Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

fear

When You’re a Little Bit Afraid of the Powerful, Awesome God

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Last summer Brad took me out on Lake Superior in the canoe. The Big Lake doesn’t often permit that. The water is usually too rough, too wild — more like the ocean than a lake. But that evening the surface was as still and calm as the water in a country fishing hole, and so Brad carried the canoe to the shoreline and held it steady as I stepped in.

I’d anticipated a serene paddle, but when we pushed off shore and I glanced over the side of the aluminum canoe, fear seized my gut. Earlier that summer we’d visited Arches and Zion national parks and had gasped in awe and wonder at the enormous monuments, rock sculpted by eons of water and wind. This barren landscape far below the calm surface of the lake was eerily similar. Beneath us vast crevasses and canyons cut deeply into glacial boulders as big as SUVs, rocks rounded smooth by the ebb and flow and weight of water.

“I don’t like it,” I said to Brad, turning around to face him in the stern. “I don’t like it out here,” I repeated. “Bring me back. Can you bring me back to shore?” We’d been on the water two minutes or less, but suddenly I was terrified, an ominous dread gripping my chest and plunging deep into my stomach. For some reason those monumental formations far beneath the surface of the frigid water were far more disconcerting than the magnificent rocks we’d witnessed on land.

It was too much. The lake was too vast, too deep, too cold. There was too much under there I didn’t know; too much I couldn’t see. It felt big, way too big, and I felt small and vulnerable, my life vest cinched tight, paddle clenched in my two hands.

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Brad teaches his literature students about the sublime, a concept popular among 18th-century writers, artists and philosophers. In 1757 Edmund Burke wrote A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, defining the sublime as something that provokes ideas of pain, danger or terror, but at the same time also encompasses an element of pleasure or beauty. The sublime, Brad tells his students, is often associated with nature. The vast, indefinable qualities of nature often invoke feelings of both fear and awe – fear of the unknown, the unfathomable, awe of the powerful and untamable.

Brad sees God in the sublime. For the record, Brad sees God in sweet-singing birds and delicate blooms, too, but he often feels him more powerfully in the awesome aspects of nature. On an intellectual level, I get that. The sublime is the very reason the presence of God simultaneously evokes both fear and awe in so many Biblical stories. God is indefinable, vast, untamable, powerful, and those qualities are both fearful and awesome.

But I’ll be honest. Just as I don’t do well with the sublime out in the natural world, I don’t particularly enjoy the sublime aspects of God.  The God of fear and awe scares me and intimidates me. I find myself trying to wrestle this sublime God into a manageable box, to define him and comprehend him in a rationale, intellectual way. I don’t feel comfortable with the sublime God; I prefer the still, small voice, thank you very much. I prefer the gentle caress to the wind and the fire.

Back on shore I sat on the sun-warmed rock with my knees pulled close to my chest. I drank in deep breaths of the cool, moist air and watched as Brad dragged the canoe out of the water and then, in one fluid motion, heaved it over his head and carried it up toward the cabin.  I stared across the vast, still lake at the horizon, and felt grateful to be out of the canoe and off the lake.

As much as I resist it, I know it’s important that I recognize and acknowledge the more powerful, intimidating qualities of God, just like it’s important to recognize the powerful, intimidating qualities of nature. This power, this awesomeness, commands a healthy respect. After all, it’s these very qualities that differentiate me from God. These qualities remind me that I am not him, that his ways are not my ways and are beyond my understanding.

And if I’m honest with myself, even I can admit: I don’t want a God I can harness and control. I don’t want a God I can entirely figure out.

Linking with Kelli for Unforced Rhythms at Chronicles of Grace today.

When You Forget to Practice What You’ve Preached

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Two weeks ago I arrived at the Carol Joy Holling Center for a women’s retreat. I was the keynote speaker slated for a two-hour session on Saturday evening. I’d prepared weeks for my talk, had my Bible packed into my suitcase, my notes tucked into my bag. I felt calm and cool and in control.

Until I checked in, that is.

“I have a really big favor to ask you,” the conference coordinator said as she handed me my room key card. “The worship leader has the flu. Do you think you could do the message in church tomorrow, too?”

Um, thank you, no. Please excuse me while I high-tail toward home. Best of luck to you.

That’s not what I actually said. But it sure is what I wanted to say.

Instead, I stood frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights. And then I stuttered and stumbled and fumbled a response. “Sure, um, yeah, I guess I could do that I suppose…if you really don’t have anyone else.”

She didn’t have anyone else.

You should know, public speaking is not my gig. I gear myself up big-time every time I talk in front of an audience. I prepare like I’m about to testify at a Senate Committee Hearing, type up pages of notes in a gargantuan font, practice at least a dozen times in my kitchen and in my mini-van and in the shower, and pray like the end times are breathing down my neck.

Because frankly, public speaking feels like the end times to me.

So to know I was going to have to speak to an audience with little to no preparation, in church no less, after I’d already led a two-hour session the night before? Let’s just say I went to my room, closed the door, and did some heavy Lamaze.

Oh, and did I mention the theme for the retreat that weekend? Fearless. I know. God’s a real comedian sometimes.

That night, after I’d finished my evening session, I sat on my bed and tried to prepare for the morning’s message. I looked at the order for worship. I read the Scripture readings. I mentioned to the Holy Spirit that now would be an opportune time to make his presence known. I waited. I checked Facebook. I re-read the Scriptures and begged the Holy Spirit again.

And I got nothing. That night when I went to bed, I didn’t have a single note scribbled onto the conference notepad. I didn’t have one iota of what I might say.

The next morning when I woke up (miracle number one: that I slept at all), I had a pretty good inkling of what I was going to say (that’s miracle number two, by the way).

You see, I’d spent two hours on Saturday evening talking about all the ways fear sabotages our relationship with God. I’d talked about the fact that a lack of trust always runs like a quiet stream beneath our fear. And I’d outlined four spiritual practices we can turn to when we are afraid: name it, pray about it, connect with community, practice gratitude.

But when I came face-to-face with fear myself? I ignored every last word I’d preached just two hours before. I made all the mistakes I’d warned against, forgot all the Scripture I’d read aloud to the ladies gathered around the room, and failed to employ a single spiritual practice I’d recommended. When fear pushed me around like a bossy bully, I folded my cards and slunk away with my tail between my legs.

And so that’s the message I offered to the ladies who sat in church the next morning. I stood at the podium with my legs shaking in my boots and my scrap of notes trembling in my sweaty hands, and I admitted that I’d failed. I admitted that it was a whole lot easier to talk about fear, even teach about fear, then it was to stand in it and face it myself. I admitted that I’d neglected to employ any of the four spiritual practices I’d recommended to them, and I’d failed to trust God.

It wasn’t the most eloquent message ever. Nor was it well-crafted or particularly poignant. In fact, I’d even read the wrong Scripture, twice, the night before in bed, so my message wasn’t even based on the correct reading. And honestly, I don’t know if the ladies got anything out of it or not.

But I don’t think that was God’s point. I think God wanted to illustrate to me that I can talk the good talk about fear and fearlessness and trust and prayer, and I can prepare for hours and type up my large-font notes and wear my fancy speaking shoes. But until I come to him in trust, it’s all just chasing after the wind.

Have you ever had an experience that showed you that you were not practicing what you preached? 

Stepping into the Fear {and the book cover!}

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For those of you who watched the seven minutes of RambleFest on Wednesday, thank you! I was so excited about the title for my book, I couldn’t wait to share it with you. And today I’m presenting the official cover…

I know! Don’t you totally love it?! I was so nervous to click on the attachment when my editor first emailed it to me. After all, what happens if you hate the cover of your own book? But I immediately loved it- the bird theme resonates with me … we are really into birds around here! When I replied to my editor, I used so many exclamation points in every sentence of the email, I’m sure she was horrified to realize she’d signed a contract with a writer who egregiously overuses exclamation points. 

When I emailed the cover to my parents, my mom said, “So…are you supposed to be the red bird?” Yes, Mom, I’m the red bird all by herself on the telephone wire. The spiritual misfit.

Anyway, the cover is the exciting, fun part. And now comes the terrifying part: the revisions. I spoke with my editor for a good long time recently about some changes I need to make to the manuscript – fairly big, structural, organizational changes. When I got off the phone with her, my first instinct was to quit. I know. Nearly seven years into this process, and NOW I want to quit? But it’s true. I was at my sister’s house in Massachusetts, and after the conversation with my editor, I walked downstairs and said to Jeanine, “That was my editor. I think I want to quit.”

It was the fear talking, of course. The truth is, I’m afraid. I’m afraid I won’t be able to improve the manuscript. I’m afraid I won’t understand what my editor is asking me to do. I’m afraid to fail, to mess up, to make everything worse instead of better.

Ever been there?

My reaction to that conversation reminded me of the year I got my first real promotion. I was working in the PR department at a Community College, and I was promoted to Director of Marketing and Public Relations. I was terribly underqualified and inexperienced and terrified out of my wits. Every single morning for weeks on end I had to talk myself into going to work. I channeled Madeleine Albright, who was the first female Secretary of State at the time. “Ok,” I’d tell myself as I walked down the hallway toward my office, “Be Madeleine. If Madeleine can do her job, you can do yours.”

Telling myself again and again that I could do the job worked then, and it will work now.

Sometimes we simply need to face the fear, to talk ourselves past it, to keep moving in the right direction, one small step after the next. When I’m afraid, I tell myself I can do it, even when I don’t believe it. And usually, after a few days or weeks or months of repeating the “you can do this” mantra, I realize that I am, in fact, doing it.

So, for all you out there who are staring down the fear, telling yourself you can take the next step, repeating to yourself that you can do this thing, I am with you. I believe in you. And I believe God has your back. Just like he has mine.

Let’s do this thing.

It Begins with the Leap

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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? 

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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!}

She Freaks

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She Speaks Graduate I’m off to the She Speaks conference on Friday. And I’ve got to tell you, I’ve secretly been calling it “She Freaks” for about two months now.

Because I. am. freaking. out.

For starters, I’m a bit of a wallflower when it comes to these events. I’m great with one or two people, or even a small dinner party, but put me in a room bustling with 650 women, and I shrink like a violet in the August sun. When I went to Relevant last October (it’s now called Allume), I cried twice in a corner of the lobby. I couldn’t retreat to my hotel room to cry because I was sharing it with two lovely ladies, and I didn’t want them to witness me come completely unhinged. So I found a bench behind a rack of brochures advertising sightseeing trips to the Amish country and Hershey’s chocolate factory, dialed my husband and wept. Brad talked me out from behind the brochure rack. Twice.

So. You can see why I am just a little anxious about She Speaks. To further ramp up the anxiety, I will be pitching two book proposals (the memoir, and a new non-fiction project) to three editors at three different publishing houses. All this week – literally morning, noon and yes, 3 a.m. – I’ve been “practicing” (read: obsessing over) my pitch. I’ll have about 15 minutes with each editor to sell her on my project(s). No pressure though.

Before she asked me for my top three editor picks, Sheila, with Proverbs 31 Ministries, asked that we pause for a moment of prayer over the phone. Of course, I could hardly concentrate on her prayer because:
1. I was so freaked out that I was praying with a stranger over the telephone (a first for me). 
2. I was horrified that up until that point I’d entirely forgotten to pray about the conference and the editor appointment selection process.

What kind of Christian writer going to a Christianconference forgets to pray about meeting with editors at Christian publishing houses?

Yeah, me. That’s who.

So in light of all this, may I ask a favor? If you are so willing, would you please pray for me while I am at the She Speaks conference Friday and Saturday? I’ll pray, too (because I am really quite skilled at the desperation prayer), but it would give me comfort and confidence to know that together, you and God have got my back.

Thank you. Truly. Because of you, I’ve now downgraded my status to She Sort-of Freaks.

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