Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

encouragement

6 Steps to Take When the Door Closes

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Several months ago I applied for one of a handful of part-time writing positions available at an online community. Hundreds of writers submitted applications, and in the end, I was not one of the ones chosen.

Let me tell you straight up: not being one of the chosen ones stung. I felt a little overlooked, underappreciated and left behind. I was a little bit envious of the ones who had been selected to participate as writers in this particular community, and I was jealous of the opportunities and advantages that would come with their new role.

I felt, I’m guessing, a little bit like Joseph called Barsabbas must have felt the day Matthias was chosen as the twelfth disciple over him.

After Jesus ascended to heaven, the story goes, the eleven remaining disciples were tasked with finding a replacement for Judas. They nominated two men: Joseph called Barsabbas and Matthias. We know nothing about either of these two men, except that both had been devoted followers of Jesus from the start. The disciples prayed, then cast their lots, and Matthias was selected as the twelfth disciple.

This is all we hear. We don’t know how either man reacted. We don’t know what Matthias went on to do as one of the twelve disciples, nor do we know Barsabbas’ path.

We’ve all been the Barsabbas in this story — overlooked for the promotion, not picked for the team, not elected to the position, also-ran for the job. And you know as well as I do, losing to someone else hurts – whether it’s a job, a title, an award, a position, or a place. It can take the wind right out of our sails, leaving us second-guessing our gifts and abilities and floundering aimlessly along what we’d thought was our path. Losing also hurts our confidence, and, if we admit it to ourselves, our pride. No one remembers the name of the silver medalist,  right?

If you’re feeling a bit Barsabbasy right now, perhaps reeling from a professional or personal disappointment that’s left you questioning your calling or wondering about your next step, I have some advice for you:

1. Give yourself permission to wallow a bit — It’s okay to feel sad, discouraged and even angry, especially if you’ve worked hard toward a goal that didn’t come to fruition. Mourn the loss– it’s legitimate and real — and don’t beat yourself up for wanting something and feeling disappointed that you didn’t get it. Eat extra chocolate. Stay in your pajamas and read trashy magazines. Vow that you’re quitting _____________ forever. Even if it’s not true, sometimes it feels good to make overly dramatic statements.

2. Re-evaluate your path – A closed door is a good time for a heart-to-heart with God. Ask him for guidance, wisdom and discernment. After you’ve accumulated a substantial pile of Dove dark chocolate wrappers and can’t take another word of “Celebrities! They’re Just Like Us!,” spend time in prayer and quiet contemplation. Reconsider your goals and plans. And try be observant and patient. God doesn’t usually give crystal-clear answers…and he often takes his time.

3. Open your eyes – As much as I detest the expression, “When a door closes, a window opens,” I’ve found from my own experience that there is some truth to it. But, as Alexander Graham Bell said, often we’re so busy staring down the closed door, we don’t notice the window that’s wide-open down the hall. Try to broaden your perspective and keep your eyes open to new opportunities you may not have noticed when you were laser-focused on your original goal.

4. Remember that you are chosen — Maybe not for this specific job or position or role, but You. Are. Chosen. God has chosen you as his beloved, and he has plans for you. He hasn’t forgotten you. You have not been overlooked by him. God loves you and always desires the best for you, even when, especially when, you’re feeling as valuable as dryer lint.

5. Accept that your plans are not necessarily God’s plans – I know, this one is hard. I, for one, always love my plans, and I typically think they are very, very good. Stellar, in fact. But, that doesn’t mean my plans are God’s plans. And frankly, it doesn’t even mean I’ll jump up and down with glee over God’s plans, if and when I ever figure out what they are. This is tough Truth, friends: God’s plan is the best plan, but it may not be the plan we want. Our job is to say yes to God’s plan. That’s called obedience, and it’s what we are called to do. {I give you permission to sigh about it.}

6. Do your best in the job you receive from the Master – Okay, see what I did there? I slipped in a Bible verse. That’s Colossians 4:17, and as I’ve written here before, I have that versed framed and hanging next to my desk. There are some days I have to read that verse a dozen times, because the truth is, I don’t always want to do the job I have received from God (see #5). I want to do someone else’s job, because their job looks fancier, and limelightier, and is clearly more lucrative than the half-penny an hour I’m earning over here. But alas, that job is the one God gave them; this job is the one God gave me, and he is asking me to do my best in it.

Maybe Barsabbas is a better person than I am. Maybe he clapped Matthias on the back, offered him a fist bump and hearty congratulations and went on his merry way to do the job he received from God. I don’t know. But I do know this:

If, like me, you struggle with swallowing disappointment; if you wrestle with envy; if you sometimes feel unchosen and forgotten, it’s okay. It really is. We are human, and, for the most part, we are doing the best we can. God sees that. He sees you. And he has something beautiful for you that, quite possibly, has yet to be revealed.

Be the Encourager

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I really don’t love that they give the half marathoners the marathon medal – kind of unfair to those who actually ran the full 26 miles!

I ran 13.1 miles a couple of Sundays ago for fun. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say for “fun.” It had been nine years since I’d last run a half marathon, and let me tell you, there’s a big difference between running 13 miles at age 36 and running 13 miles at age 45. Suffice to say, there was more ibuprofen involved this time around.

I was nervous about the race. Every training run I’d done, all the way up to the 12-miler two weeks before, had been what my husband optimistically calls “a character builder.” None of them was easy. Most had involved cursing and audible groaning. I didn’t feel ready. I thought about bailing on the race entirely. After all, I reasoned, I’d done the hard part; I’d done the training.

Add to that the fact that it wasn’t a great day for a race. When we awoke at 5 a.m., it was already drizzling, and by the time we left the house to drive downtown for the 7 a.m. start, the rain was falling steadily. The wind gusted upwards of 20 mph, and it was bone-chillingly damp, the kind of damp that takes up residence deep in your muscles and bones and decides to camp out there awhile.

Brad cut a hole in a giant black trash bag for me to slip over my head, and I laughed when I saw it. In nine years we’ve witnessed the invention of the Fitbit, Stinger Energy Chews, and Gel Cushioning Systems, and yet the giant black garbage bag is still the best we can do when comes to rain protection? “What is this, 1970?” I mocked as we stood in the kitchen. “I am not wearing a garbage bag.”

Fast forward one hour. I’m standing at the starting line clad in a giant black garbage bag.

The race went fine. I didn’t break any personal records, but I didn’t intend to. In spite of the wind gusts and the incessant drizzle and the squishy sneakers and the chafing you do not want me to talk about believe me, I had fun — fun without quotation marks — and it was all because of a single factor:

The spectators, the people who lined the sidewalks in the most foul weather imaginable just to encourage friends and loved ones and 10,000 smelly, trash-bag-clad strangers, made all the difference. Every time I heard my name called from the curb my heart leapt. Those smiling faces and words of encouragement from friends and strangers alike kept me going, mile after drizzly, gusty mile.

I want to remember the 2016 Lincoln Half Marathon, not just because I ran it after a nine-year hiatus, but because of what I saw and experienced along the route that day. I benefitted first-hand from the kindness of strangers: the hundreds of volunteers handing out cups of water and Gatorade; the family members holding homemade signs, markered letters bleeding in the rain; the cowbell ringers; the quiet but resolute clappers; the accordion player with his instrument sheathed in plastic; the guitar players rocking out under the gas station overhang.

I want to remember them so that I can remember to be that person on the sidelines for someone else.

I don’t need to tell you that life is hard, that sometimes it all feels like one, long, never-ending, uphill marathon in the rain and the cold and the wind. But we can help make the way a tiny bit easier for the person running that hard race. Each of us is offered many opportunities to be that steady encourager on the sidelines — cheering, supporting, holding out the cup of water, running alongside.

Each of us has the chance to be the person who says to another: I see you. I see you braced against the wind. I see you struggling uphill. I see you fighting for every step. I’m yelling your name. I’m waving wildly. I believe in you. You can do this.

When I crossed the finish line that Sunday morning, a volunteer slipped a ribboned medal over my head. I was still breathing hard, wiping rainwater from my eyes, distracted and dazed and wondering where the free bagels were. Suddenly, in the midst of the confusion, I heard my name again.

“Michelle! Michelle! Congratulations! You did great!” It was the volunteer who had just slipped the medal around my neck. Her name is Tani. I’d been a guest at her book club a few months before, but in my dazed, endorphinized, bagel-focused state after the race, I hadn’t recognized her. She recognized me, though, even in spite of my drowned-rat hair. We hugged and snapped a photo with her phone right there at the finish line, both of us bedraggled and soaked to the bone. We both couldn’t stop smiling.

Tani and Me

I had run the race, but it was the encouragers who had carried me along, right up to the very end.

The Nudger

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“So, would you ever be interested in ghostwriting?” my agent, Rachelle, asked me over the phone a few weeks ago. “Sometimes that’s a good way for writers to supplement their income.”

“Huh. I hadn’t really considered ghostwriting,” I told her. “But I already have a job, so I can’t really see how I’d have the time to work, write my own stuff and help write someone else’s stuff, too.”

“That’s totally fine,” she said. “I just thought I’d ask.”

Later, when I told Brad about the conversation, his response surprised me. “So…haven’t you been talking about wanting to become a full-time writer? And wouldn’t ghostwriting be a way for you to do that?”

Oh.

Yeah.

I guess I never considered that.

I’ve been talking about wanting to become a full-time writer for almost two years now. In fact, if you ask my husband, he’ll probably tell you that I’ve complained about it ceaselessly.

“Why’d God give me the skills and this love of writing, but not the opportunity to do it every day? What is he thinking?!” I’d rant from time to time. 

Frankly, for a while it seemed like everyone around me was being showered with opportunity, while I stood by, watching and imploring, “Hey! God! When’s my turn?!”  

Sometimes, though, I think the opportunities are there, but we simply don’t recognize them.

The problem was that I had defined “full-time writer” a particular way in my own head (i.e. writing and publishing my own books), and I couldn’t see beyond that limited image. It took a nudge from Brad – “Ah, hello? This could be great, you know!” – to get me to broaden my view of what writing full-time might look like.

The nudgers are important in this journey, aren’t they?

They are the people who know you inside and out.  

They are your trusted advisors, the ones who will help you walk through a hard decision.

They are the people who will give you a poke and say, “Hey, I think this might be it. I think this might be what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”

They are the people who recognize opportunity when you can’t see it staring you in the face.

After that initial phone call from Rachelle, Brad and I talked off and on for a couple of weeks about the possibility of me transitioning from my stable, part-time job of 10 years to freelance writing. The more we talked, the more real and possible the opportunity seemed. Eventually I called Rachelle back.


“So,” I said to her, pausing, “I’m interested in this ghostwriting thing. Tell me more.”

Two weeks later, I gave my resignation notice at work.

Who are your people? The ones who nudge you when you need it? The ones who recognize the opportunity when you can’t?

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