Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

enough

When God Says Stay

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Column

Not long ago I had dinner with two friends who are both writers and bloggers. We had a great time together that night, chatting and laughing over our soup and salad and bread sticks. At the same time, though, the whole evening we were together I kept feeling an incessant twinge. I felt it in my gut, in the pit of my stomach – a hollowness, an emptiness. I found myself envying them – their readership and platform, which is larger than mine; the number of speaking engagements they are invited to, which is more than I have; the connections they have with other “big-name” authors, which I covet.

Later that night, tucked into the corner of my couch, I wrestled with competing feelings of emptiness and fullness. On one hand I was filled with the nourishing goodness of companionship and camaraderie. On the other hand, I felt depleted by this sense of perpetual needing, longing and discontent. Truth be told, I was more than a little disgusted with myself. These feelings of emptiness and not-enoughness are not new to me. I’ve been fighting this battle for a long time.

A few days later, I read this in Genesis:

“The Lord said to Issac, ‘Do not go down to Egypt. Live in the land where I tell you to live. Stay in this land for a while, and I will be with you and I will bless you.”

I felt those words were meant for me. I felt those words were speaking to that place of yearning, that place of not enough. Stay here, right where I have you, I heard God saying. Be grateful for what I have already given you, I heard him say. Live in this land, and I will be with you. 

I knew those words were for me, but I didn’t like them. Frustrated with the fact that I’d felt stuck in the same land for a good long time, I was eager to move on to what I thought were bigger and better things. I was ready to do more with the gifts and tools God has given me. But he said no. God said stay. 

Last week I wrote a post about an issue I am passionate about. I wrote it, I edited it, I worked and reworked it, and then I clicked “publish,” just as I’ve done with the thousands of posts before it over the last seven years. Except this time was different. This time the post took on a life of its own. It was shared and shared and shared some more, and I watched, stunned, as the Facebook button at the bottom of the post clicked toward 700 and then 800 and then 1,000 and then beyond.

In seven years of blogging this has never happened to me. For whatever reason, my blog posts are rarely shared more than 30 or 40 times, and typically they are shared far less than that. But on an ordinary Friday in the middle of January, one blog post clicked with people, and it took off.

Long story short, I sent a brief note to a generic email address I had for Huffington Post Religion with a link to that post, and within two hours, an editor there had emailed me back, inviting me to blog for the Huffington Post Religion page. Just like that.

Except not really.

I’ve pitched the Huffington Post a number of times over the last three years, and I’ve never heard a word back. I’ve pitched HuffPost Women. I’ve pitched HuffPost Parents. I’ve pitched HuffPost Religion. To no avail. Two years ago, in one of a dozen conversations I’ve had with my agent about “growing my platform,” she suggested that what I really needed was to leverage a much larger platform, “like the Huffington Post.”

I laughed when she said that. “It’s impossible,” I told her. “It’s never going to happen.”

There’s a reason I’m telling you this story, and it’s not to brag, believe me (for all I know, the Huffington Post will have absolutely no impact on growing my readership!). The reason I’m telling you this story is because I believe that God always, always has our best interests at heart. He knows the places he has for us. He knows the time that is best for us. He knows exactly when we should stay and exactly when we should go.

I’m not the best listener when it comes to God’s direction. In fact, most of the time I’m a terrible listener. I push and pull and rail and complain. When God says no, I say yes. When God says yes, I say no. In fact, there’s a very good chance God simply shook his head and rolled his eyes this week and said, “Fine! Here’s your damn Huffington Post.” {my God swears from time to time}

Seriously, though, I believe this. I believe God knows. He knows when we aren’t ready, even when we think we are. He knows when we are ready, even when we think we aren’t. God knows.

Whatever it is you do, keep doing it, as hard and frustrating as that may be. Know that even when you cannot see it right now, God is blessing the work of your hands. Know that even when you can’t feel his presence, he is watching over your journey through the vast wilderness. Know that God is always with you, and therefore you do not lack. (Deuteronomy 2:7)

How to Be Done with Not Enough

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I recently whitened my teeth for the first time ever. And the last.

Two hours after I’d dropped the gooey, used strips into the trashcan, I was standing at the stove when a jolt of white hot pain stabbed my lower left incisor and traveled like a lit fuse along the nerve, through my nasal passage and deep into my eye socket.

Within twenty minutes, my teeth felt like the White City under Orc attack. You know the final battle scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, in which hundreds of thousands of Orcs launch boulders the size of Volkswagens and flaming fire balls at the White City for what seems like six hours straight?

Yeah. My teeth felt like that.

Even the slightest wisp of air was excruciating, forcing me to speak with my mouth barely open, my lips tucked protectively over my teeth.

Rowan told me I looked like a Muppet.

I took to my bed (I realize this sounds like hypochondriacal hysteria, but I assure you, it was not), emerging only to Google “relief for teeth whitening pain” and to swallow more Ibuprofen.

The silver lining was that all those hours in bed gave me ample opportunity to think about the reasons I’d whitened my teeth in the first place. After all, until recently I’d been perfectly happy with my teeth. They were straight (five years of braces, thank you very much). I had a decent smile. All in all, not much to complain about.

Until, that is, I began to notice the teeth of everyone around me, gleaming and white-as-a-freshly-fallen-February-snow.

I eyed the teeth of the SuperSaver cashier as she smiled and handed me my receipt.

I stole stealthy glances at my hairdresser’s teeth in the mirror as she styled my hair.

I even ogled my pastor’s teeth.

The truth is, I hadn’t given my teeth a second thought until I’d begun to compare them to everyone else’s teeth.  And that, I believe, is the heart of the problem.

Comparison. It’s the reason why American women spend nearly $500 billion a year on beauty products and cosmetic procedures like Botox, tummy tucks and breast augmentation.

We yearn to look like everyone else: the movie stars and the models and even the mom next door. We see what they have – less gray, fewer wrinkles, more curves, a firmer butt, whiter teeth – and suddenly, the way we look isn’t good enough.

Not skinny enough, not grey-less enough, not smooth enough, not young enough.

After four hours in bed on a beautiful summer afternoon, I came to one simple conclusion:

I’m done.

I’m done with just one more pound lost, one more errant hair tweezed, one shade brighter, one shade whiter, a few less gray hairs and then I’ll be satisfied I swear.

I’m done with asking my husband, “Do I have wrinkles? Do I look like I’m 44? Should I color my hair? Can you see my muffin top through this shirt?”

I’m done with comparison, done with feeling less-than.

A few weeks ago I spotted two elderly ladies at the beach where I was vacationing with my family. I didn’t know anything about them – whether they were sisters or partners or best friends; whether they were longtime residents of that sleepy seaside town or first-time visitors, just there for the afternoon like me.

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I watched them for a long time. I couldn’t stop staring at their broad smiles and their lively eyes, at the way they surveyed each incoming wave, waited for the perfect one, and then flung their bodies onto their boards and rode with their toes curled all the way to shore, their faces beaming.

I stood with my feet in the cold Atlantic and watched as they rode wave after wave. I saw their aging bodies – the wrinkles, the sags, the stooped shoulders, the veined legs – but it was their faces that held me rapt.

Everything about them embodied freedom, satisfaction and joy. They were two of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on in my life.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach – unashamed and alive.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I have been created fearfully and wonderfully by God. Created perfect in him.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, free and full of life.

The day of the teeth-whitening debacle, as I recalled those two ladies on the beach, I made a new declaration. I took a good long look at the crease between my eyebrows, the streaks of grey, the less-than-perfectly white teeth, the loose skin under my arms, the callouses on the bottoms of my feet.

And then I tossed the remaining Whitestrips in the trash, and set my sights on riding a surfboard with unabashed glee.

For The Times You Say to Yourself, “I’ve Done Enough.”

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homelesscanyouhelpTwo weeks ago I rolled down my mini-van window at the exit of SuperSaver’s parking lot and handed three dollars to the man with the cardboard sign and the dilapidated back pack. When the light turned green, my son Rowan and I continued on with our Saturday morning errands. At our next stop, a different man stood at the corner of Barnes and Noble. This time I drove past without stopping.

“Why didn’t you give money to that guy?” Rowan asked from the backseat, leaning forward to meet my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Why’d you give money to the first guy and not the second guy?”

“I can’t give money to everyone, you know,” I snapped over my shoulder. “I already gave money. I’ve done enough for one day.”

“Well that sounds greedy to me,” Rowan replied. “Especially because I know you have money in your wallet.”

Although I thought of a few choice words to retort, I didn’t say anything more to Rowan. But I did fume all the way home. The reason I was so angry, of course, was that I knew he’d made a good point.

I’d considered circling back to the Barnes and Noble parking lot and handing three more crumpled bills out the window, but I’d dismissed the thought. I was busy. I had other errands to run; I didn’t have time for another homeless man.

Plus, I reasoned, it’s not like I’d done nothing. After all, I’d given to one homeless man. I’d already done enough.

I realize dispensing dollar bills on street corners may not be the most efficient outreach strategy. My point here is not to debate how to best care for our city’s homeless population,  but to illustrate another issue altogether. You see, my problem that day wasn’t my inaction, per se, but my attitude.

My “I’ve done enough” attitude was a red flag — a sign I had, as James warned, let the world’s values corrupt me.

The world tells me the man on the corner is a drunk or an addict or just plain lazy, someone not worthy of my attention, my compassion or my money.

The world tells me he’s made bad choices and deserves his lot.

The world tells me not to bother, because he’ll spend my three dollars on Jack Daniels or meth anyway.

The world tells me that if I’ve already done something, then I’m good; I’ve done “my part;” I’ve done enough.

But God tells me something radically different.

God tells me it doesn’t matter who I think is worthy of my attention, my compassion or my money. He tells me to care for those in need, period — without judgment and without assurance that the money will be spent in an appropriate way.

God tells me I don’t need to know for sure whether the homeless many will make good use of my money or not.

God tells me I am not to judge.

God tells me that those who are in need are, in fact, my problem.

God tells me to care for the needy first and myself last.

I’m sure this won’t be the last time I pass by a homeless man and look the other way, because the fact is, God’s message of compassion and self-sacrifice is difficult to follow consistently. But I also know that when I ignore his message, I allow the worst of religion — judgment and exclusivity — to overpower the best in me.

What about you? Have you ever thought to yourself, “I’ve done enough”?  

This post originally ran last month in the Lincoln Journal Star. I’m reposting it today because I can’t seem to string together a single compelling sentence these days!

It is Enough {My One Word for 2014}

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A girl can read a whole lot of back issues of More Magazine on a seven-hour drive home from Minnesota before the word sinks in.

So there I am, staring out the window at the white fields and cartwheeling windmills of Iowa, More Magazine open on my lap, when the word slips quietly into my consciousness.

“I think I have a word,” I say, turning to Brad.

“What kind of word?” he asks, pulling out his earbud. He’s listening to Wild in one ear while he drives. The kids play MineCraft on our phones in the backseat.

“You know,” I say, “like a touchstone. A word to guide me throughout the whole year. A word I can come back to when I go astray.”

“Enough,” I say. “I think my word is enough.”

Brad pauses. “It’s a good word,” he says. “It’s the perfect word.”

Truthfully I had no intention of choosing a One Word this year. I’d been there, done that, didn’t really feel the need to do it again. But clearly God thought otherwise, because he slipped that humble word right into my head in the middle of Iowa last Wednesday, just when I least expected it.

You see, God knows I have issues. I have a lot of issues, actually. I sneeze way too loudly. I require clean, uncluttered kitchen counters to ensure my mental health. The Chipmunks make me want to move to Yemen. A school day cancellation after 16 days of winter break compels me to write Facebook posts that rant, “I’m going to light my hair on fire and run down the street naked.” And in addition to these issues and many, many more, I also have a tendency to want more.

More, more, more.

Just a little bit more please. A little more money. More house. More shoes. A few more blog subscribers and Facebook fans and Twitter followers.  More please, I’m almost but not quite satisfied, thank you very much.

And so, as January unfurls into February and soon March into April, and my very first book lands on bookshelves and in the Amazon warehouse, wherever in the world that is, I know my issue with wanting more is going to ratchet right up into the stratosphere.

More sales.

More reviews.

More readings and events.

More accolades.

More, more, more.

Which is why God knows my 2014 needs to be about enough.

Enough, no matter what.

No matter how many, or how few, books sell. No matter how many, or how few, reviews are posted on Amazon. Now matter how many or how few stars those reviewers give. No matter how many books other people sell, or reviews they get, or stars they receive.

No matter what happens, or doesn’t happen, it is enough.

Once upon a time I knew this. Once upon a time, six years or so ago, I knew the book was enough. Just writing the book was enough, more than enough, because writing it brought me back to God. And how could that ever not be enough?

But then, little by little, it became not quite enough. The book needed to change someone other than me. The book needed to make an impact, transform a life, become something more. I needed the book to be more.

The book became about finding an agent, and then about finding a publisher, and then about marketing and platform and promotion. Before I hardly even realized it, the book became not nearly enough.

And so the word enough fell into my lap last week. And I suspect it wasn’t one bit a coincidence. I suspect enough was the word I needed to hear right then, and I suspect enough will be the word I need to hear, and the philosophy I need to embrace, all year long.

Do you have a word for 2014? How did you know it’s the word you need? 

 

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Chasing after Wind (or a new shade of lipstick)

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Did you see the advertising fliers this weekend, spilling from your Sunday paper? These were the  slogans I caught screaming from the colorful pages: Must Have Shoes! Best Sale of the Year! No Interest – 3 Years! 24/7 Shopping Online! Expect Great Things. No Down Payment!

And so on.

And on the same day here’s what I read from Jesus: “One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” (Luke 12:15)

Hmmm. Sounds like a contradiction to me. On one hand we have the media’s pleas for consumerism blaring at us from all directions, and on the other hand, Jesus, who tells us that our possessions mean nothing.

To be honest, I usually blame someone or something else, anything so I don’t have to take responsibility: “But I can’t help that I want, want, want…it’s society…I’m bombarded by messages cajoling me into spending and consuming. It’s not my fault!”

But consider this line from Proverbs:

“Like a city whose walls are broken down is a man who lacks self-control.” (Proverbs 25: 28)

We all have the power, the ability, to say no. It’s called self-control. It’s a God-given gift.

We can say no to overspending. We can say no to overconsumption. We can say no to materialism and greed. We can say no to impulse buying. It’s just takes self-control.

My pastor once cited a startling statistic in a sermon. He noted that American’s spend $850 million every year on the purchase of ring tones. You know, the peppy Adele number you bought because the standard 15 ring tones your cell phone already comes with aren’t cool enough, or distinct enough, or edgy enough.

$850 million. On a telephone jangle.

An impulse purchase. And one that’s so easy to justify. It’s only a couple bucks right? What’s it going to hurt? It’s not like I’m buying a Lamborghini or a Swiss chalet. It’s just a ring tone. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging. Ask me how many shades of lipstick I have upstairs in my makeup basket right now.

There’s the “Shimmershell” I only wore once because it made me look like an Easter egg.

And the “Brandyberry” from my one-day vampy phase.

Oh and “Mauvelicious,” “Honeyplum Glow” and “French Toast.”

I’m always on the hunt for that illusive, perfect shade, the one that will transform my mouth into a Penelope Cruz pout.

Author Adam Hamilton notes that the opposite of self-control is slavery; we are enslaved by our impulses (Enough: Discovering Joy through Simplicity and Generosity). I am enslaved by my impulse to buy lipstick as well as the other dozens of impulse purchases I make every month. I’m disillusioned. I think these “things” will win me happiness, contentment, peace, security. And they don’t. They won’t. I know this in my heart…yet I still do it.

I’m still chasing after wind.
What kind of wind might you be chasing after these days?
An edited post from the archives.

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