Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

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Why Small Talk {even about the weather} Is More Important Than You Might Think

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Recently I was reviewing the daily listings I had recorded in my gratitude journal during January, and I noticed something I didn’t expect to see. Nearly every day my list of three or four “gratitudes” included at least one interaction with another person:

Catching up with Summer over coffee.

Stopping on the bike path to pet Kona and chat with Mary Jo.

A friendly conversation with the Hobby Lobby cashier.

Laughing with friends at Trivia Night.

Reconnecting with Kelli.

Chatting about the cold snap with the guy at the birdseed store.

I was surprised. The truth is, I’m not the most social person you’ll ever meet. Given the choice between time spent with others and time spent alone, I’ll typically opt for solitude. Yet in examining the pages of my journal, it was obvious that even the briefest interaction with another person, including a stranger, had been less an empty exchange of pleasantries and more a legitimate bright spot in my day.

It was clear from the variety of people and the types of interactions that neither the topic nor the duration of the conversation were as important as the simple act of connecting with another human being.

That said, I was also a little dismayed. Was my life so dull, I wondered, that making small talk with a stranger was enough to qualify as an entry on my gratitude list?

Turns out, a growing body of research supports the notion that small talk benefits us more than we might think.

In a 2014 study published in the “Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin,” researchers revealed that daily interactions with casual acquaintances or even strangers contributed to day-to-day satisfaction and contentment. Dr. Elizabeth Dunn, professor of psychology at the University of British Columbia, contends that people who reach out to strangers feel a significantly greater sense of belonging.

“It’s not that talking to the barista is better than talking to your husband,” said Dunn. “But interactions with more peripheral members of our social network actually matter for our well-being.”

Others social science researchers note that small talk with acquaintances and strangers increases our empathy, helps us find common ground and bonds us with others.

Examining my gratitude list for January reminded me that we need each other not only during difficult seasons, but also amid the ordinary comings and goings of our daily lives.

We need to see others and to be seen.

We need to be present to others and know that others are present with us.

We need to listen to others and to be heard.

These simple interactions might seem trivial on the surface, but they are important because they remind us that we are part of something bigger than ourselves – individual threads woven together to create a vibrant tapestry.

Last week my neighbor, Marian, stopped by my house to drop off a book. We chatted for a few minutes in my living room, our conversation meandering from topic to topic: books we’d read recently, her future travel plans, my dog’s languid disposition and, of course, the weather.

It wasn’t a long conversation – in fact, Marian didn’t even take off her coat as she perched on the edge of the wing chair – and yet, after she left, I felt an inexplicable lightness in both my body and my spirit.

Later that night, before I clicked off the bedside lamp, I penned a few more entries into my gratitude journal. Sure enough Afternoon chat with Marian made the day’s list.

This post was first published in the Lincoln Journal Star on February 9.
Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash

Community as a Courageous Act of Peace {and a book giveaway}

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Truly, I have never seen so much food at a single meal. Not on my mother-in-law’s Thanksgiving table. Not even at my Aunt Maureen’s annual Easter smorgasbord. The feast was epic.

A few weeks ago our friend Azzat mentioned that he and Afia wanted to host “a feast,” as the Yezidis say, as a way to thank all the people who had pitched in to set up their apartment before they arrived in Lincoln as refugees nearly two years ago.

“Invite everyone,” Azzat declared. He and Afia also insisted that no one bring a thing – not a bottle of wine or a liter of soda, not a bag of chips or a plate of brownies. “We want to do everything,” he said.

Sixteen of us squeezed into our friends’ townhouse living room on Sunday afternoon. We sat on the floor, our legs pulled in close so as to keep our socked feet clear of the plastic tablecloth that had been spread out on the carpet. Dish after dish was placed on the tablecloth: five roasted chickens, several huge tin foil pans of biryani and couscousi, 16 bowls of soup, 16 bowls of salad and a stack of naan so thick it could have doubled as an extra chair in a pinch.

We passed dishes back and forth, heaping spoonfuls of savory food high on one another’s plates, tearing pieces of soft naan, handing bowls around and across the makeshift table. I swear we ate for an hour and a half straight, and all the while, as friends new and old laughed and passed more plates, I couldn’t stop smiling. The photo my friend Kristen snapped with her iPhone captures my glee. In the picture, I’m grinning ear to ear like a fool, literally clapping my hands in sheer delight.

Our friends’ journey to Lincoln has been far from perfect. They wouldn’t have chosen it if they’d had any choice at all — that I know for sure. They left their beloved homeland, their culture, virtually all their possessions and most of their dearest friends and family to begin a new life free from the threat of ISIS, yet missing so many precious pieces of home. They have lived, and still live, daily heartbreak. They have lived, and still live, daily struggle.

And yet, in spite of incomprehensible hardship and loss, time and time again they give wholly of themselves and their resources to us. They don’t even think twice. They invite us and these friends of ours, strangers to them, into their own living room, they spread a table for us and lay out a feast and they lavish all of us with hospitality, generosity, warmth and love. They pour us the best wine, they cook for five hours to create all their best dishes (intentionally making extra so they can send every single one of their guests home with a plate of leftovers), they serve us, smiling and brushing off our praise like it’s all so no big deal.

But it is a big deal. As author Shannan Martin would say, this hospitality, this intentional walk toward, rather than away from another, is a very big deal.

“Offering ourselves as a kind-hearted presence in a world that has forgotten the meaning of community is a courageous act of peace,” writes Shannan in her beautiful book, The Ministry of Ordinary Places.

I love that, and I think that’s exactly why this beautiful family continues to astonish me. The ones considered outsiders and “other” by so many, the ones who arrived here from halfway around the world, the ones who have little compared to most of us, continuously offer their whole selves to us, welcoming us, embracing us and reminding us of what true community looks like.

Their kind-hearted presence in our lives and their generosity and investment in us is truly a courageous act of peace….and of love.

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I can’t think of a better book to give away with this post about community than Shannan Martin’s new release, The Ministry of Ordinary Places. If you don’t know Shannan, get thee to her website, pronto. She is of of my favorite writers, hands-down. I loved her first book, Falling Free, so much, I wrote about it in my own upcoming book. And I think The Ministry of Ordinary Places is even better! This book will make you laugh out loud and it will bring tears to your eyes, almost within the same paragraph. AND it will convict you in all the best ways about the power, beauty and gift of living with our ordinary neighbors in our ordinary places.

To be eligible for the drawing, please leave a comment telling us about one small thing a neighbor or friend did for you that made all the difference. I will draw one name at random on Monday, October 15 and will notify the winner by email.

Why the Plural Pronouns in the Lord’s Prayer Aren’t a Fluke

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Not long ago, I took it upon myself to edit the words of the Lord’s Prayer. That’s right: I rewrote the prayer written by Jesus himself. It wasn’t a complete rewrite, mind you; I simply tweaked the pronouns.

I decided the prayer would work better for me with singular rather than plural pronouns. For example, “Our father, who art in heaven,” became “My father, who art in heaven.” Likewise, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” became “Forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me,” and so on.

After all, I reasoned, the whole purpose of faith and religion is to encourage a personal relationship with God and, ultimately, personal salvation, right? What, then, was the point of praying in a plural voice? The “us” aspect of the prayer seemed to complicate the matter.

The funny thing was, I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried to pray my new individualized version of the Lord’s Prayer, I tripped over the words. Suddenly, the lines I’ve known by heart for decades refused to flow. My mind went blank, and I forgot whole sentences of the prayer I’d been praying since the second grade. Without the familiar plural pronouns in their rightful places, the prayer didn’t work.

The reason for this, of course, is the fact that, in the same way any habit is formed, the repetition of the same 70 words traveling the same neural pathway day in and day out over decades of recitation had firmly etched the Lord’s Prayer into my brain. Old habits die hard.

That said, though, the failed experiment gave me the unexpected opportunity to consider the question of why Jesus taught his disciples to prayer the Lord’s Prayer in the plural in the first place.

Turns out, the plural pronouns weren’t a mistake or even a fluke. Jesus taught his disciples, and us, to pray the Lord’s Prayer in the plural voice because our lives here on Earth aren’t about you and me individually, but rather, about you and me – us – here together.

Jesus knew that community is an integral component of faith. He knew that we need one another and that, ultimately, we are better together. When I pray the Lord’s Prayer, both alone and with others in communal worship, I am reminded that my relationship with God extends beyond myself. I am reminded that all of us together are Christ’s body. My daily bread is given, and I give daily bread to another. I am forgiven, and I forgive another.

Truth be told, I like my version of the Lord’s Prayer better, because on most days, I’d rather it be all about me. Living in community isn’t always easy. Our co-workers vote for the candidate we don’t like. Our neighbors think Creeping Charlie is a fine substitute for grass. Our family members leave their dirty socks on the living room floor (I’m speaking hypothetically, of course). Our friends hurt us, our loved ones betray us.

I don’t necessarily want to share my bread. I don’t necessarily want to forgive. I don’t necessarily want to see “the other side” of an argument.

Which is exactly why I need Jesus’ version rather than my own version of the Lord’s Prayer. I need to be reminded again and again as I pray the familiar words that it’s not just about me. It’s about us.

This post originally ran in the Lincoln Journal Star on July 14, 2018.

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The Year of Friendship & Hospitality

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Last November my closest friend here in Lincoln moved to Connecticut. Even now, nearly three months later, the impact of Deidra’s move still reverberates. I feel a quiet pang when I spot a car that looks like hers pass by. I notice my stubborn avoidance of the street where she and Harry lived, my reluctance to revisit one of our favorite lunch spots.

I miss the favorite sweater kind of easiness and comfort of my in-person friendship with Deidra. When my husband and I wanted to invite someone over for dinner or drinks on the patio, Deidra and Harry were our go-to couple. Our friendship had grown to a place where we didn’t have to work so hard at it. They were like family, without the baggage.

Back when our kids were preschoolers, Brad and I hosted dinner parties and gatherings with lots of different friends at our house pretty regularly. Without family nearby, we didn’t have easy babysitting options, so we did the next best thing: we invited friends to hang out with us in our home.

We were part of a supper club with two other couples who also had young children. We invited Brad’s colleagues or mine over for summer barbeques and winter potlucks. We belonged to a small group with members of our church, and even when we weren’t meeting weekly as part of a Bible study, we got together with our group for fun. We socialized with other parents of young children – women I had met in a local Mom’s Club and their husbands and kids.

As the years passed and our kids got older, Brad and I gradually stopped hosting dinner gatherings. For a long time I didn’t even notice the shift. It happened organically as our kids and our friends’ kids enrolled in different schools and pursued different interests.

Some of our core communities and friendships shifted into new spaces. Others gradually faded away altogether.

New friendships were forged along the sidelines of the soccer field or on the sidewalk at the periphery of the elementary school as we waited for the dismissal bell. Though we liked these new friends and enjoyed the opportunities we had to connect, most of these relationships didn’t grow beyond the sidelines or the sidewalks. When soccer season ended or school let out for the summer, months passed before I crossed paths with most of these women again.

I guess what I am saying is that I miss the friendships and connections that go deeper than small talk on the sidelines. I miss the rich scent of a home-cooked meal wafting into the cold night air when we open the door to greet our guests. I miss gathering around the table, candles flickering. I miss retiring to the living room after the meal, dessert plates balanced on our knees. I miss rich conversation and laughing until my stomach hurts.

On one hand, this is the season of life we are in right now – shuttling older kids to tennis lessons and cross country meets and math tutoring. Attending orchestra concerts, cheering on sidelines, proofreading English essays, dropping a carload of boys off at the movies.

Life is full. Life is busy.

At the same time, though, I think “this season,” “this busyness,” might also be an excuse I’ve allowed myself. In the same way I’ve become complacent about chasing curiosity, I’ve also grown complacent in pursuing rich, meaningful friendships.

This kind of relationship-building takes work. True community requires intentionality. Authentic connection that goes beyond sideline small talk requires time, trust, and a willingness of be vulnerable.

Inviting someone into your home to sit around your table invites intimacy on a deeper level – even more so, perhaps than meeting in a restaurant or another public space.Sometimes I think I choose sideline small talk because it’s easy, non-threatening, and doesn’t take much work.

I am lucky to have had (and still have) true friendship with Deidra. But that relationship and its shift into new territory these last couple of months has taught me something important. Life is full and busy, to be sure. But it’s neither too full nor too busy to pursue deeper, more fulfilling friendships that go beyond sideline small talk.

This year, I’m going to get back into the habit of practicing hospitality – of inviting new friends and old into my home and around my table. It’s a small step in the journey toward forming and growing authentic relationships, but it’s an important one – one I’ve neglected for far too long. And as a friend wisely noted, it might turn out that my two themes for the year — curiosity and hospitality — will go quite nicely together, each complementing the other.

This post is Part 2 in my two-part Themes for 2018 series. Two weeks ago I wrote about the Year of Curiosity, which you can read here. 

Practicing the Ministry of Presence

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Hi friends – I’m still on a blogging break, but I wanted to share my monthly column I wrote for the Journal Star with you. Thanks for your patience and grace as I take a little breather from (most of) my writing.

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Three weeks ago, the 33-year-old son of one of my father’s closest friends drowned while swimming in a small Massachusetts lake. According to reports, he jumped from a boat into the water and never resurfaced.

My parents were sleeping when the phone rang. At that point the body had not yet been found and recovered from the lake. My father’s friend, Don, and his wife had learned their son was missing and presumed dead when a police officer had knocked on their door that night. My dad was one of the first people they called.

After he got off the phone, my father dressed quickly and drove the short distance to his friend’s house, where he spent some time with him and his wife. The next morning my dad was at the lake with Don and his wife when the divers resumed their search. He was there again the following morning when the divers finally recovered the body.

Later, in a phone conversation with my dad, I asked him what he had done during all the hours he had spent at the lake. “Nothing really,” he said. “I was just there.”

My dad said most of the time he had sat on a bench a little ways away from the beach where the search and recovery operation was centered. Don came and sat next to him from time to time. They would talk a little bit, and then Don would get up from the bench to be with his wife or another one of his family members.

“He said he wanted me there, so I was there,” my dad said.

Often our inclination is to run in the opposite direction in the face of another person’s suffering or grief. We tend to make excuses for ourselves — “She would rather be alone…The family needs privacy right now…There’s nothing I can really do to help…” – because we are uncomfortable and afraid. When we do summon the courage to show up, we often feel compelled to do something or say something we think, or at least hope, will be helpful.

This isn’t to say that making a meal or mowing the lawn or offering prayers and condolences aren’t valuable things to do when someone you know is suffering. They are. But sometimes, especially in the earliest stages when grief is still registering as shock, simply coming alongside someone who is suffering when everyone else is turning away can be a precious gift.

Baptist minister Reverend Jeffrey Brown calls this practice of showing up the “ministry of presence.” “I find that among the most effective ways to do ministry is to shut up and just be there,” Brown said.

My dad and Don have known each other for 46 years. They both worked as guidance counselors at the same small high school in Connecticut. They are close in the way men of their generation often are. They attend one another’s milestone events, like retirement parties and children’s weddings. They go out to dinner together with their wives, or visit over beers on the back deck. They don’t often talk a lot about personal stuff. Yet my dad was the one Don called when tragedy struck. And my dad showed up.

Sitting on a lakeside bench in the background hour after hour doesn’t sound like much of an offering in the face of unimaginable tragedy. But in his small, unobtrusive way, my dad practiced the ministry of presence. He was there for his friend, and his presence — simple, quiet, and unadorned — was a gift.