Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

community

Move at the Pace of What Is Real

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Yesterday, as I gathered my water bottle and purse to make my way to The Salvation Army community center in north Omaha, eight words on the back of my notebook caught my eye.

“Move at the pace of what is real.”

I’d scrawled the sentence at a stoplight when I’d heard it on a podcast a few days before. I hadn’t been sure at the time what it meant exactly, but it somehow seemed important, something to pay attention to. I read the words a second time as I fished out my keys and slipped into my winter coat.

As I turned down Pratt Street, I saw that the line of people waiting wrapped around the outside of the low-slung brick building and down the sidewalk. The gym, when I walked in, smelled like sneakers and cooked vegetables. I settled into a metal chair at the tables in front, straightened my pile of forms and reviewed the instructions. The hundreds of folding chairs in rows across the length and width of the basketball court filled quickly. Each person held a slip of paper with a number penned in black Sharpie.

I signaled to the organizer that I was ready to see the first Christmas assistance applicant.

***

I held up her child’s Social Security card. “Girl or boy?” I asked, pointing to the name on the card.

“A girl – nina,” Florencia said, smiling. “In Spanish, girls’ names end in ‘a,’ boys’ names end in ‘o,’” she explained, her accent thick, her voice kind.

“I should know that,” I said, laughing sheepishly. “I’m sorry my Spanish is so terrible.”

“No, no,” she assured me. “You are fine. You are good.”

“Your name is beautiful,” I said, as Florencia gathered her paperwork. “And now I know you are a girl because your name ends in ‘a.’”

She smiled. “You are learning,” she said.

***

“I thought I was going to have to tell you that you didn’t qualify for senior assistance,” I replied to Ernestina when she told me she was 77. “You don’t look a day over 60!”

“People tell me that all the time,” she said, the skin around her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I believe it, Ernestina,” I replied.

“Call me Ernie,” she said, as I handed her back her Social Security card.

***

“How are you two this afternoon?” I asked the couple slumped in the folding chairs across from me. “I’ve been better,” Billy said. “It’s gotten cold too early this year.”

Lana said nothing as she pushed their Social Security cards toward me. Billy’s card was worn soft as flannel, the nine-digit number faded to a blur.

“Looks like this one has gotten some use over the years,” I said, holding up the card. “Yup,” Billy said, nodding. “It’s the original. I carry it with me everywhere.”

“Try to stay warm today,” I said, as they stood to leave.

***

They came and sat across from me – some old, some young; some stooped and slow with canes, others with babies on their hips, stuffed diaper bags hanging from their shoulders.

Some spoke perfect English; others labored over their few words. Some were put together, hair flat-ironed, makeup perfectly applied. Many more were disheveled, in mismatched clothes and layers.

I completed the proper paperwork – checking boxes, confirming addresses and telephone numbers, verifying documents, asking names and ages and shoe sizes and toy suggestions for their children and grandchildren. The line was long, and the chairs in the gym kept filling one after the other, but it seemed important not to rush. We made small talk and eye contact, and sometimes we laughed before we got down to business.

We sat across from one another in metal folding chairs in a gym that smelled like sneakers and cooked vegetables, and we moved at the pace of what was real.

 

Photo by Sangga Rima Roman Selia on Unsplash

The Small but Important Work of Talking in Rooms

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Two years ago my husband Brad and I received an invitation from the Bishop of our Nebraska Lutheran Synod to join an anti-racism committee. Honestly, I couldn’t have imagined a more unappealing idea at the time. Discussing racism with the Bishop and a bunch of church people, all of whom were strangers, sounded like a decidedly uncomfortable endeavor – one I frankly wanted no part of.

Then again, who says no to the Bishop? Not me, evidently. Not Brad either.

At the first meeting we sat with 20 or so others around a large conference table, and it was as awkward and uncomfortable as we had imagined it would be. Several people – me included – talked far too much. A few shared very little or were completely silent. The man sitting next to me wept. I remember thinking, Lord have mercy, please get me out of this.

Most of the people who showed up for that first meeting never returned (God apparently answered their prayer). Others faded away over time. In the end, we were left with seven regularly participating members.

Though we are small in number, we have made some decent progress over the last two years. We’ve completed several projects, including an online annotated resources list and a small group film discussion guide. More recently we developed and have begun to present a workshop at retreats, churches and gatherings around the state.

Honestly, I would have been content to create the online resources and call it good. Truth be told, I would much rather compose a study guide safely seated behind my computer screen. Or better yet, declare my opinions about racism in a Facebook post, where I can quickly disengage by simply logging out.

In-person dialogue, on the other hand, is unpredictable by nature. The truth is, walking into an unfamiliar setting amid a group of strangers and knowing I could receive a confrontational response or a challenging question makes me palm-sweating nervous. Co-leading in-person racism awareness workshops is infinitely out of my comfort zone.

And yet, I know it is exactly this kind of in-person dialogue that will help us move the conversation farther as a whole. As author Jenny Odell asks, “What if we spent our energy on saying the right things to the right people (or person) at the right time? What if we spent less time shouting into the void and being washed over with shouting in return – and more time talking in rooms to those for whom our words are intended?”

As someone who has spent more than her fair share of time, energy and words “shouting into the void” of social media, Odell’s questions give me pause. What if?

I think what’s more important than any of the tangible things our group has accomplished or produced is the fact that together we are practicing what we preach in real life and in real time. I can’t help but see that something beautiful, hopeful and real is being born out of our small committee and the work we are doing together – in large part because we are doing it in person, “talking in rooms,” as Odell says, both with one another and in small gatherings.

Two years ago the seven of us convened at a conference room table as strangers with seemingly little in common. Five of us are white; two are black. Some of us are pastors, some laypeople. Some of us are members of large urban congregations, others belong to smaller churches in rural communities.

We began by listening to one another, and, over time, shared our stories with increasing vulnerability and candor. Our “meetings,” which started in a church conference room, eventually moved to our living room, where we now sit on the sofa and nibble on snacks around the coffee table. We’ve enjoyed holiday meals and shared our favorite dishes. We have grown in community, discovering along the way that we are much more alike than we are different.

This past Sunday Brad and I attended our friend and fellow committee member Miriam’s ordination and installation at a church in Omaha. As Miriam kneeled at the altar, a diverse group of pastors from a variety of ecumenical traditions gathered around to lay their hands on her. In the pews, we stood shoulder to shoulder with the many colleagues, friends and family, black and white, who had come to celebrate with Miriam. At one point Brad leaned toward me and whispered, “Why can’t the church be like this?”

It’s true, for the most part it’s not like this – not yet. And the truth is, most days the very small work of our very small group feels like little more than a drop in the proverbial bucket. At the same time, though, I know and can feel in my heart and soul that this small work is in many ways the most important kind of work. I see promise, possibility and hope here. In our small group I see the promise and possibility of what we hope for the church, for our country and for our world.

How to Build a Bigger Table

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I called Angel on a Wednesday morning for a “human interest” article I’d been assigned for my job at The Salvation Army. I had very little information about him, aside from the fact that he and his wife host community dinners every few months for residents in their apartment complex.

I was skeptical. It didn’t sound like much of a story.

Angel answered on the second ring, and when I told him why I was calling, he eagerly began to talk. I pressed my cell phone to my ear and frantically scribbled into my notebook. Angel talked fast, and at times, I struggled to understand his words through his accent. But one thing was immediately clear: Angel had a story.

As a young boy living in San Antonio, Angel had learned to cook in order to survive. Homeless at age seven, he’d lived under a bridge and had panhandled on the streets, pooling his resources with other homeless children and adults, together cooking the food they’d gathered over an open fire.

Today Angel and his wife, Christy, live in a Section 8 apartment in Kearney, where every few months they invite all the residents in their building to a home-cooked dinner. The morning I spoke to Angel he was preparing to make “Mexican goulash.”

The idea for the community dinners was sparked three years ago at Thanksgiving, when Angel realized many of his neighbors didn’t have anyone with whom to share the holiday meal. More than 30 people showed up for that first Thanksgiving dinner, which Angel and Christy, both of whom are disabled, paid for with their food stamps. When staff at their local Salvation Army Corps heard about the community dinners, they donated additional food to help offset the costs.

The dinners are a lot of work, Angel admitted. And they aren’t perfect. Sometimes disagreements break out; people argue. But overall, the rewards are worth the effort.

“I like to watch the faces of the people as they eat,” Angel said. “It warms my heart to see everyone together.” He appreciates that the dinners draw residents, many of whom are elderly and isolated, out of their apartments to connect with one another. “None of us really knew each other before this,” he said.

Nowadays Angel and Christy don’t even have to post notices about upcoming dinners in the elevator or the laundry room. “People just smell the food and they show up,” Angel said.

Last week I sat in a pew at First Plymouth Church and listened as author and pastor John Pavlovitz urged the audience to “build a bigger table.” Pavlovitz was talking about the practice of radical hospitality — of broadening our circles to include people who don’t look like us, vote like we do, practice the same faith, make the same lifestyle choices or celebrate the same cultural traditions.

Hours after Pavlovitz had finished his talk, I was still mulling over his words. The idea of “building a bigger table” sounded promising and inspiring when preached from the pulpit, but the truth was, I had trouble envisioning what it would look like from a practical perspective. “Where would I even start?” I wondered. “What does ‘building a bigger table’ look like in actual, everyday life?”

Then I remembered Angel, who showed me exactly what building a bigger table looks like in actual, everyday life. Fix an enormous pot of Mexican goulash, invite your neighbors — every last one of them — to your table, and eat together.

It really is that simple.

This post first appeared in the Lincoln Journal Star on April 13, 2019.

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.

::

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.