor experiences of my youth might not be considered “creative” in the traditional sense, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that’s exactly what they were. During the languid, seemingly endless days at Sun Valley, I followed my curiosity wherever it led. I immersed myself in the landscape. I discovered an endless array of intriguing flora and fauna – the plant in the boggy woods behind the camper that looked like lettuce but smelled a lot like skunk; the plump, flushed cup of the Lady’s Slipper; the insect, slim as the thinnest stick, that skittered across the surface of the water eddying dark and mysterious under the mossy bank.

Back then, I wasn’t creating to make or produce something. I was simply participating in the ongoing creation and flourishing of my true self.

I think back to my years at Sun Valley with great gratitude. I’m lucky to have had such an idyllic childhood, largely free from worries and cares. I recall that time with nostalgia, even with a bit of sadness, knowing that kind of creative freedom and exuberant living cannot be entirely rekindled.

Yet I’m also convinced that as adults, we need to pursue that kind of unbridled curiosity — to allow ourselves to be creative simply for the fun of it. I’m not exactly sure what “fun creativity” in nature might look for me now, as a 47-year-old mother of two teenage boys, working two jobs and living in the smallish city of Lincoln, Nebraska in the middle of the Great Plains. It probably won’t involve catching crayfish or singing a 1950s hit into a microphone stick. But I do know this: it would be worth my while to find out, not only for the sake of my professional writing life, but, even more importantly, for the wellbeing of my mind, body and soul.

So tell me…how are you creative as an adult? Like me, do you struggle with “fun creativity,” or have you found something you like to do or make that fills you with exuberant joy, just because? 

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If this post resonated with you, consider signing up to receive my weekly blog posts in your in-box (or, if you’d prefer, my monthly newsletter, The Back Patio). You can sign up over HERE, and as a free gift for subscribing, I’ll also send you my free e-book, 5 Unconventional Spiritual Practices for Your Soul.