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Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

take a risk

It Begins with the Leap

May 1, 2013 By Michelle 32 Comments

I watch him for a while as he swings across the pool from one dangling ring to the next. He makes it look so easy, so effortless, soaring over the water like a gymnast. “I’m going to try that,” I announce to my husband, heaving myself out of the water. “I’m going to try those ring things.”

“Really? I think it’s a lot harder than it looks,” Brad says.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to try it anyway,” I say, striding toward the line.

No matter that I have arms like silly string. No matter that I can muster a total of six man-style push-ups. I will master the rings. I will soar from ring to ring across the pool like Jane of the Jungle.

I get in line, shivering behind six beefy-armed men. The fact that there are no other women in the line gives me slight pause. The one man I’d watched earlier continues to glide over the water each time his turn comes, grabbing and releasing the rings in a graceful rhythm. I keep my eye on him, studying his technique, watching his timing.

When it’s finally my turn, I wipe my hands on my bare legs and grab the ring with my right hand. And then I take a giant step back and leap off the edge of the concrete.

I don’t even make it to the second ring. Instead, I swing forward, paw at the air with my left hand, miss the second ring entirely and then swing back again. I neglect to let go of the ring in time. My body hits the concrete wall, and I slide like a dead fish into the cold water.

I come up sputtering, a crowd of onlookers peering over the side of the pool, calling down, “Are you okay?” One guy simply says, “Whoa.”

Noah still talks about “the time Mommy hit the pool wall and fell into the water with everyone watching.” I shudder when I think what I must have looked like, flailing gawkily in my tankini, my body smacking the wall like a side of beef on a hook.

Still, I don’t regret trying the Tarzan rings. Despite my damaged ego, I’m glad I gave it my best shot.

I’ve leaped a lot in my life, especially in recent years. I leaped into moving to Nebraska (okay, maybe we call that one “was dragged against her will”). I leaped into faith. I leaped into writing. Most recently I’ve leaped into public speaking. At some point in the midst of all these leaps, I’ve smacked into a wall – a wall of disappointments, doubts, failures, frustrations and fear.

Leaping is scary. Yet I also believe that despite the risks and the fear, it’s necessary. Because if you don’t ever leap, you won’t ever know what could have been. And what could have been might have made all the difference.

For me, leaping has made the difference between unbelief and faith. It’s made the difference between living passively and living passionately. It’s made the difference between existing comfortably in the box and thriving in the wild open.

It’s true, sometimes when you leap you fall; sometimes you smack hard into a wall and get the wind knocked clean out of you. But sometimes you soar. You may not realize it in the moment, but in leaping you are soaring into the start of something new, something beautiful and life-changing and good.

It all begins with the leap.

Tell me, what leap has made the biggest difference in your life? 

: :

This story ran last Saturday in the Lincoln Journal Star.

{and I know I’ve used this picture of Rowan leaping into a Minnesota lake a bunch of times on this blog, but I can’t help myself – it’s such a great picture, and that kid is absolutely fearless!}

Filed Under: doubt, faith, fear, take a risk, unbelief, writing Tagged With: taking a leap of faith

Five Horses, a Cowboy and a Creek: A Tale of Holding On

June 20, 2012 By Michelle 49 Comments


“Come on…it’ll be fun,” I cajole. “All you have to do is sit there; the horse pretty much does everything else, I promise.”

I really don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, but I make my best case to Noah, who is gravely skeptical about the adventure. Soon the four of us stand in the middle of a dusty corral surrounded by the snow-covered Tetons and a herd of whinnying horses, most of them with their noses in a feed trough.

“This here is Minnie Pearl,” says the man with the scuffed boots and the faded cowboy hat, gesturing to a brown horse with a ragged tail, a smear of dried mud on her hindquarters. I place my left hiking boot in the stirrup and with a grunt, swing myself into the saddle.

I’ve only been on a horse one other time in my life, as a Girl Scout at horseback riding camp. That was 30 years ago. Suddenly, for all my enthusiastic talk about “how fun it will be,” almost-42 seems a little old for this kind of thing. Minnie Pearl is higher than I imagined, now that I’m sitting on her back. I grip the saddle horn with both hands, reins clenched in my fingers, and I feel scared. Especially when I see my kids perched straight-backed and solemn on their horses. “You okay ?” Cole, our guide, asks, turning to Noah, who follows on ‘Lil Blue behind him. “You look terrified.”

Noah’s been terrified of this adventure all along, but now even Rowan, who’s listing slightly to the left in ‘Lil Paint’s saddle, is strangely quiet, and my heart thumps wildly as we approach the muddy creek, our horses creeping along the trail in single file.

Only Brad seems unruffled, sitting as calm and tall as Sir Lancelot, reins held lightly in his right hand, left hand resting on his thigh. How in the world is he managing to look so regal, while I’m galumphing along like a flummoxed peasant? Is it because he’s on a stately stallion while I’ve got a dowdy brown mare? Minnie Pearl whips her head away from ‘Lil Paint’s swishing tail and I screech, grabbing a fistful of mane in my hand.

Rowan’s horse balks at the edge of the bank – perhaps he doesn’t like to get his feet wet? – but finally, after much snapping of reins and “giddyupping,”  we make it across the spring-swollen creek and enter a meadow of sage and aspen.

I relax a bit, despite the fact that a bone I’d long forgotten even exists suddenly rears out of post labor and delivery dormancy. As I shift up and down in the saddle, futilely trying to get comfortable, I can see from the slope of his shoulders that Noah has begun to enjoy himself up ahead. We all laugh as Jughead, Brad’s stallion, strips tender leaves from branches with one clamp of his giant teeth and then neighs shrilly, startling us and making me shriek again. I’m sure our guide, a real cowboy from Waco, must feel disdain for tourists like me, with my screeches and nervous giggles. Up ahead, Cole fiddles with something, cowboy hat bent low. I assume he’s texting, until I see him spit a brown stream of tobacco into the woods.

We’re headed back now, poised to cross the creek downstream, but as the horses splash in, one after the other, I realize in a panic that the river runs much deeper and faster at this spot. Frigid water sloshes over my right boot, soaking my jeans halfway up my shin, and I feel Minnie Pearl strain against the current, her big body pushed sideways, neck stretched out long.

Noah and ‘Lil Blue bound safely onto the opposite bank, but when I glance behind me, I see Rowan tilting dangerously to one side of the saddle as ‘Lil Paint labors, half-swimming across the raging stream. Rowan’s eyes are wide as he looks straight at me, his two hands white against the reins.

It’s over in just a few seconds, and then we’re on a sandy spit, horses panting, tails dripping. Cole dismounts, saunters over to Rowan and adjusts his saddle and stirrups. “Water’s running pretty good, ain’t it?” he observes, spitting another brown stream onto the river rocks. I don’t like the fact that our seasoned cowboy seems mildly impressed with the creek. It makes me wonder if we were in any actual danger, especially Rowan, clinging to the neck of his horse.

“We’re you scared?” I ask Rowan later. The horses are back at the trough, and we walk with rubbery legs to the mini-van. “Not really,” he answers. “I could tell ‘Lil Paint knew what to do, so I didn’t need to do anything except hold on.”

I think about that simple statement as we rumble over the dirt road back to our cabin, a wake of dust hanging like a gauzy veil behind us. Slogging through a raging torrent, plunging into a deep valley, trudging across the barren wilderness…sometimes it’s all we can do to hold on, gripping the reins, trusting that someone leads, someone who knows exactly what to do.  

Sometimes, it seems, holding on for dear life is the smartest move of all.

Have you ever felt like you were holding on for dear life…on a horse or otherwise?

With Emily and Jennifer:



 

And Ann, writing about how to live here when home is in Heaven:
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Filed Under: adventure, Grand Tetons, hit the road, parenting, take a risk, trust, wilderness

10 Lessons from My First Week as a Full-Time Writer

May 11, 2012 By Michelle 29 Comments

1.     Anticipating a major career change is much more stressful than making the actual leap.
2.     A short haircut may be in my future, as clearly I am going to wear my long hair in a ponytail every single day (and really, what’s the point of that?).
3.    Having writing work now does not mean I won’t lie awake at night worrying that I won’t have work later.
4.    Mascara will no longer play a featured role in my morning beauty routine. Lipstick still will.
5.    I will need to ramp up the exercise program to balance the effects of daily afternoon tea and lemon biscotti.
6.     Cleaning the bathtub grout is highly enticing when facing a major writing assignment.
7.     I still have trouble defining myself as a Writer – evidenced by the fact that I called myself a “stay-at-home writer” when chatting with my sister on the phone this week (“What the heck does that mean? Call yourself what you are – a writer,” she said. Duly noted.).
8.     I need to allow myself a half-hour of transition between writing and the time the kids get home from school so I can act like a human being rather than a zombie.
9.     Email, TweetDeck, Facebook and the Internet need to be entirely shut off (not merely minimized) for any real productivity to occur.

 

10.   There is no better feeling than finishing a day of writing and thinking, “I get to do this all over again tomorrow!”

Ok, your turn…tell me 3 (or 10!) things you learned this week!

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Filed Under: take a risk, work, writing and faith

Stepping Out

May 2, 2012 By Michelle 26 Comments

Six weeks ago I gave my resignation at work. After nearly 10 years, tomorrow will be my last day at NET Televison and Radio. And Friday will be my first official day as a freelance writer.

“It’s like you’re at the end of a long, dark hallway,” my officemate Pam said to me one morning. We sat at our desks, the sun slanting through the blinds as I hemmed and hawed aloud about the pros and cons of a career change. “You just have to take the first step,” she said.

“Yeah, but I’d like to see a couple of doors down that hallway first,” I replied, laughing. “They don’t even have to be wide open, a sliver of light would be fine. I just want to know the doors are there first.”
…Will you hop over to read the rest of my story over at the Lincoln Journal Star? I’ll see you over there…

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Filed Under: faith, Old Testament, take a risk, tough decisons, trust, work, writing and faith

On Roller Coasters, Tidal Waves and Letting Go: A guest post by Abby Alleman

November 9, 2011 By Michelle 24 Comments

I’m honored to introduce Abby Alleman to you today. I’ve been reading Abby online for a while now, and was delighted to meet her recently at the Relevant conference, where it was obvious to me that her heart for God is just as wonderful and true in person as it is online! Abby and her husband and two young children will be leaving for Hungrary soon, where they will live out the Gospels as missionaries. Please spend some time over at her blog, Fan the Flame — I guarantee you will leave inspired and empowered to live in God’s love! And please, will you keep them in your prayers as they make this life-changing commitment?

As we were preparing to go overseas to Hungary for the summer of 2010, I remember sharing with some friends how I felt like I was about to get on a very tall, very fast, and very scary roller coaster.

It must have been a bit prophetic.

I felt that way anticipating taking our family of four, which included one not quite three year-old son and one not quite one year-old daughter and thankfully, one very hands-on father, across the ocean for five weeks.

I came home after those five weeks with the full weight of a long-term call, which, although it included much joy and excitement, had the undeniable mark of a great upheaval for our little family.

Fast forward fifteen months and I am still on that roller coaster. The ride has felt too much like the clink, clink, clink up to the summit and my nerves on overdrive with anticipation of the high speed fall to come.

Filled with logistics that have included the massive overhaul of all of our belongings, the leaving of a life and friendships we love, travelling most of the way across the country and back, five moves in four months {yes, you read that right} and the pending leaving of our families and dear friends at home, it has certainly felt like a life-sized quadruple loop thriller.

The anticipation is always what gets me. I give into fear. I try to picture this completely new life where we take our little family with one-way tickets to a place that we know a bit, but never as the long-term, raise-our-family home we now choose it to be. I feel my stomach tie into knots as every sure look at my weak little self shows how I don’t have what it takes to do this even nearly well.

And that is where I am both right and so very wrong. Just like a roller coaster, this can be fun, exhilarating even, when I let go. When I fix my gaze on the One who moves me along, inching up to heights and flying free down the other side.

But, I am liking another analogy better right now. It is that of a tidal wave. I stand on the shore and this wave is massive and intimidating and I know I am a lousy swimmer. I am sure I will be drowned.

And yet, in an instant I can change my perspective on what that wave really is. Instead of an overwhelming set of circumstances and changes, I can choose to see it as the fullness of my God. His grace, love, joy, peace, hope, goodness, as they rise up high and command the focus of my heart of hearts. And the crashing in of this wave holds not the possibility of death, only life.

In letting go and breathing deep that salt air, drinking in that salt water, I am preserved and sustained. And the fullness of God becomes my own. So when language foibles brand me witless, when I get lost on obscure European roads, when I can’t understand my children’s teachers, when all I want to do is come home but that must wait a long time, I can crumble into that wave and rise in a strength where my God is All the Glory.

That sounds like a pretty amazing way to live, do you agree?

When my soul is in the dumps, I rehearse
everything I know of you,
From Jordan depths to Hermon heights,
including Mount Mizar.
Chaos calls to chaos,
to the tune of whitewater rapids.
Your breaking surf, your thundering breakers
crash and crush me.
Then GOD promises to love me all day,
sing songs all through the night!
My life is God’s prayer.
~Psalm 42: 6-8
{The Message}

How is your life a roller coaster? A tidal wave? Are you embracing it as an opportunity to know Him as the One who overwhelms in the best of ways? Let’s walk this journey together.

Filed Under: calling, faith, God in the Yard, guest posts, hit the road, take a risk, tough decisons, trust

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Living out faith in the everyday is no joke. If you’re anything like me, some days you feel full of confidence and hope, eager to proclaim God’s goodness and love to the world. Other days…not so much.

Let me say straight up: I wrestle with my faith. Most days I feel a little bit like Jacob, wrangling his blessing out of God. And most days I’m okay with that. I believe God made me a questioner and a wrestler for a reason, and I believe one of those reasons is so that I can connect more authentically with others.

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